"Always been a handsome fucker," he agrees, smirking over at her before he shakes his head, a touch more serious. When he tries to reach back, he can't quite touch it. The memories come when he's not trying, when he isn't waiting for them, so he tends to mostly just leave it alone and let it happen when it happens, but that means he's not doing a very good job of working it all out or making sense of what he's remembering.

"Don't know exactly," he admits. "Couple hundred years maybe. Maybe more."

Or maybe he's wrong about all of it. Maybe these aren't his memories, but something else that Darrow is doing to him. This place is a clusterfuck of magic and power, so he wouldn't even be surprised to discover none of it is real.