Disclaimer: All hail the Mouse.
A/N: Ok, I don't know what this is. It just came to me and I had to write it.
Third on the Left
She was given her mother's rings when she was just a babe. Her father had told her that before his dear wife had died, she had asked him to give them to their child, neither knowing if it was a boy or girl. Over the years she came to treasure them. Her only link to the mother she never knew. She put them on a chain and kept them safely hidden away, only taking them out to wear on her birthday.
She never wore James' ring. He had planned to give her his mother's, but it had been in England at the time, and he didn't have time to send for it before their ill-fated courtship came to an abrupt end. That very ring now shines brightly on another more deserving woman. She's thankful she never had the chance to tarnish its beauty with her hand.
She didn't want a ring from William. Not that she did not appreciate the sentiment behind such an endowment. But engagement rings were very costly, and he was a blacksmith. She instead asked for him to make her a sword. When he questioned her reasoning, she told him she would need a sword after he taught her how to wield one, and until it was made, she would use one of his.
After melting down many attempts and discarding even more ideas, he presented the blade to her a month before the wedding. To describe it as beautiful was an understatement. It was completely decorative in nature. It looked like belonged on display, hanging above a fire place, not at someone's side. There was little efficiency in it at all. It wasn't even sharp.
She accepted it without grievance, for she had seen the work he had done to make her the offering. She decided to continued to train with his blades. Her cutlass, however, did not stay dull long.
The wedding ceremony was short, but sweet. William had insisted on choosing the bands himself. A simple gold ring with an interwoven design. He had said it was a symbol of their love, which was tied together for the rest of their lives. It stayed on her hand almost always. She only removed it when she handled her cutlass.
She owns many rings these days. Too many to wear all at once. Some were gifts, others she purchased. She exchanges them from time to time. There is only one that remains in its place, that never leaves her hand. The only ring in her collection that does not belong to her. Its foreign feel never allows her to forget why she wears it, and the dying man she took it from.
The solitary obsidian gem will always shine beside its mate that hangs around her neck.