Rhysand

She was swift on her feet. She uses everything around her-water fire, air, darkness—to slaughter everyone, soldier or no. I try to break free, to take her away into our cottage in the Night Court. Where we could spend centuries, eons, eternity together. She is against all others. She is High Lady, my equal, my mate. All I'm thinking is get free take her winnow away until the cursed mortal Jurian comes up behind her and stabs her, in the heart that I had loved. No no no Feyre hold on Feyre I pulled and pulled, ripping my wings, to get out of my trap. I don't care about my wings. I ignore the awful pain, only to get there when she says her last words. "I am yours, and you are mine, Rhysand."

Feyre

He is trapped; with ash bolts hanging in his wings, and arms shackled to the tree. He is in great pain, but is still trying to wriggle free so that he can hold me, to take me away from this cursed awful land. Not to protect me, but to have a future with me. So we can spend eons and eons together. I kill and slaughter, just to free him, my High Lord, my equal, my mate. I don't see Jurian come behind him until I hear his pains of his wings—his wonderful, black, Illyrian wings—being cut off, then getting stabbed. I ignore whoever I'm killing just so that I can get to him, to give him my blood. But all I hear are his last words "I am yours, and you are mine, Feyre." and his last breath.