Acotar retelling

First Night

My senses slowly returned to me, each one more painful than the last. The sound of dripping water first, then the fading echo of heavy footsteps. A lingering coppery taste coated my mouth—blood. Above the wheezing of what had to be my clogged nostrils, the tang of mold and the reek of mildew scented the damp, cold air. Sharp bits of hay jabbed my cheek. My tongue probed the makings of a split lip, and the movement set my face on fire. Wincing, I opened my eyes, but could only manage to widen them a little—swelling. What I beheld through my undoubtedly black eyes didn't do much for my spirits.

I was in the same prison cell from my last encounter Under the Mountain. My weapons were gone, and my only sources of light were the torches beyond the door. Amarantha had said a cell was to be where I would spend my time, but as I sat up—my head so dizzy I almost blacked out again—my heartbeat quickened. The dungeon. I examined the slants of light that crept in through the cracks between the door and the wall, then gingerly touched my face.

It ached—ached worse than I could remember. I bit down on a cry as my fingers grazed my nose, flakes of blood crumbling from my nostrils. It was broken. I would have clenched my teeth had my jaw not been a throbbing mess of agony, too.

I couldn't panic. No, I had to keep my tears in check, had to keep my wits together. I had to survey the damage as best I could, then figure out what to do. Lucien was supposed to come heal the break soon. Taking a breath that was all too shallow, I explored the rest of my face. My jaw wasn't broken, and though my eyes were swollen and my lip was split, the worst damage was to my nose.

I curled my knees to my chest, grasping them tightly as I reined in my breathing.

The full moon—it had been a half moon when I left my father's home. How long had I been unconscious down here? I wasn't foolish enough to believe that any amount of time would prepare me for Amarantha's first task.

I didn't allow myself to imagine what she had in mind for me. It was enough to know that she expected me to die—that there wouldn't be enough left of me for her to torture.

I gripped my legs harder to keep my hands from shaking. Somewhere—not too far off—screaming began. A high-pitched, pleading bleat, accentuated with crescendos of shrieking that made bile sting in my throat.

A whip cracked, and the screaming built, hardly pausing for a breath. Clare had probably cried similarly. I had as good as tortured her myself. What had she made of all this—all these faeries lusting after her blood and misery? I deserved this—deserved whatever pain and suffering was in store—if only for what she had endured. But... but I would make it right. Somehow.

I must have drifted off at some point, because I awoke to the scrape of my cell door against stone. Forgetting the cascading pain in my face, I scrambled to duck into the shadows of the nearest corner. Someone slipped into my cell and swiftly shut the door—leaving it just a bit ajar.

"Feyre?"

I tried to stand, but my legs shook so badly that I couldn't move. "Lucien?" I breathed, and the hay crunched as he dropped to the ground before me.

Thank the Mother he came for me.

"By the Cauldron, are you all right?"

"My face—"

A small light flared by his head, and as his eyes swam into view, the metal one narrowed. He hissed. "Have you lost your mind? What are you doing here?"

I fought the tears—they were pointless, anyway. "I went back to the manor I know about the curse, and I couldn't let Amarantha—"

"You shouldn't have come, Feyre," he said sharply. "You weren't meant to be here. Don't you understand what he sacrificed in getting you out? How could you be so foolish?"