Any minute now.

I check my watch for what could very well be the hundred-thousandth time in this hour alone. Any minute now, his aeroplane will land. Any minute now, he will walk through that gate. I can't believe I'm about to see him again, after all this time! Thundering typhoons, it's a miracle!

A miracle. I hadn't previously been one to believe in such things, but what other word could I possibly use to describe how I feel now? It's been too many long years since I've seen my best friend; it's been too many depressing days spent wondering if I would ever see him again; it's been too many sleepless nights disturbed by the fear that he was dead. What else could I believe? The chances were slim that even a survivor such as he would last this long.

War could be a death trap for anybody, and some years ago, Europe had once again fallen into its fateful grip, because apparently none of those blistering politicians know how to solve things civilly. Things had looked grim, of course, but neither of us could have anticipated the consequences that were to be pressed upon us directly. It was impossible to forget the events that had slowly led up to what had been perhaps the worst horror imaginable, if only for the both of us, if only for me alone. He had brought my life back to me, so I could no longer imagine my life without him.

Some might have considered us lucky, lucky that our isolated little corner of Belgium had not been as overpopulated by bombs and battles as the rest of the thundering continent. Maybe our house had not been shattered to smithereens like goodness knows how many others, but to me it felt just as broken without the presence of a certain little journalist who I had come to love. I never felt lucky, no matter how many times I, however guiltily, had guzzled a glass or two to ease, perhaps, the pain of it all.

I've been terribly selfish, haven't I? Indulging myself with poisonous luxury in the comfort of my parlour, trying to stop thinking about poor Tintin out there risking his life for something he doesn't even believe in, only ever thinking about how hard it is for me to be without him, when I know he has it so much worse. And to think that all I ever wanted was some peace and quiet! What I wouldn't give, now, to return to our high-flying adventures!

Maybe it all would have felt differently if Tintin himself had chosen to enlist, but he never would have done that. He is and always has been a pacifist through and through, skilled with a gun but never once considering delivering a fatal blow, much better at preventing bloodshed than causing it. He never would have willingly supported anyone else's useless fight. Unfortunately, though, things got so bad that our tiny, vulnerable nation eventually fell back on the death sentence some call the draft, and as luck—or, rather, calamity—would have it, who should be recruited but Tintin, boy reporter?

At first there had been the shock, then the disbelief, then the reassurance, and then the final spark of hope, but time dragged on, and his letters came less and less often, until finally all that remained in their place was the crippling, crushing fear of what on earth could have happened to him! And now look—we're moments away from what could finally be a relief from it all and the return to what life used to be before it had all come spiralling downhill. What madness this has been! What blistering bloody hell we've been through, and all for this one instant—

"Great snakes!"

What seems like music, an uplifting, familiar cadence, to my old ears after such a long time breaks me from my stupor. Blinking my eyes, I find that what merely seconds ago had been an empty airport terminal is now bustling with activity. Men in soldiers' uniforms, young and old—but mostly young, much too young—quickly surround me, and I observe from a distance as they are embraced by their parents, kissed by their spouses, and saluted by their comrades. Something inside my head clicks into place. Could it be that I just heard the voice of the one I'm waiting for?

"CAPTAIN!"

I feel a weight thrust upon me, the impact knocking my cap off my head. After instinctually catching the projectile with both hands, I realise that I was right. Though the face of the boy I knew has hardened, though his ginger hair has lost its lustre, though his trench coat and plus fours are long gone, who else could it be? Who else would be identifying me, of all people, in the midst of this crowd, and leaping into my arms? Who else?

"T-T-Tintin!" I splutter. "It's…it's you, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's me! And—and it's you, Captain!" Despite how much older he looks now, dear Tintin's simultaneous laughter and tears seem to re-release the remnants of his underlying eternal youth and reflect back to the boy he used to be—or still is! Even after the surely horrific experiences he has been through, still, nothing can shake him! "Oh, Captain, I'm just so glad to see you!" he exclaims. Glad to see me—just so glad to see me—could there be any better feeling in the world than this?

I had thought that the past lonely years had exhausted any remainder of tears that could be left in my eyes. Now, I see that I was wrong, but perhaps that's only because I'm not sad anymore. How could I be, at a time like this? "Welcome home, Tintin old lad! Blistering barnacles, how I've missed you!"

I find that I no longer have the muscular capacity to maintain upholding the boy's weight. I set my friend's feet back down on the floor, only to find that though I'm still taller than he is, he's not nearly as little as I'd remembered him to be. I awkwardly reach down to pick up my hat.

"I've missed you, too, Captain, more than you know," Tintin says, a flash of darkness in his otherwise bright eyes betraying the truth behind his words. "And the Professor, too, of course, and everyone…and dear old Snowy! Where is he, anyway? The old rascal! Snowy!"

I hear Tintin whistle for his faithful canine companion and then watch him gaze around in confusion when not met with the sound of paw steps or high-pitched barking. I grit my teeth nervously. Surely, he couldn't have forgotten!

"Tintin," I begin anxiously.

"Yes? Where's…oh." As soon as he notices my apparent tension, Tintin remembers, and the enthusiasm in his voice gives out abruptly. I can almost see the memory crashing over his mind like an ocean wave engulfing a defenceless ship, a position I've been in, both literally and metaphorically, many times over. For a moment, he looks pained, but he quickly conceals that with a second short bout of laughter. It is impossible for me to tell whether it is genuine.

"I suppose I forgot for a minute," he says after collecting himself. "I suppose that in seeing you again, I suddenly felt as if no time had gone by, as if nothing had changed, as if I was still the boy reporter, off on another adventure! It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

It has indeed. Don't I know it.

"It's been a long time since anyone's even called me 'Tintin'! For years it's been nothing but 'Remi' this and 'Remi' that, over and over again." He shakes his head. "Nobody out there saw me for who I really was. Everything rushed back to me when I heard you call me 'Tintin'. That's always been my real name…I finally felt like myself again."

I bite my lip. I don't want to think that the war could have changed Tintin, but was that inevitable after all? I don't want to imagine that his spirit could have been dampened, that he who had been perpetually young through so much turmoil could have finally aged, especially not under these circumstances. Though I'm not sure either way, I try to convince myself otherwise. No doubt the war was awful for him, but it's over now. He's come home, and soon enough everything will go back to the way it was. At least, it better had, or I don't know what we'll do. What I'll do.

I'm suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that the two of us are still standing inconveniently in the middle of a bustling airport. Realising the uncomfortable silence that I was allowing to linger, I break it, suggesting, "How about we head home to Marlinspike?"

The broad smile returns itself to Tintin's face. "I'd like that," he says.