(Laerryn's cleaning her personal resting room for the first time in ages as a means of clearing her head. Post-divorce.)
On the corner of the room, a bundle of fabric sits around the corner away from view behind the side of a bookshelf. Upon closer inspection, she knows exactly what it is and why it's there. She picks it up, straightens it, holding it up by the shoulders --- a light purple and incredibly soft button-up shirt.
A soft smile comes to her lips as she recalls with precision the night when it ended up there. She had been the one to lure him into the room, to pull out his sweater, to unbutton his shirt and then toss it across the room away from view. She had him in this very room, on this intricate and expensive Gwessar-made rug, whose edge she now caresses with the toes of her boot, observing the colorful assortment of birds weaved into it.
She remembers him putting his sweater on inside out, she remembers the kiss he gave her before rushing out with his shoelaces still untied, late for an important meeting.
(She had convinced him to stay a while longer before, she always did, until the day she convinced him to leave.)
She shakes the dust off and stares at it for a moment, feeling the texture beneath her fingertips.
She then brings the fabric towards her face, jumping over any restraint she might've fancied herself in possession of, and inhales the familiar scent with a shiver --- the odd sweetness of his sweat and the fresh and woody Marquesian parfum she helped him buy while the city went over Sumer'Irel.
For the first time in a long while, she loses track of time, unaware of how long she stands there with his shirt pressed to her lips, holding the tears at a bay, feeling her muscles tense and tingle at the longing that shakes the meaty core of her soul. To have gotten this close to another person to know their smell, to tether it to all the wonderful moments they shared, how alien, how lovely, how tragic.
She pulls it away from her face against her desire, folds it as neatly as she can and looks for Dweomer in another chamber.
"Would you be so kind as to take this to Mr Seelie, D?"
It was rare for Laerryn to send her aeormaton in tasks outside of the labyrinth, even less something this mundane, but for some reason this felt too personal to entrust any stranger.
Dweomer's eyes flicker a different colour for half a second, the only means through which she could show emotion in her metallic face. Her original function was never to care for Laerryn, but she couldn't help the care and worry towards her that bloomed over the years.
It's curious how Dweomer's entrance into his office doesn't startle Loquatius even as she glides in without knocking. Despite the divorce, most members of the Herald's Tome took her presence with naturality and politeness, no doors were locked for Mrs Coramar-Seelie's the Architect's aeormaton.
"Good afternoon, Mr Seelie. I come in the Architect Arcane's behest to deliver this." Dweomer's movements are fluid and delicate as she places the shirt down on his desk in front of him.
Recognition comes instantly, he doesn't remember exactly when or where he had lost it, only that her hands were all over him the last time he had worn it then realizing he didn't know it had gone weeks later.
"My lady was cleaning up her secondary office, I supposed she came upon it while doing so."
"Oh," he breathes out with a weight of nostalgia in his voice, recalling the occasion he last had it on.
The somewhat awkward shape it has been folded into also strikes his memory, running his fingers along the collar. "Did you fold this?"
"No. She handed it to me as such, sir."
"Oh..." He can't help a smile. "Thank you kindly, Dweomer. Would you like a coin to munch on?"
She softly chuckles. "Thanks for your consideration, Mr Seelie, but I've been well sustained in the Labyrinth."
"Very well then. Have a good rest of your day."
Dweomer bows her head and makes her way out. In the process of watching her go, Loquatius notices several eyes looking through the glass wall of his office from their desks, curious about what could the Architect Arcane's automaton be doing here. Loquatius could almost be mad, had he not picked them out to work for him especially for that trait, their unbridled inquisitiveness.
Nevertheless, he gestures his hands up in a quick and simple glyph and the glass slowly fades darker which on the outside creates a mirror, but from the inside he can still observe them.
Finally in privacy, Loquatius takes a moment to hold up the shirt and be flooded with the memories. These days he gave more preference to his shiftweave garments, but individual standard pieces like this were the ones he used to wear at home, in her presence, times when there was barely any reason to change or hide.
Feeling resignation finally kick in, he unravels the shirt to hand it to Aria, have it washed, ironed, properly folded and placed into his inventory; then he spots it.
It would've been faint had the contrast in color not been this striking, but a smudge of red lipstick, barely the resemblance of the shape of lips sits on the inside of the shirt near the collar, an unlikely place for her to leave a mark back then.
He runs a pale finger across the border of it and red comes off on his fingertip, fresh.
It's embarrassing, the flustered mess he becomes at that. He hides his face inside the shirt for good five minutes --- picking up the faintest whiff of Issylran violet that any other person would never detect but him.
He collects himself with a deep sigh, folds it as neatly as he can and sends for Aria.
"Please, place this with... with my things."
He looks away, trying to evade her studious stare --- the more they know him, the less effective the masks become.
She wants to ask about the aeormaton, about the shirt, about his bewildered demeanour, but for somebody trained in the art of questioning, she's quite adept in keeping her mouth shut and her curiosity restrained.
