Free Web NovelChapter 14: Chapter 14: Reunion
The plane gradually came to its course, nearing the landing. The afternoon sun sparkled on the sea and on the Statue of Liberty.
Gazing at his own faint reflection, he fixed his hair. He had already made his golden hair slightly blond, lowering his charm to absolute zero, courting no attention.
Even still, many men and women gazed at him, noticing the tall and broad man sitting near them with a swift, strong scent of nature brooding off him.
One of the air hostesses, who seemed to have come to him many times, the same blonde with blue eyes, came closer, unable to stay still. "Hello there," she called again. "Can I get you anything before we land? We have a lounge bar just past the gate. I can get yo—"
Amon turned. "Actually, no, thank you." The refusal came out faster than it should have.
She blinked, recalibrating. "I... I just thought you might wan—"
"I don’t drink anymore. Not today." He caught himself saying more than he meant to, and softened it with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "But thank you, lady. Maybe next time."
She wanted to ask what he meant by "not today," like it was a rule he was reciting to himself rather than to her. She had been dropping hints all day long, but in the end she didn’t have the nerve. She could only watch his broad back as he stood up when the plane landed.
Amon exhaled once he was clear of her. He had suppressed his aura enough that the mortal mind wouldn’t break from being near him, but he’d forgotten how easily people here slipped into wanting things they shouldn’t.
His throat was dry. He would have really appreciated the drink she had offered, but no. He would only find himself thinking about the drunken life in the Himalayas, the many vodka bottles he always reached for, every day, without fail. He wanted it now. He wanted it badly.
But he knew exactly what happened when he drank enough to loosen his grip. The memories came first, and the tears came right behind them, and he could not afford either in an airport full of mortals who would remember a golden-eyed man crying at baggage claim.
So he held it back and walked inside, where his friend was supposed to be waiting.
"Where is that damn idiot?"
He looked around, finally spotting a sign, a stupid sign befitting the stupid title given to him. A giant board read: HERE TO PICK UP A MILLION-YEAR-OLD MAN.
Should I really hurt him? Amon thought.
The man holding the sign up high was a simple-looking guy, wearing a smart coat and pants, as if he’d come here straight after closing an important business deal.
Their eyes finally met, and the man simply tossed the sign board away, walking toward Amon in a hurry, his brown eyes wide with something between joy and disbelief.
"Oh, here he is. The man who could never stay dead," he said, holding out his hand.
Amon looked down at it, lifting his sunglasses, leaving him hanging a second too long. There was tension in it, the kind people nearby could feel even without knowing why.
Then his lips loosened into a smile, a small one, but real.
"It’s really been a while," Amon muttered, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a forceful hug. "You got older, numbstick."
"And you..." He pulled back, studying him, seeing the gold underneath the faint blond dye job. "You didn’t age a single bit. Not one damn wrinkle."
Amon knew that look. Amazement, with something else folded underneath it he’d learned to recognize a long time ago. Fear, just a trace of it, the type that never fully goes away no matter how many centuries pass.
Why would it? This man had known him since people still argued the earth was flat and killed each other over it. He’d seen what Amon could do. He knew exactly what he was looking at.
Not like the Sherpas, who only knew the man who drank too much by the fire and never explained why.
"Hey." His hand waved in front of his face. "You still in there?"
Amon blinked. "Yeah. Why would I age? You know exactly what I am. Who I am."
It came out flatter than he meant it to. Not the easy tone of a man back from a long trip. His friend caught it, Amon saw him catch it, saw the half-second where the next joke didn’t come, and then watched him decide not to push.
He stared at Amon.
Amon. What happened to you, old friend? He thought.
"You’ve got a long story written all over your face," he said instead, lighter now, on purpose. "Let’s get you to my place. I kept a room ready. Has been for a year, actually. Figured you’d show up eventually."
Amon almost asked what he meant by that, kept ready for a year, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the comfort settle.
"Did I hear the word ’apartment’?" he said, putting a hand on his shoulder, steering them both toward the doors. "When did you start living like a person with furniture?"
"Ohh, you thought I was still busking on a corner somewhere? Nah, gave up the jazz dream. Nobody under forty wants to hear a saxophone anymore."
"Huh, what do you mean? I loved it though."
"’Cause you’re old as dirt. Gen Z wants beats, not brass. So I got into trading instead. Doing pretty good right now. Enough to keep a spare room running, just in case some immortal ever needed a place to fall apart in private."
Listening to those last words, Amon laughed, a real one, short and surprised out of him, and didn’t argue about it any longer.
They climbed into a cab together, heading into the heart of New York while the sky gathered clouds above them.
THUNDER!!!
Then the lightning rolled once, low and distant.
Golden thunder.
Neither of them looked up to notice. But beyond the clouds, something was watching anyway. Watching them. Those golden, sun-like eyes seeing everything.
"Amon, why are you here...?" He asked, watching the golden immortal in America of all places, a place where Raphael knew he had more foes than friends.
In the Himalayas.
The man who had given up on his life gradually opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, but shapes were starting to form.
"Sis..." Cheering called. "Mom, is that you?"
A voice answered, familiar, but he couldn’t place it. His ears still felt packed with cotton, his head pounding in pain.
Am I in heaven?
But as his vision cleared and the voices sharpened, he understood exactly where he was.
"Lhaso?... Saiyang?" He softly muttered. He sat up fast, surprised to see the faces of his wife and his friend hovering over him. "Did you two die as well?"
"No, you idiot." Saiyang held out his hand. Cheering took it, climbing slowly to his feet as a crying Lhaso threw her arms around him.
"We thought... we thought you were dead," she said into his chest.
"Yeah. Me as well." Cheering replied.
Saiyang was looking at him strangely, not the way he’d expect from a friend relieved to see him breathing, but with something closer to awe. Or slight unease.
"Why... are you looking at me like that?" Cheering asked.
"Huh?... Because you literally came back from the dead, man. And, don’t take this the wrong way, but since when do you have gold hair and gold eyes?"
"What? What the hell do you mean?"
He moved his hand, the one he’d been certain was lost to frostbite an hour ago, and it obeyed him perfectly. He flexed his fingers. No pain. No numbness. He couldn’t feel the cold at all anymore, even though the wind was still cutting straight through everyone else around the fire.
"See for yourself..." Saiyang pulled off his goggles and handed them over, letting Cheering see his own reflection in the lens.
Gold hair. Gold eyes. A gold beard, faint but unmistakable.
The exact shade of Amon’s.
"What the actual fuck!!!??"
