Ownership noun
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the act, state, or right of possessing something.
The days had been long of late, fraught with tasks needed to be completed, wanting to be completed and those that served naught but to bring her pleasure. For the most part her spirits were high, business was good, her friends seemed well and her writing progressed, yet, as is the way, these things never seem to last.
She had, on the advice to one dear to her, decided that her life should take a turn. An heiress who was expected to wed to strengthen her fathers business, gave this matter much thought of late. Why couldn't she have the best of both worlds? Find someone she could love, or at the very least tolerate, -and- enrich both families. The process had been difficult, her heart on occassion tugging one way, her head leading her back to reality. One, perfect suitor, at least in her mind, had to be disregarded. He found it amusing, her friend. As if he had a tally, he would ask her if she ever found it annoying, the men who would gift her with honey sweet compliments along with hopes she would be theirs. She did. She did not wish her heart to be tethered to another, knowing deep down it could never be but a fleeting association. She had become close to a man when she first arrived to the town, but he had been cruel, no matter what he tried to portray to others. When next she allowed her heart to speak for her, the man in question and she, discussed at some length what her family obligation was. He was sweet, but not what her father would want for her. Every man who had spoken to her with affection, wished to own her in some way. Their fleeting associations, in their mind, as good as being wed to her. As good as owning her.
A home was what she needed, a home that would be far from inns, lecherous looks and hopeful hearts. One where she could host those who travelled from the mines to conduct business on her fathers behalf. So, with the coin she had, courtesy of the allowance her father would set aside, she purchased one. Far smaller than what she was accustomed to, yet much more suitable than the ramshackle inn, namely The Combe and Wattle. Instantly she felt peace, a middle ground between the life she had known and one she had fallen into. She could write in peace, sing and dance, with only the watchful gaze of the chicken she had liberated from the inn.
Business was neglected on some days, yet thriving on others. Her friend, her dear, dear friend, had requested from her a jewel which on it's arrival was proven to be beautiful beyond measure. The blacksmith, shunned by other suppliers due to his rather cantankerous nature, seemed pleased with the ore samples, thus placing a substantial order. She had, however, hit a snag. A rival merchant of sorts, charming yet overly verbose, who was eager to establish trade routes from mines to the town of Bree. He seemed highly competative too. Her father would not be happy, he felt he owned what little slither of Bree the dwarves had left in regards to ore.
Words. Words can be kind or cruel, yet they must be owned by those who have spoken them. They should not be dismissed, they should not be cast aside. The moment they leave the lips, they are there, for all to hear, for good and for bad. Words annoyed her of late. Whispers and rumours that would serve more harm than good and rose a temper in her very few had seen, save her father. Yet, words from another brought her an inner peace. He stayed with her, even through her bitter rage. He was patient, understanding and kept her company till the anger was naught but a distant memory. Even he though was possessive, protective, as if owning her.
What she owned were her choices. Some were regretful, though she felt most were for the betterment of her family, her life. Some had brought her sorrow, others joy. The choice of losing herself in a bottle or two of wine had very much brought her regret the following day.
