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Eris sat alone at the small table in her portal room in the H.E.L.M., surrounded by books, the portal to the Athenaeum glowing behind her. She sipped tea, both hands on the cup, enjoying the blissful silence.
The main door opened and she saw Crow at the top of the stairs wave to something.
A tiny red light floated into the room and approached her.
The corner of Eris’ mouth quirked upwards in a small smile. She set aside her tea.
The Drifter’s ghost floated slowly to her in complete silence. It came within a few feet of her, eye level to her as she sat, and tipped downward in what Eris assumed was a ghost-version of a bow. Something white was tucked in between the pieces of its shell.
She held out her hand. The ghost lowered itself down to rest on her palm and shook while opening its shell slightly.
A note.
The other side of Eris’ mouth also quirked up into a smile.
She took the note with one hand while holding the ghost in her other. Her thumb brushed along one of its welded seams.
You and me?
Dinner tonight?
8?
On that heap I call a ship?
Unaddressed. Unsigned. And yet, completely unambiguous.
The note was hand-lettered, the writing clean and neat, printed, not cursive. Eris wondered if he had written it out dozens of times to get the lettering so even and clean, or if his penmanship was that good. It could go either way with him. He would probably say he’s had a lot of time to learn how to… how would he phrase it… ‘write nice’... but would he have? Perhaps. She would have to gather more evidence to determine the answer to that question. This form of correspondence pleased her and she wished to encourage it.
Eris examined the writing carefully. Not a pen. A felt tip marker perhaps. Fine. The kind that would be able to write on glass or metal with just as much ease as paper.
The paper had weight to it. Card stock. Possibly for use as shipping labels or to slide into metal frames on the front sections of metal drawers. The medium was functional, but unblemished. Clean. No stains of grease or smudging. Carefully prepared.
There was room for her answer on the back, but Eris was loathe to give away the only sample of his handwriting he had ever given to her. She tilted her head.
…what’s it like?
Perhaps he might feel the same.
She ran her thumb along a different welded seam on the ghost in her hand. It briefly froze, and then tilted and leaned into her finger, clearly unused to such tenderness. She placed the note down on the table and put her other hand around the ghost, cupping it, gently lifting it, and then placing it upon the table next to the note and her teacup.
She held up one finger in front of it. It rose an inch above the table surface and tipped its front down in a nod, waiting.
Eris reached behind her and pulled out a piece of hive leather from the cupboard along with a sharp stone.
Too large.
She used the stone to cut the leather into a piece slightly smaller than the palm of her hand. She trimmed the edges so they would not be sharp and then turned it over in her fingertips. Small enough for a ghost to carry, but large enough to be an object which might bring joy to be touched, caressed, kept as a memento. He absolutely would keep it. He could be ridiculously sentimental when he allowed himself to be.
She put the larger piece of leather aside and held the sharp stone above her newly created stationary.
I accept? No. Too formal.
I look forward to it? No. Too eager.
Challenge accepted? Playful, but not quite what she wanted for this situation. No.
He would like that response, and it would match the coyness of his note. But, Eris was not feeling coy. She did not wish to simply call his bet, she wished to raise it. Something weighted, then. A message which could have layers of meaning, like its intended recipient.
Eris smiled fully.
Deep cuts with the stone, not enough to slice through, but heavy with the weight of emphasis. He would notice. He would run his fingertips across the cuts and feel their depth, sense the even, deliberate strength of the incisions indicating, in turn, the strength of the response.
One word, cut in sharp angles. No ambiguity and yet, ambiguously applicable to more than just the stated invitation. He would catch his breath. His hands or perhaps even his spine might tremble. He would wonder if it were the answer to more than the question he had asked. He would hope it was.
yes
Eris put down the stone and turned the piece of leather containing her response in her hands, imagining she were receiving it. She felt the weight of it, both physically and emotionally. Yes. This was imparting what she wanted it to convey.
She looked down to the mutilated ghost watching her work.
…you’re beautiful. Not in spite of the scars, because of them…
She held out her hand. The ghost floated over and gently rested in her palm, letting her feel its weight as it looked up at her. She took the hive leather response she had composed in her other hand and extended out one finger, stroking each one of the soldered scars on the ghost’s shell. It shuddered and opened up, allowing her to slip the leather between its misshapen plates.
The ghost’s shell pulled closed again, gripping Eris' note, and it hovered inches above her hand, twisting itself and then confirming with a small bob that her message was secure.
Still smiling, Eris brought her hand back up to touch the ghost, gently tugging it to her lips and pressing a small kiss on the side of its shell.
It trembled.
She opened her hand wider and leaned back.
The Drifter’s ghost floated up and dipped its tiny body to her in the air, bowing, its red eye briefly glowing brighter. Then it wafted back reverently to the door.
It turned to looked back at her and bowed slowly once more in the air before it left the room.
Eris poured more hot tea into her cup and sat back in her chair, tea in one hand, her dinner invitation in the other.
She ran her fingertip back and forth along the surface of the note as she sipped and smiled.