[ At first, the only answer that question prompts is the short sound of an indulgent laugh. ]

My sweet Archmage, [ Lucius says, the waver of teasing mirth at the edges of his voice, ] are you worried I'll forget which one is yours? [ Naturally, such an idea is ridiculous, and the humor of it settles into Lucius' fanged grin. His hand stills against the naked bone of Eridanus' hip, exploratory touch turning into something heavy and possessive as he replies, ] An Astartes has perfect recall. It's only natural that I do.

[ Statements that are true, but not wholly honest. He should recall every moment of his last eleven-thousand years with perfect precision, but his own memory has been worn away by the very blessing that Eridanus asks about now. It's a reality he has never quite admitted beyond the confines of his own skull—and, of course, he doesn't intend to start now. ]