[ iris&hermes. ]
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rainbows falling from her eyes
.
His voice is stuck somewhere in between, she thinks—it's a liar's voice, rough and smooth, stiff from the little white fibs stuck into every conversation. And she hates it, because a messenger is supposed to tell the truth, not the sticky words that just form one big lie—he's supposed to be like her, a voice so obviously pure, a voice of an innocent child—though she is far from innocent, admittedly. He is supposed to tell the truth.
(—how dare he ruin that selfsame truth?)
And she always comes second to him—because he is Hermes, son of Zeus and trickster and patron of traveller and messenger and liar, and she is just Iris, from who-knows-where, daughter of where-knows-who, and goddess of rainbows—a simple deity, and she is barely the messenger of the gods like he is.
.
She is surprised when he spares time out of his day for her, coming up with his messy hair and wild eyes, every inch a liar, but she stops what she's doing and listens anyway, because he's a higher Olympian.
When he starts weaving a lie—a blatantly obvious one, she walks away.
(—how dare he consider her stupid!)
The rules are meant to be broken, after all.
.
He comes running after her, asking what's wrong, and she flinches when she hears his voice, his scratchy-velvet voice like sandpaper against her exposed skin, rubbing it raw until she feels like screaming.
(—how dare he hurt her like this, with his ugly lies?)
So she goes to a level lower than low, and says-sobs, "Liar."
.
He is left with a rainbow-girl running away from him—and the feeling that lying, perhaps, is wrong.
(—how dare he only realize that now?)