Page 183 of A King's Oath

“Papa?”

He nodded — “He survived, he called from a Chilean research station. Our embassies in Chile and Argentina have activated a rescue mission. I am leaving for Ushuaia…”

“Wait, wait,” she held both his arms. “Say it again. Slowly.”

He felt his mouth stretch taut — “I am bringing him home. He is alive.”

“Papa?” She asked, incredulous, half-scared, just as he had been a few minutes ago.

“Papa,” he reassured.

“Are you…” she glanced back at the pergola and her open laptop and her papers. “You are not… it’s not a lie, right?”

“No, Maarani. Papa is alive. He is right now being air-lifted to Ushuaia along with one other British researcher. Both of them are alive.”

She swayed. Her eyes rolled back in her head and he grabbed her in time to catch her from falling — “Maarani, careful…” he helped her back to her table. He pushed her down on her chair, still panting. He grabbed the glass of water and held it to her lips.

“Drink, Maarani, drink…”

Her mouth opened and she gulped, her eyes finally popping open and whirling up to him.

“Samarth?”

“Yes, Maarani?”

She clasped his hand. His fingers tightened around hers. “It’s Papa, right? You confirmed?”

“Yes.”

“He is coming home.”

Samarth laughed, unable to hold himself back as he found his head falling into the crook of her shoulder, circling his arms around her. Her arms came around him, holding the back of his head.

“Papa is coming home,” he reiterated, more to himself than to her and her hand patted the back of his head. His body shook silently and she kept patting. Twice, then one more time. Again repeat.

31. Bade Rawal

“This way, Your Highness,” the doctor led him down the sterile white hospital alley, the sun streaming in through the plush windows. Samarth couldn’t walk at normal speed. He wanted to run. His pulse was beating so fast it felt like Cherry tearing through his favourite forest road.

“What is the prognosis?” Samarth demanded, working to hide the tremor in his voice.

“His Highness was brought in severely hypothermic, moderately malnourished, and dehydrated, with early to mid-stage frostbite in the extremities — left-hand fingers, all toes, and left ear. Given their survival gear, he avoided immediate death by hypothermia, but the cold exposure over days would’ve taken a major toll,” the doctor described, striding down. “He was disoriented, showed fatigue-induced delirium and his heart rate has been consistently low. Other vitals have now stabilised but there is mild renal strain. He is lucid now and will need a systematic rehabilitation to gain back muscle mass, weight and mental balance…”

Samarth stopped listening altogether when he pushed open the door to the room and his eyes fell on his father. His mouth dried at the sight. Ecstasy and fear.

“Is… he looks…” Samarth couldn’t even identify that this was his Papa. He was halved away. His skin was white, waxy, like it was made of plastic; his eyes closed and his chest barely moving.Samarth stepped forward and immediately touched the back of his hand. It was warm. Not cold. That broke through his scary thoughts.

“It’s the frostbite and malnourishment, Your Highness,” the doctor pointed. “Give it a few weeks and he will look much better. I’ll see you back on my afternoon rounds.”

Samarth nodded, unable to look away from his Papa as the door clicked shut. Papa was here. Papa was alive. Breathing. A chuckle left his mouth as tears began to pour down his eyes. He silenced the noises of both but let himself cry here, in solitude, in silence, without anybody seeing. Papa kept sleeping and he kept crying, looking at the horizon of the sea from the window. Like a child he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes and cried quietly, rubbing his eyes dry and again crying.

A clearing of the throat brought his blurry eyes down to his father. Papa was trying to focus on him, his eyes looking ancient with his face gone so gaunt. Samarth wiped his eyes clean and took a deep breath. Papa blinked for long moments, then frowned. Samarth waited. The doctor had said he was delirious.

“Samarth?” He asked, his lips barely moving.

“Yes,” he whispered, laughing, sitting down on the bed in front of him. His father’s hand barely rose and Samarth clasped it in his own, keeping his fingers off the IV tube. Papa squeezed weakly. Samarth squeezed back, their eyes not moving from each other. Not even to blink.

Papa swallowed, and then a smile slowly bloomed across his lips. Even they were white. Scarily white.

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