He still hears their voices, sometimes, at night.
He can hear them now, somewhere beyond the broken window, out in the woods and fallow fields beyond this lonely safehouse. Tonight is All Hallows Eve, after all, and they're celebrating.
Doyle shivers and turns aside, burying his face in the pillow, and he sleeps. He dreams of the full moon, fairy rings in the twilight, unearthly music that he knows as well as the beat of his own heart. The voices are still there when he wakes after midnight.
Come away, they plead, come home to us.
But it'll do them no good; he won't go to them.
He made his choices, a long time ago, renounced the power and long life that was his birthright. He cannot now believe that he was ever so young, so reckless as he was then. But the choice was his own, and none could gainsay him. When he left, he did not look back.
He learned quickly how to be human; he adapted. Even the smell of iron no longer troubles him.
Oh, he misses his old life sometimes, especially on nights like these, when clouds cover the moon and a high wild wind shakes the leaves from the trees. But though the temptation is strong, he'll never give in to it.
The choice he made has cost him much—but in turn he gained more than he ever could have hoped.
The words drift on a ghost of wind, a cold breeze that slips in through the window's missing pane. Beside Doyle, Bodie stirs and shifts closer to him. Doyle slides an arm around his bare hip to hold him, the touch a reminder of why he stays.
Come home, the voices say.
But he's already found his home.