The estate is unsettled. Astarion can tell by the prick of the wind against his skin that someone is back.

Someone he once would have gone frolicking to, to throw his arms around, to embrace and hold tightly.

Astarion is not that boy. Not anymore.

Cazador Szarr had been a cruel father figure growing up. Astarion would like to believe that now, he's hardened into the authority he seems like to the general public. No longer a lovesick pup.

It's ironic, to have been hated and damned by Cazador, and yet to reign as the heir of his estate... he could laugh, now.

"To leave and to return. To leave and to return..." Astarion murmurs against his closed fist. His red eyes study along the flickering firelight, though the prayer makes him feel anything but holy.

Why come back? Why now?

Love is only a sanctuary to those who believe in fairytale. Those who believe in happily ever afters, and long lasting marriages, and the happiest affairs. Astarion sees it for the truth; nothing but a collar, handed to one who would all but wear it proudly.

For the moment, Astarion considers barring the doors. Tell the servants to lie and say he's gravely ill, though such a story would make no sense.

He can still hear that pitiful explanation and goodbye. It was so many years ago, and yet it rings through his ears so constantly. So obsessively.

"...Help our guest inside. It's freezing, so be sure to grab a blanket and wait by the door." Astarion motions to one of his ladies. He pauses before adding, "Be sure to have someone prepare a guest room as well..."

Let it be seen what Astarion has become. And let it be a suffocating sight.