"You did not contact me for many years," Fitz accuses him, and all the Fool can do is closes his eyes. He has no memory of those years, but he knows his intent, he knows what Prilkop had warned him about, of Prophet and Catalyst too close together for too long--

"It was for the best," he whispers softly, but Fitz is still speaking, and the Fool does not stop him.

"You must have managed, at that time, Fool. Please -! You asked for my help when you were hurt, and this is the best way I can give it, to stop you from returning to that place! At least stay here for some years, at least enjoy this relative peace."

Silence follows those words. The Fool is still where he stands across from Fitz, holding his cloak around his shift, his amber eyes gone distant and far some way's beyond Fitz's shoulder. At length they return to Fitz's face, and it's the sight of his clear distress, his pain, that moves him. Letting out a soft breath, the Fool takes a few gentle steps closer to Fitz, hesitates, then reaches out to curl his fingers around both of his beloved's wrists. Tenderly, he coaxes them down so that their eyes can meet again.

"Perhaps," he begins softly, hesitantly, "if I remain but for a little while.." The words are leading, edging towards compromise.