elyridis:
the curse that escaped eleanor made her glad that learning ancient greek had gone out of fashion a long time ago. her jaw clenched painfully as her fingernails dug into her palms. she bent down, her shoulder softly colliding with the other’s as she regarded the damage. something twisted painfully in her stomach as she closed her eyes. ‘ ‘ oh fuck, ’ ’ she muttered, the very idea of proper, ladylike behaviour vapourised by her temper. her hand was hesitant as she reached for the other’s arm, offering — solace? a shoulder to cry on? emotional support? perhaps all of it. ‘ ‘ i’m so sorry, here, ’ ’ she trailed off as she offered a lace-hemmed handkerchief to the other. ‘ ‘ fuck, it’s such a pretty chair. ’ ’
It had been handmade, a gift from an old customer about a hundred years ago. Sentiment clung to it like a second skin as did the intent of happiness that was woven in each intricate little wood burn into the chair. She had been foolish to set it outside her shop in the first place when it held such value to her but Inneia spent most of her time by the table outside, reading cards or books and waiting on customers and she liked sitting in it. And the lady that made them had been dear to her heart, too. Her hand shook as she tried to place the stick back where it belonged, though she noticed more cracks along the chairs legs, a tear in the delicate sky blue silk that protected the plush inside. She sniffed and wiped her tears away angrily with the back of her hand. It could be restored, probably. Hopefully. ❛ Thank you, ❜ she said to the lady beside her, though didn’t take the offered lace. ❛ It is. It’s very old, too. ❜
