No.

I cannot. Building shelters, preparing large quantities of food, maintaining the basic sanitation of a rapidly growing tent city – those tasks require a specific skill set. I would be nothing but an additional body to care for, a burden on already stretched resources. There are trained aid workers for that, individuals with the expertise and stamina to handle the demanding physical labor.

The fantasy of a single individual arriving and magically rescuing everyone with soothing words and heartfelt sympathies was insulting. It was a childish, simplistic notion that completely stripped away the horror these people had already experienced and would undoubtedly continue to face in the uncertain future. I could barely carry the heavy boxes of canned food. Even my ability to speak Cyrusian felt commonplace after witnessing the professional translators. I am not some uniquely gifted savior. I am simply a volunteer, offering what little I can. That is the reality of my contribution, the beginning and the end of it.

The area where the refugees had been temporarily housed was now undergoing a thorough cleaning with powerful antiseptics. I'd learned that these kinds of mass displacement situations were unfortunately fertile breeding grounds for the rapid spread of illnesses. And the thought of those tent cities, with their lack of infrastructure... imagine the near-impossible task of maintaining adequate sanitation there. Another crucial detail, another looming crisis, the problems just kept multiplying.

The scent of antiseptic hadn't even fully permeated the air before a convoy of military trucks rumbled.

This was different.

This was the immediate aftermath of the war. These weren't people who had managed a relatively clean escape. Blood stained their tattered clothes, limbs were visibly missing, and a thick layer of debris and dust coated them from head to toe. Gods... I could barely keep the tears at bay while speaking to the previous arrivals. A strict protocol was immediately enforced: everyone, including the translators and aid workers, was mandated to wear masks, gloves, and shoe covers.

I was desperately trying to relay the doctor's questions – allergies, blood types – but the air was thick with the symphony of suffering. Piercing screams, ragged gasps for breath, and deep groans echoed through the foundation. These weren't even individuals who had the chance to be seen at a hospital; the hospitals, I could only imagine, must be overflowing beyond capacity. Now, this section of the foundation had been transformed into a triage zone. Fuck. Fuck this.

The sheer volume of pain was pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. The doctors and nurses moved, assessing wounds, applying pressure to bleeding limbs, and barked orders for supplies. Each pained cry I translated, each whispered plea for help, was a fresh stab of anguish. I saw a young woman, her face pale as death, clutching a blood-soaked rag to her abdomen. A man beside her, his leg twisted, bit down on a piece of cloth to stifle his screams. The professional translators worked tirelessly alongside me. But the number of the injured was overwhelming.

It felt like trying to empty an ocean with a single bucket.

Not being squeamish about blood, Raphael?

A detached observation about a minor scrape. But that was then. This… this is different. This is an amputated leg, lying on the floor beside its owner. An exposed bone.

I can’t stay here. I am a fucking liability

now. I’m stumbling over words, my voice catching in my throat. I'm useless here. Worse than useless.

You're not even the one without a leg, you fucking useless piece of shit.

Get your head together. Someone, anyone, needed help. At least try to assist those with minor injuries, the ones whose screams weren't tearing through the very fabric of the room. I can't do this. I cannot stay in this triage area. This is too much. I am neither equipped, nor trained nor used to witness this.

I mumbled a weak excuse and stumbled away, the images seared onto my retinas. It was brutally clear, even for well-meaning person like myself, that there were hard and unyielding walls that empathy alone couldn't breach. Yeah. The universe had a cruel, efficient way of etching those limitations onto your soul.

I bolted for the bathroom stalls, the bile rising in my throat with speed. I wretched violently into the toilet. Not being squeamish about blood? Not anymore. I am squeamish about the blood, about the mangled flesh, about the brutal physicality of human suffering laid bare. Gods. I had to erase that image, scrub it from my mind before it consumed me entirely. I turned to the sinks, splashing cold water on my face.

A Cyrusian woman and her young daughter quietly entered the bathroom. They were not visibly injured, thank the gods, but the tremor in their hands and the wide, haunted look in their eyes spoke volumes of the terror they had witnessed. I washed my face once more, trying to appear calmer than I felt, and offered them my heartfelt sympathies. Gently, I encouraged them to speak. She recounted the horrors, confirming that it was a civil war, a conflict fueled by two extremist factions tearing their homeland apart for reasons that seemed utterly meaningless and useless in the face of such destruction.

Well… at least there's that small mercy. I hadn’t actually vomited on one of the patients; my body had at least granted me those few precious seconds to reach the relative privacy of the bathroom. I focused on the pathetic victory. I helped the woman and her daughter find a quiet corner in the foundation, a space as far removed from the harrowing screams of the triage area as possible.

That place… the triage… I am not going back there. Ever.

...

Another day bled into existence. The lack of a proper shower was a growing discomfort, and sleep remained a fitful affair snatched on Levi's couch. My primary role had shifted back to offering translations for the less critical arrivals and ensuring everyone had access to food and water. Amidst the weariness, the innocent sounds of children's laughter occasionally pierced the atmosphere. For that, I was profoundly grateful. The triage area, however, remained a strictly forbidden zone.

The midday meal with the foundation staff was a somber affair. Exhaustion etched deep lines around their eyes, and dark circles spoke of countless sleepless nights spent wrestling with logistics and bureaucracy, coordinating with other aid organizations and the often-sluggish government apparatus. Amidst the weariness, they still found moments to share anecdotes. They were particularly struck by the physical presence of the Cyrusians. I too became a subject of their quiet curiosity. They found it fascinating, almost quaint, that Cyrusian tradition often favored angelic names for children – Raphael, Cassiel, and others. To be honest, I’d always loathed that custom. Because… look at this. Look at all these people, bearing names of celestial beings, suffering so profoundly at the hands of others who also likely carried such names.

My phone vibrated against my leg, pulling me from the weariness of the day. It was Levi.

"Pulla, where are you?" he asked, his voice carrying a distinct note of exhaustion.

"I'm still at the foundation," I replied, concern lacing my own tone. "What about you? Are you still managing things at the capital?"

A sigh traveled through the line. "Ah... alright... Listen, I need to leave the capital for a while. The situation at the borders is becoming critical, and they need more direct aid and coordination there."

Borders. That's where the influx is probably the worst. More people, less infrastructure, further from the capital's resources. Levi, heading to the borders...

"Levi, you're still recovering! You're stitched up; you can't possibly go to the borders. You'll only injure yourself further," I protested.

"Pulla... it's impossible to be in all places at once. I've initiated the protocols, taken the measures and precautions. I've even opened up avenues for the refugees to seek shelter in other countries... Ascaria simply cannot sustain this overwhelming influx. Ah... I need to 'cauterize' the borders, as it were. I need to redirect the flow of people, prevent the capital from being completely overwhelmed, and guide them towards those international pathways we've established."

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"Levi, absolutely not. You cannot go. You know perfectly well you're not supposed to travel for more than thirty minutes at a stretch right now. No. You need to stay here, in the capital, where you can at least access proper medical care if something goes wrong."

"Pulla," Levi responded, his tone softening slightly, "I truly appreciate your concern. However, I have a secure transport arranged, complete with discreet medical personnel on standby should any issues arise. The intel and data coming from the borders are... grim, to say the least, and reliable information is frustratingly limited. I need to assess the situation with my own eyes to formulate an effective strategy. I anticipate being back within a week, perhaps sooner if circumstances allow. And yes," he added, a hint of reassurance in his voice, "I will make every effort to keep in touch."

A week... alone... at the border... still recovering. Gods. This feels wrong. So wrong. I wish I could argue more, but I know his mind is made up.

"I wish you weren't going," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "But I know I can't stop you. You're trying to hold everything together, to manage this impossible situation..." A pause. "Also... Levi... could you possibly give me the address where my... my family is being housed?"

"Pulla, believe me, I do not wish to go to the border either. But it is a necessity. And yes, dear, I will send you the address directly. But," his tone shifted, becoming firm yet gentle, "you must always remember that they have no power over you anymore. Please, be safe, and take care of yourself."

"Thank you for saying that, Levi… Can I… come with you? At least to translate… or taking care of you…" I offered, the plea laced with a desperate need to be near him, to somehow lessen the gnawing anxiety that coiled in my stomach.

A weary sigh ghosted through the phone. "Raphael," he began, "understand this. My presence at the borders will not be solely in my capacity as a consultant. I will also be there as a public figure, as the 'Saint of Ascaria.' My arrival will be an orchestrated event. I will be accompanied by a retinue – politicians seeking to be seen offering support, mayors and governors assessing the needs of their regions, various ministers coordinating their departments, a veritable swarm of press eager to capture every carefully curated moment, entire troops providing security and logistical assistance, and countless other individuals whose presence serves a specific purpose in this delicate dance of public reassurance and practical aid."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "You are simply not... suited to that environment. It will be a maelstrom of logistical demands, political posturing, and the glare of public scrutiny. Your presence, however well-intentioned, would not only place an additional burden on the resources but would also expose you to a level of chaos and potential discomfort that your own recent anxieties have already exacerbated."

A small softening entered his tone. "Thank you, for your unwavering concern. It is, as always, deeply appreciated. If the need for your specific linguistic skills arises at the border – and I will not hesitate to reach out if it does – I will contact you directly. But for now, your strength and your ability to offer support here, at the foundation, will be far more valuable."

His point about my own limitations… it stung, but it was undeniably true. The foundation had already pushed me to my emotional limits.

"I understand," I murmured. "Just... please be careful, Levi."

"I always am, dear," he replied, though the weariness was evident. "And Raphael... thank you. Your concern means more to me than you know."

A fragile smile touched my lips. "Just... come back safe."

"I intend to. I will be in touch."

…

Three days crawled by. A semblance of order had been established in the main shelter areas. I, however, still avoided the vicinity of the triage zone, an invisible boundary of trauma I was unwilling to breach again. A brief trip back to the house allowed for the simple luxury of a hot shower, the water washing away the lingering scent of antiseptic and the phantom weight of suffering. I packed a bag with fresh clothes. Leo, had returned to the hospital.

But as one crisis stabilized, another emerged. The foundation's storage rooms, were now overflowing. Mountains of donated clothing, threatened to spill out into the hallways. Well-intentioned citizens, had inundated the foundation with their spare garments. However, the sheer volume had become unmanageable. Sorting, categorizing, and distributing the endless piles of clothes was consuming valuable time and manpower.

After lengthy discussions between the exhausted aid workers and the foundation staff, a difficult decision was reached: they would no longer accept donations of used clothing. A new directive was issued; only unused garments, as these were far easier to manage, categorize, and distribute efficiently, ensuring the refugees received items that were clean, durable, and met basic hygiene standards.

Witnessing this shift in policy was... humbling. The desire to help, was undeniably pure. Yet, without careful consideration of the logistical realities and the specific needs on the ground, that very kindness could create further complications, diverting crucial resources and adding to the already immense burden of the relief effort. It was a sobering lesson.

The relentless tide of new arrivals at the foundation had begun to ebb, the waves becoming less frequent and smaller in scale. It was impossible for me to truly comprehendwhat Levi was orchestrating there. I had only caught a glimpse of him during a brief television interview.

Tent cities were springing up in designated zones near the border, alongside the more permanent promise of rapidly assembled prefabricated houses. He was also making a direct appeal to the Ascarian citizenry, urging them to open their unused homes and vacant hotel rooms as temporary shelter. The impact of that interview was immediate and significant. The foundation's donation accounts swelled, with the potent influence of his "Saint of Ascaria" persona, a platform he wielded with a strategic precision that was both admirable and, at times, slightly unnerving.

Four long days crawled by, each marked by a gnawing anxiety that the foundation's steady rhythm couldn't entirely dispel, before Levi's voice finally crackled through my phone.

"Raphael," he said, the exhaustion in his tone a palpable weight across the distance. "How are you, dear? Are you still at the foundation?"

"I'm alright, Levi. And yes, I'm still here. Mostly helping with translation and distributing food and blankets. It... it keeps me occupied."

"Dear... the border is... a truly dire situation. We are managing to offer aid to the incoming refugees, but..." His voice dropped slightly. "...according to the commander on the ground, the civil war in Cyrusia has the potential to rage on for over two years. These tent cities we're erecting... they will become woefully inadequate before long. Dear... I am tired, utterly exhausted. Refugees are surging over the border fences, a desperate tide seeking safety, and while we are offering what help we can... it feels endless, a relentless influx. And we can no longer accept refugees via air travel. With Cyrusia's formal declaration of war, the airspace is now deemed too dangerous. Only those arriving by boats, cars, and on foot are now able to reach our borders…"

Two years.

No more air travel.

"We have to find more long-term solutions, then. Beyond the tents. Have you spoken with other nations about taking in more refugees?"

"Yes," he replied. "Several nations have begun to formally accept refugees, and the initial quotas are... promising, though nowhere near the scale of the need. According to my preliminary calculations, and based on the projected timelines of aid distribution and the establishment of these initial international pathways, the most acute phase of the border crisis... should begin to subside within approximately one month."

Even as a sliver of hope flickered within me at his words, the rising clamor of voices calling his name in the background became undeniable. "I need to go, dear. They require my immediate attention. Take care," he murmured, and with a swift click, the line went dead.

…

The week that followed Levi's departure was a turbulent sea within the relative calm of the foundation. The question of my family became a relentless tide pulling at the shores of my resolve: Do I reach out? Do I dare? Logic argued for it – they were here, in Ascaria, displaced and vulnerable. They were my blood. I hadn't sprung forth fully formed; they were the architects of my early life.

But beneath that familiar resentment lay another, more deeply buried reason, a secret I hadn't even confided in Levi. By the time I reached eighteen, my future had already been meticulously planned, a bride chosen, a life laid out without my consent. I hadn't even met her. The prospect had been the final blow, propelling me into the unknown. Two years I spent adrift in Cyrusia, a nomad hitchhiking across the land. Then, Ascaria, a new name, a new life as an actor, a role I'd inhabited for the past six years.

Their reaction to my life here had been swift and brutal. Months ago, the letter arrived, a white rectangle filled with condemnation. Marrying a man was an abomination, marrying an Ascarian man a further betrayal. How do I bridge that chasm of disapproval? How do I speak to people who see my very existence as a profound disappointment, a stain on their family name?

The chasm of years and disapproval felt too vast to attempt to bridge alone, especially now. Levi. He knew my past, the sting of their rejection, and his quiet strength often lent me a courage I couldn't muster on my own. Yes. That felt right. I would wait. Until Levi arrived. His presence would be my strength.