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"Like the doctor in Marrakech told you,” an unfamiliar, older male voice says somewhere nearby, “Cynthia has bruised ribs, and four broken fingers on her right hand. She's covered in bruises from head-to-toe where that bastard beat her. Her left eye is swollen shut, and she’s lost some hair on her head.”
"Fucking bastard!" A female voice says. She too is angry, concerned, and I recognise her voice but can’t place it. “I hope you left his body to the vultures to pick at.”
“I promise you, we made sure they were nice and barbequed for the wildlife,” a gruff voice responds.
“Good,” the woman replies. “Come on, Beast, we’ve got families to locate and women to get home. Leon and Konrad have already made a start.”
“What about her unresponsiveness?” the voice I know to be Carrick’s asks as I hear footsteps leave the room.
"I thought perhaps it could be a delayed concussion, but I suspect this is more than likely something else far more concerning..." the old man’s voice trails off.
"More likely what?" another voice asks, a deeper timber.
My heart thunders in recognition. That voice belongs to one of the men who took it in turns to carry me to this bed from the other side of the world. I’m beginning to remember now, passages of time like polaroid snapshots developing in my mind.
"Trauma, Arden."
Yes, that’s it, Arden with the amber eyes.
Arden Dálaigh.
"Is that why she's not really with us even when she's awake?" another female asks, her voice gentler than the other. Sweet. Kind.
I know that voice… Don't I?
“Yes. Right now her mind is trying to protect her. It’s not uncommon after a traumatic event such as this.”
"And what about...?" Carrick asks. He can’t finish his question, his voice thick with concern.
"The bruising around her throat will eventually fade, but until she comes around fully I can't tell you what the long term effects on her voice will be."
“Fuck!” he exclaims, the crack in his voice opening up the chasm in my heart.
“Shewillheal. She will come back to you. Cyn is strong,” another male voice says, foreign, sharp almost, but I don't fear it. It reminds me of my childhood.
Is that Jakub?
"But it will take time,” the older voice intercedes. “In the meantime, she'll need some help. I've prescribed some drugs to help her to rest, to manage her emotions until she’s strong enough to deal with what’s happened. She needs sleep. She needs fresh air. She needs time and space to grieve. She needs love and care. That most of all.”
"And she'll get that from us. I swear to you," Arden replies with conviction. “We’re taking her home. We’ll heal her, the three of us.”
“What about Connall and the O’Briens? What about her father?” that same foreign voice asks.
“I don’t care about them. I only care about Cyn. You heard what Joey said, she needs to heal, she can’t do that with the O’Briens and the O’Farrells still at each other’s throats,” Arden continues, his voice determined, certain.
No more words are said, but the air is swollen with unspoken thoughts as I blink open the eye that isn’t swollen shut. My vision is blurred as several figures move around me. I groan.
"She's coming to," the woman with the gentle voice and fiery red hair says as she reaches for my good hand, gently squeezing it. "Cynthia?"
Christy?
I open my mouth to speak. I know her. She's my friend.
My friend.
Wait!
Then like a freight train being derailed, disturbing memories barrel towards me, smacking me right in the centre of my chest as my breath is snatched from my lungs.
