Chapter Text
You do not yield.
She will not yield.
Aelin heard her mother’s voice echoing in the prison she was currently waiting in. Suffocating iron enveloped her from all sides, on her hands and face and back, leaving her with no release from the fire that slowly builds inside of her.
You do not yield.
She must find a way out.
Fenrys was waiting outside of the iron coffin, unable to move or talk in his wolf form as a result of Maeve’s torturous blood oath. The only times they could communicate was with their eyes, and blinking- though Aelin was only ever out of the box and conscious at the same time when Cairn was getting ready to start his torture again. Or torturing her whilst she was looking at Fenrys.
Afterwards Aelin was always left wondering if Cairn even did anything. If she was actually tortured, or if it was just Maeve toying with her mind again. Any scarring that could of appeared and told her what was real was always wiped away by healers the next day.
You do not yield.
She would save Fenrys.
Aelin and Fenrys had just watched Connall die in front of their eyes- and she was sure that he was being punished by Maeve for his lack of loyalty. First by forcing him to watch Aelin as she was abused again and again from Cairn’s ministrations, all without being able to help her. Then with Connall’s cruel last words that Maeve prompted him to utter, which would surely haunt Fenrys as he sits silently next to her box. After all, nothing is more cruel than someone’s own mind working against them. Aelin had experienced that well enough over the last few months… or was it years?
You do not yield.
She would save herself.
Right now she had no companion but her dark thoughts. Is any of this even real? Maybe it was all just one horrid nightmare and she would wake up with her scars still adorning her body, with Rowan holding her in his arms. Maybe this is just some twisted nightmare she conjured for herself. Or maybe it is all real, and Rowan wouldn’t come and save Aelin. The hope that Rowan might rescue her is just a baseless fantasy Maeve conjured up only to destroy, so she might try and weasel out the location of the Wyrdkeys from her.
You do not yield.
Wyrdkeys. Wyrdmarks.
A sliver of hope slithered through her mind as she thought of Wyrdmarks; her chance to get out of here. Hope is dangerous to hold onto, as it is so easy to form- but so much easier to destroy. She must try though.
Long ago Nehemia had taught her that they could create portals around this world and other worlds alike. It would be risky, but she must at least try to create a portal.
Quickly, Aelin swiped her arm against the sharp edge of the iron mask that had suffocated her during her captivity. Successfully cutting open her arm and making ink of blood to use, Aelin quietly drew several marks on top of the iron box, in hopes that Cairn wouldn’t come if he thought she was still unconscious and silent.
Finishing up the symbols of her blood, Aelin hoped that the Wyrdmarks could take her to her home, or really anywhere away from Maeve in this world. In theory, the marks should- along with her chanting, take her and any other occupants within five metres of the box away through a portal. If she were lucky, that would mean that Fenrys could be transported with her.
Beginning the chant, Aelin whispered in a strange language, before increasing volume louder and louder still. As she continued, marks began to glow an eerie blue colour, encompassing Aelin’s whole vision, as she continued. To stop would be suicide by this point. Especially since in the corners of her subconsciousness, she heard people shouting and crashing outside the box.
You do not yield.
She will overcome Maeve
Rapid banging on the coffin was all but tuned out as Aelin continued the chant, even as it seemed to take control of her very soul.
The only other sounds that were filtering through her ears were the memories of her mother’s words, mixing with her own shouts.
You.
Do.
Not.
Yield.
With a final push Aelin opened the portal, her last thought filling her with hope and relief as she fell into the comforting black of unconsciousness.
She made it out.