"He abandoned me once." Fenris keeps his eyes on the ceiling. "I was badly wounded in a skirmish. When Tevinter retreated, I was left on the field. People from the island took care of me, but he returned some months later to retrieve me."

There is a hollowness in his voice as he recounts that. Astarion didn't ask about that, but somehow it feels important to say. He can feel the years-old shame twisting in his chest. How weak he'd been, how well-trained. A dog that tasted freedom but could do nothing but heel when told.

"He ordered me to kill them. The ones who'd been caring for me. They were on the other side of the war, and he ordered me to kill them. And I did."

Every. Single. One.

"Sometime between that and reaching the shore, I turned on him. I left him there. His recovery must have delayed any pursuit, I got far before the hunt began in earnest. I was too valuable to be left in the world. His pet experiment. His triumph."

There is no hiding the brittle bitterness in the end. Astarion can see the results of that experiment etched into Fenris's skin. Part of him wants to stop there, but he's aware that he hasn't fully answered Astarion's inquiry. He's already been talking too much and he blames being worn out and sated for his sudden urge to be confessional.

"I got tired of running. When I heard he was in Kirkwall, I thought if I could kill him it would be over. I failed the first time. I didn't the next."