I wrote some Iris/Persephone, a ship that I’ve thought about a lot recently, though I’ve never seen it discussed or even considered before. It’s below the cut, if anyone would like to read it.
Exactly seventeen multicolored flowers led Iris to where her beloved sat on an ivory throne beside her husband. Flowers grew wherever her feet touched the ground, even in the fiery pit of the Underworld.
“King Hades,” she greeted, curtsying briskly, “and Queen Persephone. It’s been some time, has it not?”
Persephone smiled and Iris felt her heart explode into a thousand tiny lovelorn pieces. “Since I last visited Olympus, I believe.”
“You should come around more, your mother misses you dearly.” When you’re not around I feel like I’m suffocating remained unsaid.
It was then that Hades screamed. “We do not speak of my sister down here, in case you have forgotten.” His face matched the surrounding lava rocks in color. Persephone placed a dainty hand on his forearm and he took and shaky breath before closing his eyes and slumping in his throne.
“We should go,” said Persephone, standing up and adjusting her skirts. She was tall and and shapely and beautiful, everything that Iris wasn’t. Her long maple hair contrasted greatly to Iris’ short blonde curls, her smooth dark skin had looked like the night sky when placed against Iris’ pale freckles.
They walked to Persephone’s rooms in a silence that nearly strangled Iris. The trail of flowers that followed Persephone left her breathless, and she wanted nothing more than to pick them, weave them into a crown, and wear them forever. “What’re you thinking about?” Persephone asked. It was a sad attempt at conversation and they both knew it, but Iris answered anyway.
“Us.” It was a simple answer, yet Persephone stopped and turned to look at Iris. There was a storm in her eyes, a storm filled with thunder and lightning that Iris longed to avoid, but she didn’t look away. Persephone sighed and a look of resignation played upon her face when she realized Iris wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t repeal her statement.
“We were over a long time ago, Iris. I have a husband, three children-”
“Only one of your children is actually Hades’.” The spite in her voice angered Persephone, but she did not say anything, merely continued.
“-and a kingdom to run. I haven’t time for a lover.” She turned her back and continued walking, leaving Iris to run to catch up. Her flowers were an angry red - carnations, if Iris remembered correctly.
As Iris followed behind her, memories flashed through her mind in bits of bright color: Persephone’s lips against hers. Running through a field of flowers as more sprung up. Demeter’s anger. A hand tracing patterns on her inner thigh. A rose-tinted hyacinth. ἀπὸ τοῦ ἡλίου μετάστηθι. Stand a little out of my sun.
That is what Persephone had told her on her wedding day. “You need to stand a little out of my sun.” But what she said and what she meant were two different things. What she said: This is my day of radiance, please stand back and let me enjoy it. What she meant: Go away, stay away. I don’t love you anymore.
And later that night there were hands on her body as if nothing had happened. When one gets married, one is supposed to spend the night with their spouse. But oh, Persephone didn’t. She pressed Iris down on her bed and touched and kissed her until the only thing she knew how to say was Persephone’s name. That time was different, however. There was a sense of finality to it, as if Persephone was trying to apologize for leaving her while also firmly stating that it had to be done.
Without thinking, Iris raised her hand and placed it in Persephone’s hair. The other goddess paused for a second and began to turn around, but then stopped and continued walking, Iris’ hand falling limp behind her. “Don’t ignore me,” Iris said, and when Persephone didn’t answer she said it again. “Don’t ignore me, Persephone.”
“You must understand that I’ve no choice, my dear,” Persephone responded, turning to face Iris. “It’s not like I want to.”
My dear. The words cut into Iris like the thorns of a thousand roses. “Why? Am I the cloud in front of your sun? I love you, Persephone, and there was a time when I thought you loved me too.” Iris' voice was raised now. “You should know that I’d never do anything to hurt you, that you are my sun and my moon and my stars. I have to stand a little out of the way anyway. I don’t want to blind myself in your granduer.”
Vines of morning glory were climbing Persephone’s legs, an involuntary defense against Iris’ words. Persephone merely watched her for quite some time, examining her face and breathing deeply. Finally, when she spoke, it was not something Iris wished to hear. “You worship me. It isn’t good for you.”
Iris surged forward and pulled her close and buried her face in her hair. Persephone did not struggle, and when Iris reached up to stroke her face she let her. “I love you,” Iris murmured quietly, over and over and over again, until the words had lost their meaning on her lips.
The kiss was soft at first, gentle. Persephone’s morning glories were spreading to Iris, tangling her legs and slowly climbing both of them, binding them together. Though the twisted hall of the Underworld was definitely not the best place for this, it occurred to neither women to move.
Persephone had always been a fierce kisser, all teeth and wisps of peppermint on her tongue. But Iris was slow, passionate. She wanted everything and she took what she could, regardless of what Persephone offered. It reminded Iris of their first time together, back on Olympus all those years ago. At that thought she pushed Persephone away.
“I can’t do this, not like this,” she said, breathless. Persephone’s hair was ruffled and her face was red, a sight Iris had longed to see for years.
“And why is that?” Persephone asked.
“I do not wish to burn myself, not again.” She looked down and hoped Persephone would walk away, leave her in the dust, leave her to cry by herself before crawling back to Olympus like a wounded animal.
“I will leave you, then,” and she left swiftly, tearing the vines of morning glory behind her. Iris let out a sob when she felt the last vine break, but Persephone did not look back. She was out of her sun, the cloud that runs back to where she belongs after her final moment of fame.
It was only later that she realized the forget-me-nots growing from a scratch on her wrist, left from the tearing of the morning glories. A flower that did not require sun to grow. But her name was Iris, and she very much did.
