A figuratively true story:

    The weary girl looked her demons in the face with new boldness of true and firm knowledge.
    "You cannot have me," she avowed.
    Thunder rolled in over the mountain; rain slashed through the sky and drenched her diminutive form, rode the air she breathed and tried to drown her from the inside out, as the darkness had done for so long before.
    But the girl raised her voice, and her heavy fists, and veritably roared at them, defying them as she ought to have done sooner.  "You cannot have me!  There is no authority left unclaimed here for you!"  She might have been weeping, or sobbing, but one could not tell against the rain.
    "My Lover has paid the price for me.  Did you see him?  I know you did; what he gave ripped the world in two and stitched it back together again.  He paid my ransom with his own life, and it matters not that you did not get to keep him.  The price has been paid, and you cannot have me."
    She spoke words of her Father, repeated the words he had said to her, and to people who had come ages before her.  The dark ones recognized the illocution and fell back in a fury that mangled their forms beyond recognition, screaming as loudly as the storm.  Still she pressed against them with words she knew to be true.
    Finally the girl whispered once more, and her voice, always soft, still rang through to their ears, burning them as surely as if she was breathing fire.
    She lit a single guttering match in the rain and burned their names from her book, every one.
    "You cannot have me."
    The young woman turned away from them, turned her back on the mountains and the demons, and went back to her house on the hill, the house she had been given by her Father where she dwelled with her Lover, and settled back into bed.  A lullaby of safety and amazement stoppered her ears against the rain, and the arms of her Lover, when she had called his name, shielded her from the demons who might have dared to follow—thus untroubled she slept at last.