Note: Hi, friends! I'm going to attempt to write ACOMAF from Rhys' POV. It's a very monumental task, especially since I know I will never be able to meet the greatness of SJM's writing/characters/plots/etc., but I'm going to try anyways. I still haven't decided if I want to write in third person or first, so bear with me if there is a change in writing style. This first chapter is my toe in the water and may be a tad on the boring side, so I apologize in advance. Wish me luck and I hope you like it... And here goes.

Breathing out a sigh, Rhysand looked out at the snowcapped mountains as he let his wings unfurl behind him. The High Lord of the Night Court relished in the feeling of the cold air nipping at the sensitive flesh and the freedom behind it. After fifty years, he was free and it was all because of Feyre; Amarantha was dead, his powers were back, and he could finally return home.

There was one thing left to do before he could though. He could feel that Feyre was sleeping through the bond that they shared, but he tugged on that thread anyways. The High Lord heard the sound of her footsteps, turning to face the opening of the stairwell, and couldn't help but chuckle as he watched Feyre hiss and shield her eyes from the sun.

"I forgot that it's been a while for you," Rhys voiced as he tucked his wings into his body. It had been over three months since she arrived Under the Mountain, and unlike him, she hadn't had the chance to sneak outside given the circumstances.

Rhysand watched as Feyre took in the land around them: the vibrant mountains that surrounded the drab mountain that they stood on. He silently willed her to look at him and like a prayer being answered, she did. Her blue-gray eyes scanned his body, his wings, before meeting his gaze.

"What do you want?" She tried to snap, but the question was more bite than bark. He could sense the storm within her mind, but everything was moving too quickly for him to pick up anything from her unshielded thoughts.

The wind blew Feyre's scent towards him, it was as intoxicating as the first time they met. "Just to say goodbye," he answered moments later. "Before your beloved whisks you away forever."

"Not forever," Feyre responded as she wiggled her fingers at him. The deep blue ink stood out against her fair skin, the eye in the center of her palm winking at him. "Don't you get a week every month?" The bite in her tone made Rhysand wince internally, his wings the only sign that he was a little uncomfortable with her words.

With a small smile, the High Lord asked, "How could I forget?"

"Why?" Feyre asked, the question catching him a little off guard.

To save you, he wanted to say, but he had an image to uphold, so instead he shrugged, a seemingly careless movement. "Because when the legends get written, I didn't want to be remembered for standing on the sidelines. I want my future offspring to know that I was there, and that I fought against her at the end, even if I couldn't do anything useful."

Feyre blinked at his answer, looking him right in the eyes, and he continued, "Because I didn't want you to fight alone. Or die alone."

No one deserved to die alone. When the time came for him to leave this world, Rhysand could only hope that someone would deem him worthy enough to do the same for him.

"Thank you," Feyre seemed to struggle to say.

Rhys forced a grin onto his face. "I doubt you'll be saying that when I take you to the Night Court." Feyre turned away from him and looked toward the mountains surrounding them.

"Are you going to fly home?" She asked quietly.

A soft laugh escaped from Rhysand. He would have loved to fly home, he missed the feeling of the wind beneath his wings and the sight of the lands under him, but the moment the curse was broken, he could feel the impatience from his Inner Circle, restlessly awaiting his return. "Unfortunately, it would take longer than I can afford. Another day, I'll taste the skies again."

Once again, Feyre looked over his body and his wings, still tucked in behind him. "You never told me you loved the wings—or the flying," she said, her voice hoarse.

He gave another shrug. "Everything I love has always had a tendency to be taken from me. I tell very few about the wings. Or the flying."

His little sister. His mother. His city. His friends. He had lost so much. If Amarantha knew of his wings, of his love for taking flight, she would have made sure to keep him Under the Mountain, trapped. He wouldn't have survived that loss.

"How does it feel to be a High Fae?" He asked the newly Made woman before him. The change suited her well, from the strength beneath her new Fae skin to the slight point her ears now ended in. Her eyes darkened at the question and once again turned away from him.

"I'm an immortal—who has been mortal. This body…this body is different, but this" –she placed a hand over her heart— "this is still human. Maybe it always will be. But it would have been easier to live with it..." She paused. "Easier to live with what I did if my heart had changed, too. Maye I wouldn't care so much; maybe I could convince myself their deaths weren't in vain. Maybe immortality will take that away. I can't tell whether I want it to."

Rhysand stared at her back, enough time passing that she turned back to him. He could understand what she was feeling, why she would have wanted a hardened heart, but he was glad it was unchanged. "Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don't feel anything at all."

She just nodded, so he continued on, "Well, goodbye for now."

Being one for dramatics, Rhysand bowed at the waist, making his wings vanish using his fully replenished magic. The shadows began to beckon to him and his body went rigid. Every fiber of his being seemed to be drawn to the woman before him, taut with longing. It felt as if everything had clicked into place, as if his life had meaning after everything he had done and that meaning was standing in front of him. He locked eyes with Feyre's, knowing his violet eyes were wide with absolute shock. His nostrils flared and he breathed in her scent again. He stumbled back a step—nothing made him falter, nothing, but this…

She was his mate.

Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. His mind chanted at him. Every instinct was telling him to grab her and winnow away, but her couldn't. Tamlin had his talons so deep in her heart and no matter the situation, as long as Feyre was happy. If he took her away from Tamlin, she would hate him with every piece of herself and Rhys couldn't handle that though. He would do nothing, even if she was his mate.

He had to get out of there.

"What is—" Feyre started to say, but the High Lord had already winnowed away.

Well, there you go. Hope you liked it. Comments, advice, anything is appreciated :)