With his eyes still above them on the foreign, starry sky, the Fool takes a slow breath, then breathes it out with quiet resignation. He doesn't lose the slight smile on his lips, but it grows wistful. Distant. "No," he confesses softly to Fitz, with only the crackling fireplace to bear witness to them. "No, I think I shall not return."

Anticipating shock, he angles his head to look back towards Fitz with a chiding look. "And why should I want to go back to your cold, cold Buckkeep Castle? I was born to luxuriate in this unending springtime." All this said with that light, whimsical glitter in his eyes as he stretches again--truthfully, he has no need even for the heat of the fire anymore, but the Fool has never liked the cold. Not as a child, and certainly not since Aslevjal.

But that is not why he won't return. With him, the answers have never been so simple, and he does not pretend for a moment that Fitz won't see through the disguise.