Despite knobbly, clawed fingers trying to pry their way in, the years had been good. Dreamlike, in some ways, but too full of splinters and stinging nettle and sunburn to really encroach into the realm of the fully fantastical. John was never one for regrets, so he didn't waste energy on what-ifs and might-haves, but it had been a long time, and his heart did long to be with his friends again. And the world, he missed the world, with every bit of mess, and pain, and fear, and corruption, and injustice, because he missed planting his feet in the earth and doing something about that mess, pain, fear, corruption and injustice. That was, in part, what he'd been made for.
But he'd been made for this, too. This family and this love. He was made to read bedtime stories (he changed the ending of whatever story he was reading almost all the time, except when Ces had been having a difficult day, and needed, more than anything, the reassurance of knowing how a story was to end) and plait hair (French braids for Eve, Spanish for Dawn) and tote children (and teenagers) around on his shoulders, and mend socks and torn pants and grazed elbows and toys and tools. He was made to fold his arms around the love of his life, be she woman or dragon, and hold her close to his heart.
The years had been good, and he would not choose differently if the choice was on him again, but everything had its season, and the next chapter of his life was calling.
He tucked Little Pip into bed, he tucked Fox, he paused in Eve and Dawn's doorway where they'd tucked themselves in, and were whispering in their own language in the dark. Ces was still awake, his lantern lit, his journal open across his lap, but he promised his Pa he would blow out the candle just as soon as he'd finished sorting out his troublesome thoughts. Ces was a boy who could cope with an idea much better once he'd pinned it to a page with ink. There were flickering lights, too, licking at the gaps beneath the doors of Brook's room, and Ash's; John tapped lightly on both and reminded them that they needed their rest before tomorrow, but the excitement was bubbling in them both, he doubted either would just lay down their heads and sleep anytime soon.
And then there was Elaine, who still seemed a little smaller than before, but no less large in his heart. In eighteen years he had only spent a few nights without her, when one of them, or the other, spent the night out in the woods instead. He would miss her, when he left, but the parting would only make their inevitable reunion all the sweeter.
"All's quiet on the bedtime front," he rumbled softly, leaning over the back of Elaine's chair and taking her head in his hands, a kiss planted on her brow when she tilted her head up to him. "Quiet as it gets up there, at any rate. Shift over," he said, moving round the arm of the chair. "I'm coming in."