Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Pt 3

Author's/Rewrite Notes: Unlike the earlier chapters, I didn't really change anything. I always stressed about the word "authorative" since it doesn't seem to be a word. But I can't seem to find the adjective form of authority so I did the best I could. If anyone does know I would really appreciate knowing.

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I came off the plane and looked around. I didn't know what I was looking for. In the movies when someone comes off a plane there's always someone there with a piece of white poster board with your name written across it. But, as I was realizing more and more, life is not anything like it is in the movies. There was no one with my name on a poster board and, as the people waiting paired off and walked away, it seemed there was no one there for me at all. I didn't know what to do so I just stood there in the middle of the terminal looking over the unfamiliar faces of the increasing number of people who were staring at me. That was until I hit a pair of eyes that I couldn't tear away from. I hadn't been looking at people's eyes but this man's and mine just met as if they were supposed to. I didn't recognize the man with his long red hair and clearly not Japanese look. I just stared at him. And he stared at me. People passed between us but neither of us looked away.

Slowly, deliberately, the man raised his hand and waved me over. For a moment I just stood there. Then I went to him and stood over his seated form without speaking. He didn't say anything either, just looked me up and down with a gaze that felt like he was looking straight through my clothes and my skin and was looking at the real me. And I took it, even when he smiled an approving smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Callidan," he said in an accent I didn't recognize, "You're Callidan?" I didn't answer, I didn't need to. I, instead, considered his voice, trying to trace his accent with its harsh yet gentle tone. "Do you speak Japanese?" He asked me in the language I was supposed to know.

"My father has been teaching me," I told him. "Was," I corrected myself, "He was teaching me."

"Good," and he stood up. He was taller than me. "Let's get your bags." He began to walk away but I didn't move. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder at me but didn't turn around.

"Who are you?" I asked, "Where's my uncle?"

"He had a last minute commitment," he smiled like I didn't get the joke, "He sent me to get you."

"Did he?"

"Stay if it suits you," he teased, "no one else is going to come for you."

I thought about it and went with him.

Outside a limo was waiting for us. I'd only seen one once or twice before and on any other day it would have shocked me. But it didn't. For some reason this seemed perfectly normal. Why wouldn't a big black limo pick us up?

The foreigner loaded my bags into the back. He wasn't gentle, but I didn't correct him. I only slid into the car after he had.

I was the one that broke the silence, "You know my uncle."

"Yes."

"What is he like?"

The foreigner didn't look at me. He stared forward for a moment with a look that said he was looking for the right word. "Authorative," he said finally.

"Authorative," I repeated, "That certainly is a stupid way to describe an entire man. And I'm not sure that's even a proper word." The red haired man seemed displeased, though his face never changed, so I let the car fall into an uneasy silence. "My mother was afraid of him," I said without thinking, "She always said he was evil. I heard her tell my father once that I was too much like him, and if she could beat it out of me, she would."

He was amused, "I wouldn't tell your uncle that."

"Why not?"

"He cares a lot about you."

"How do you know? Does he speak of me often?"

"I just know."

I wanted to ask him to elaborate but he wouldn't have. So I, again, said nothing and left us in a more easy silence. The foreigner stared forward for the rest of the trip. I glanced out the window from time to time but didn't see anything.

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