The Twelfth Architect came by once more.
"Eva, my dear friend... I see your d-d-door has been enhanced. It took me... far, far too long to figure out how to open it," They said. "So I think it's working."
"However, I came to tell you that a while ago, I con-confessed my feelings to your mother... and she returns them." The Twelfth Architect said. "It has been... so lovely. So wonderful. I am likely at the happiest I have ev-ever been. So... Truly. Thank you for helping me re-realize my feelings-affections. You brought this into my life."
@twelfth-architect-official
Eva has been experimenting with making a cleaning rune just as Twelfth came in. At the sight of her friend-saviour's bronze shell she exploded into a smile, the dirty dishes swiftly abandoned in favour of greeting them proper.
"Welcome, Architect! It is a joy, as ever, to see you here. My apologies for not warning you about the door, I have been... otherwise engaged."
At their words about the confession – a successful one, as she expected, the Weaverkin lit up with delight. She half-ran, half-jumped toward the automaton, almost tripping from the speed difficult for her untrained legs.
"Ah, such joyous news you bring! My dear friend, I appreciate the gratitude but you undersell yourself. A genius engineer such as you is bound to notice the cause of your feelings... Even if I helped speed up the process."
She appraises them and starts to weave. There are no runes – simple craftmanship that feels more similar to sculpting than embrodiery. One may guess that for Eva, it is a tactile art more than a visual one.
Mere minute later, a tapestry appears before Twelfth. It depicts...
Two crests, interweaving. Theirs and hers. The intersection is shown with careful, precise stitches that show the overlap without muddling the identity of each nature.
"A gift from me, to celebrate the occassion. It is merely decorative, yet... I feel there is not much I can offer you that you both need and are unable to make."
What do you give to a bug who has everything? The tapestry – a blanket, a shawl, for it can be many things, bears no magic, no practical use.
It is beautiful nontheless.
Like love, in a way.