Tog and acotar crossover

Chapter Two

Hahahaha Hi Guys Back with another Edit! Enjoy!

This was literally my guide for writing this chapter:

Sad mave days

Description of aelin when she comes out of the box

Sass

Description of people in the room

Getting someone to bring bandages and things

Add a little more sass

Aelin asking for clothes "Hello? Anyone home, or more importantly feel like answering me?"

Aelin needs healing moment

Into next scene – 'we gonna chat in a dinning room'

Onto the chapter! Chapter Warning  for swearing ?

She couldn't see.

She shut her eyes.

Black.

She opened her eyes.

Black.

The darkness was incessant.

Her vision a vast sea of black.

Before her eyes the inky ocean built in mighty waves, crashing and reforming, forever an everlasting cycle. A part of her knew though, that what she was seeing wasn't real, hallucinations from the pain thrumming in her veins. It was ever-present, unable to leave her consciousness. So, the shadows of waves filled her vision, there and yet not. But it never left her, she was never able to forget: Everything hurt. A never-ending ache. A constant sting. Her was tongue lead in her mouth, but she could taste her own blood, thick and heavy on her tongue. With every breath she heaved in a reverberating rasp followed. Struggling to keep breathe in this box. Struggling, her chest felt as if it was being strangled by a snake, as she was always half choking on her own blood in her throat. Everything hurt. Her back stung with an almighty hellfire. Her nose was ablaze with the smell of copper. It only made sense, Maeve had stuck her in here in a rush (something she would regret later), apparently had something urgent demanding her attention, and now she was lying in a puddle of her blood. The crimson liquid had gone cold at this point, chilled by the arctic climate of wherever she was. 

Aelin had never been more grateful in her life for the existence of what had taken That Bitch's attention. In this coffin, the manuverablity Aelin had of her hands was very little, however, she was a resourceful woman. Her fingers moved in the puddle. She took a minute to check she had applied enough of the cherry ink to her fingers, then began to draw. Winding, flowing shapes began to coat the sides of her casket that she could reach, (The chains around her wrists had bruised and scratched the skin there raw from where she had tried struggling against them). The marks she made were a little wobbly, sketched at an awkward angle. She couldn't quite tell if they were correct, and that's what worried her; she had a restricted view with this mask on her face, the illustrated Wyrdmarks portrayed by muscle memory. Nevertheless, she had one shot, just one, it had taken the last of both her spirit, and energy to write those wyrdmarks. The Wyrdmarks would take her away from here, but in the best case, she ended up somewhere in Terrasen, somewhere that she could contact her court. Worst case, she would be stuck forever in some foreign realm. She tried to avoid thinking about that though; it made her chest feel even tighter, and– well, she was already running low on air. It was now or never. As she recoated her fingers to draw the last mark, she sent a passing thought to Fenrys; they had formed a sense of companionship, both having to suffer under Her Lady Pure-Motherfucking-Evil. Aelin swore she'd come for him, she wouldn't abandon him, that much was certain. She new he wouldn't resent her for leaving either, in the same way she wouldn't of resented him for leaving if he'd gotten the chance.