Three hundred twenty five billion seconds of unheralded paradise stretched over the distance of exactly fifty-two thousand eight hundred circuitous feet. Ensnared somewhere between the blurred lines of reality and divinity, this once-holy land had birthed memoirs by the pound.

Directly beneath the northernmost star, warmly cradled within a lofty summit, there was an ageless tarn whose waters had quenched the thirst of a trillion fledgling stars as they prepared for their unexampled exodus to the then-unblemished sky.

And, several yards to the east, blazing red foliage hurled spirals of smoke signals in honor of the myriads of Carménère vineyards whose tête de cuvée boasted a unique redolence of fire-roasted poetry and spice-glazed billets-doux.

And, if you followed the winding cobblestone path directly to the south, just past the clearing where a few balletic trees played hide-and-seek with newborn lunar blooms, it would lead you inside a special grove of cinnamon trees where disembodied echoes uttered exotic phrases in foreign tongues.

And west, only a few meters or more from a most thunderous waterfall, where something invisible was alleged to juggle jinxes onto unsuspecting souls, there was a hideaway beach where licking the savory onyx sand was the only pacifier known to soothe the raging sea.

This land was a paradise of impressive magnitude. Yet, unquestionably, year after recalcitrant affairs after exquisite skeletons after year, this land's elixir had spiraled perfectly into quasi-ruins.

Uprooted and bastardized under Genesitic entitlement to dominion, this paradise, caged as crudely as one would a wild animal, had been unchurched by stone walls, wrought railings, lethal vines, and tumultuous decrees. Slowly, albeit surely,this heaven on earth veered toward a mere ghost of its formidable days.

How such an unexpected little heaven had morphed into a siren - parallel to sin of cardinal proportions - was an enigma on the cusp of revelation.

In fact, it was in the exact center of this lovely paradise, atop a luxuriant chaise, in the dead-center of a spectacular gazebo, that the flames of retribution first erupted.

Oh how many lively memories could this grand gazebo divulge. But, tonight, sans the usual sophisticated festivities of music, guests, wine, and food, it now sheltered a most heartbroken party of one.

Unsettling turmoil and irreconcilable anguish - both byproducts of yesterday's inflexible collision - were conjointly the single flutter that had broken this little angel's wings.

As a result, the forthcoming tragedy of this land's latest memoir was damned enough to pen its own text. Which it did with the simplest utterance...

"He shall love me."

A mere octave below a broken whisper, this shaky yet driven proclamation did not have far to travel as its expression alone was enough to resonate.

So, again, with thunder quaking the stormy sky as if indicating its intention to make good on this nascent declaration, she crooned.

"He shall love me."

With a gentle flick of her wrist, she launched another rose petal into the air. Like the galaxy of remaining petals awaiting similar deaths, this petal held a distinct purpose. And, even as its brilliant redness drifted down into the darkness, away from the view of her tired and teary eyes, she never lost sight of its purpose.

"He shall love me."

All around her, the midnight storm vainly toiled into its second hour as she, Rhys Kordelle Deniau, the one person for whom the tempest was intended, remained utterly unaware of its existence, choosing instead to focus on a different type of storm, one more internal and much closer to her heart.

Just before a violent wind snuffed the dwindling flame from her lantern and scattered the fallen petals like homeless embers, Rhys watched another petal rock against the air, slowly descending onto a pile of its peers, a pile that had been accumulating for nearly an hour.

No sooner than it touched the top, she blessed it again with much more conviction, whispering each word like a wish, thoroughly preoccupied with the personal promise behind its every word.

"He shall love me."

Still equipped with her original heart, unspoiled and unbroken by unrequited love, these four words became her prayer, her plan, and her periapt; which, when coupled with the sacrifice of a velvety petal crushed between her dainty fingertips, quite believably held the power to alter her entire existence. 

Above her, a flash of lightning streaked through the air, lasting just long enough to highlight the trails of tears streaming down her face, tears that had been falling for so long they had defeated their purpose hours ago.

These tears were neither tears of happiness nor tears of sorrow; they were more so tears of resolution and revolution. They were a kiss goodbye, the type of tears necessary to wash away the past and begin anew.

It was that kiss goodbye that was the hardest, because it required her sacrificing her desire to have the entirety of two wonderful worlds - her heritage and her freedom.

Though she tried to steer her mind to new topics, her emotions insisted on making her a misfit within her own body by repeatedly returning to the subject at hand.

Being trapped in this moment, where what was happening to her was foreign to her, highlighted a sudden shift in her perspective. The incongruousness of how the strong, tangible world in which she had grown up now held little more consistency than a raindrop was all attributed to yesterday, the very day she stopped believing in the fairytale of allegiance.

Her story was plain and simple. On yesterday, with the ease of a firm handshake and the breaking of bread, a life-shattering decision had been made on her behalf. Without considering or consulting her, two men had dealt her one hell of a coup de grace.

Marriage.

Not a marriage of love. Rather a marriage of fortune. A marriage of foolery. Marriage to a womanizing, chauvinistic man who would set poetry to how low her head could bow and then fashion music to how inert her tongue could be. The worst part of it all is that she had no say-so about it.

The only luxury afforded to her was how loudly she could say yes, I do. And even that could not be too highly or too lowly pitched, accented with condescension or sarcasm, or accompanied by some offensive gesture, for fear she may be punished for mocking a man.

She had personally complained and appealed to the highest authority - the King himself. However, circa 1888, the king's word was the law; and, since her wishes contradicted the King's orders, she was extended a choice of only two options: either abide by the edict or exile at once.

Of course, being the headstrong woman she was, she indignantly and quietly chose the latter. It was the only decision whose effort was worth its weight in any of the potential consequences.

She detested this patriarchal world that forced her to shrink herself unnecessarily into a pawn when her spirit's laughter rivaled a lion's roar. Born into this den of iniquity, a pedestrian life of strict protocols and wretchedly prude customs, she would now fashion her life with her own two hands rather than the hands of any man.

With a boom of thunder so strong it shook her from her thoughts, the storm finally gained Rhys's attention. Though a subtle raising of her brow was the only indication of her acknowledgment of the storm, she stared into it blankly as the heavy downpour lulled her back to one of the most pivotal moments of her young life.