29. Christian
“There are still more than a hundred villagers that need to be evacuated,” the head of the crisis response team tells me.
For the last hour, this man, Adrian Gorman, has been outlining the immediate dangers that still face my people and brainstorming ways to help them. This latest information is just one more piece of the puzzle.
“Two of the three roads out of there are blocked by the fire. The other has had a bridge collapse,” he continues, his brows furrowed in consternation. As he talks, he points at a map, showing me the roads in question.
“How close is the fire to that village?” I ask, my mind racing to consider our options.
“If the wind stays as it is now, we have about three hours. But that could change at any time. The Bureau of Meteorology says there’s about a thirty percent chance that it will pick up, which would mean an hour and a half at the most.”
Adrian narrows his dark eyes at me, awaiting an answer.
“Can we focus our efforts on putting out the fire here?” I ask, standing and pointing to one of the two roads blocked by fire. “Send in aerial support to waterbomb the area?”
Adrian shakes his head, and I can see he’s already considered that.
“We just don’t have the planes for it,” he tells me. “And those we do have, we need to keep where they are to stop the fire from spreading towards the more populated villages to the south.”
This news sends me pacing, crossing the room back and forth as I consider the problem. I know I can’t just leave my people to die, but without road access, it seems like an impossible task. This is one of those moments that I need my training as a leader to kick in and give me the answer.
“Hungary,” I finally say, my eyes lighting up.
“Your Highness?” Adrian asks, clearly not following.
“Let me make a phone call,” I tell him, already pulling out my phone and dialing the number for the Hungarian president.
Within five minutes, I’ve secured ten air tankers from over the border—enough to clear an escape path and help with the firefighting efforts on the southern front. Adrian shakes my hand eagerly, relief clear across his face, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
When I finally get the chance to take a break, I step out of the tent, glancing back over to where I left Cataleya. I spot Alfonse, but Cataleya is nowhere to be seen. I’m just about to approach her assistant to ask where she’s gone when I hear shouting.
“Coming through! Stretcher for Lady Cataleya!” a medic yells, wheeling a gurney frantically through the crowd. My stomach drops.
Within moments, there’s a frenzy of movement, while white ash falls from the sky and gets swept up in the whirlwind. Panicked, I rush toward the commotion, terrified of what might have happened.
I dodge through the crowd, calling Cataleya’s name, and when I finally catch sight of her, I feel fear surge through me.
“Oh my God, Cataleya!” I shout, rushing to her side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she insists, but the grimace on her face tells me otherwise. She shoots me a smile, but it’s strained as she hobbles on one leg. The two volunteers helping hold her up make it clear she’s not fine.
When the medics help her carefully onto the stretcher, she lets out a cry of pain that shoots right through me.
“You do everything you can for her, you understand?” I say, giving the medic a pointed look.
“Of course, Your Highness,” he tells me sincerely, but I’ve already turned back to Cataleya.
“I’m going to make sure they take care of you,” I assure her, grasping her hand as the medic begins to wheel the gurney away.
Cataleya looks up at me, attempting to smile, but I can see her eyes beginning to glaze over a little.
“Cataleya?” I ask, panicked. “Cataleya?”
Her eyes seem to swim, struggling to focus on me, and I turn to another medic that has rushed in to help.
“What’s wrong with her?” I demand. The thought of losing her is utterly terrifying.
The medic rushes over, shining a flashlight in Cataleya’s eyes, a worried expression on his face.
“Concussion,” he reports, more to the other medic than to me. “Let’s sit her up.”
Within seconds, the two of them have adjusted the stretcher so that Cataleya is sitting upright, her legs still outstretched. This seems to perk her up a little, but I can see she’s still struggling to stay awake.
“Tell me what I can do to help,” I demand, unwilling to leave her side for a second.
“Can you stay with her? Check her responses?” the medic asks, and I nod as they wheel her into an ambulance.
I climb in beside the gurney and as the sirens wail, I hold Cataleya’s hand tightly.
“Cataleya, I need you to hold on, okay?” I implore, determined not to lose her.
“Okay,” she slurs, her eyes still swimming.
“Can you squeeze my hand?” I ask, but her fingers remain still.
Finally, her eyes lose focus entirely, and I watch her slip into unconsciousness.
“Do something!” I cry to the medic, panic setting in.
He rushes over, checking her eyes with the flashlight again.
“This is a typical response to concussion,” he tells me, checking her pulse. “But we’ll need to do a brain scan when we get to the hospital.”
The seconds feel like hours as we wind through the rural streets on the way to the nearest hospital, with Cataleya still unconscious beside me. The moment we arrive at the hospital, I’m barking out orders, making sure she has the best care necessary. Thankfully, it’s as though the seas part for us, and doctors and nurses rush to make sure she’s taken care of.
To my relief, Cataleya’s scans are cleared, and she drifts in and out of consciousness for the next twenty minutes. But when it’s time for her full neural examination, another problem is revealed.
“It looks like there’s a fragment of a branch piercing her tibialis anterior,” the neurologist says, examining her shin.
Reaching into a drawer for a pair of medical scissors, he cuts the fabric of her pants leg, revealing an injury that shocks me. Tearing my eyes away, I look back at Cataleya, who is just barely conscious now. I reach out, stroking her hair and willing her to be okay.
“Whatever you need to do,” I tell him firmly. “Just make sure she’s alright.”
The doctor nods. “We’ll need to remove the branch immediately before it can cause infection. That means a general anesthetic for surgery.”
I look at him, shocked. “But she’s concussed,” I argue, gesturing to Cataleya. “You’ll kill her.”
He gives me an understanding look but presses on. “I assure you, the anesthetic we’ll be using is safe in concussed patients. In fact, she’ll need the rest to recover from the impact to her head.”
I look at him skeptically, but finally I acquiesce. I insisted on the best doctors, and this man is the country’s top neurologist. Finally, I nod.
“Treat her like you would your own daughter,” I tell him, and I’m sure he sees in my eyes how much I mean it.
As the doctor preps for surgery, I sit beside Cataleya’s bed, stroking her hair.
“Don’t you dare die,” I whisper, even though I’m sure she can’t hear me. “I can’t lose you.”
My fingers caress her soft auburn hair, before sliding down to her forehead. She’s still stained with soot, and I do my best to gently wipe the black streaks off her face.
“Your Highness?” the doctor asks, when he’s ready.
With a deep breath, I nod, letting him wheel her away. I follow for as long as I can, and when I’m stopped at the doors of the operating theater, I simply wait. It seems like forever that I’m pacing back and forth in that sterile white hallway, but when the surgeon finally emerges, he gives me a reassuring smile.
“The surgery went perfectly,” he tells me, and I let go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “She’ll still need to rest here for a few days, and we’ll keep her sedated until tomorrow to give her brain a chance to recover. But she’ll be fine.”
I thank him, and when a nurse wheels Cataleya out of the theater and into her own room, I follow along tirelessly.
All that night, I remain by her side, unwilling to leave even for a second. In spite of the doctors’ reassurances, I know I won’t fully breathe a sigh of relief until she’s awake and I’m certain she’s okay.
When I do finally fall asleep, it’s in a chair by Cataleya’s bedside, my hand clasping hers even though she doesn’t squeeze back.