March 2026

Impossible Colors by E. Boleyn

There is darkness.

As we sit, teacher says, “I honor the light in you, the same light that’s in me.”

I cherish this, learned late but not too late.

But there is also darkness.

The dragon within me rises up, angry at being too often shut in. He’s not native to this cave in the earth, inhabitant because I ask it, yearning for the sun.

The kraken inside also rises up, protective. Once loosed, she swims the night sky, dipped in ink trailing from tentacles of stars.

They are my monsters. They are of me, in me, the losses, griefs, fears. My rage. Also, the space between, the quiet, its wisdom. The will to create.

I’ve learned not to try to imprison or destroy them. Such misguided impulses are born of desperation and best ignored.

Sages teach that darkness cannot be extinguished, it is twinned with light. Existing between them, here, we find our lives as a diurnal world shifts around us.

Perhaps we trap ourselves in binaries because we evolved amid day and night. Our minds make of that contrast proxies for joyful and sorrowful, good and wrong, yin and yang, life and death. Female and male. For humans to persist, there must be the two, but we are not limited to only the two. The biological requirements for our replication do not have social requirements. We create those.

Byakko, suddenly speaks up without preamble as he often does when I’m sleepless, dragon voice sounding in my bones, “This will seem a familiar tale, yet I assure you, it is not.”

He’s offering to tell me a story. I find his stories generally wonderous, so I lie back on the kraken’s coils to listen.

“You have heard of Persephone?” He gestures with the question, claws clicking.

“Let me see… a goddess walking in a field in daylight, minding her business, kidnapped for daring to wander alone. Starving, trapped in hell for half of every year forever because she gave in to eating a few pomegranate seeds.” I can’t help my tone. “Oh, and she visited her lack of discipline on non-equatorial humans by causing her mother to plunge them into winter—because women are always responsible for their loved-ones’ emotions.”

Byakko laughs, steam curling around his head. He has a sense of humor and has become accustomed to my rants. “Hmm, I do see that aspects of a poor telling would irritate you. Yes, Persephone travelled to the Underworld. But certain truths in this myth have been… avoided. For example, the cave with a hidden gate was not external but within her. And Hades was not her kidnapper. Persephone had to descend to darkness to live as her other self.”

I regard him skeptically. “What other self? You’re just making stuff up.” Belatedly, I remember that all myth is, to varying degrees, made up. “Whatever,” I huff, “none of it really happened.”

He sighs, steam issuing more forcefully. “You do try my patience.”

“I’m aware.”

He retorts, “If this is boring you, I’ve other things to be doing.” He knows that insomnia at 3 a.m. is the perfect time to snare me.

Akkoro rumbles and shifts beneath me. Fine. I know what she thinks.

I relent. “Please, I want to hear.”

Byakko nods, great eyes blinking. “Very well—"

With Mother’s flowers twined into long hair that holds all the colors of ripening barley, Persephone rides far from home as she loves to do.

Today, she seeks the Ghillie Dhu in a birch grove deep in the forest. Demeter tends the fields and the fruits and lets the leafed places go wild as they require. Here, Persephone needn’t worry about her mother’s over-watchful nature.

She is elder to the lost children whom he helps in his chaste and loving way. She sings to him, wondering if he will show himself at all now that she is grown, for he is shy.

After she has walked an hour, mosses undulate, leaves shiver. A few speckled toadstools fall aside as a shape rises from the forest floor. She sees an owl’s face, a deer’s antlers, a shaggy body with rooted feet.

“A worthy song, child.” He opens his human hands, verdant sleeves falling back. “Will you take tea?”

She accepts as she has many times before. They sit. His tea is bitter and sweet, roots, leaves, and honey.

He eyes her. “It has been a time. I thought you’d not come again. Grown ones do not seek me.”

She shrugs. “Sixteen is not so old.”

“Even among Olympians, no one past thirteen summers can perceive me. Any who say that they do are relating a memory.”

“Guardian, I have kept an aspect of myself a child.”

He peers at her keenly. “Where?”

His attention is so literal, as though he would even go through her pockets, it makes her smile.

With emphasis, she replies, “I think of him… as if waiting in a cocoon.”

Sitting back, the spirit of the forest smiles. “Ah.”

“Mother won’t hear of him nowadays. When I was younger, she said that it was normal for little children to create an imaginary friend. In time, I stopped trying to explain. Father… well, he is not someone I see. There is no one I know like me, to whom I would make sense.”

Her former teacher of forest lore taps on his cup. “Demeter keeps your world small. Tell me more.”

“In the dark of night, I speak to him, try to comfort him.” She gestures to her hips, her breasts, with distaste. “When this happened, he became almost inconsolable. I can transform into other creatures, I should be able to choose my form, yet I remain always she.”

He stands, paces. “Hm. Would you change altogether? Yield this form forever in favor of another?”

Persephone stares into the cauldron that bubbles without fire, Guardian would never endanger the trees with flames. “I know it is not the way of nature, but I would be both, were it possible.”

“Not the way of nature?” Guardian’s tone sharpens. “Creatures exist between, as both, or shift.” Softening, he adds, “Remember, I taught you that many plants are monoecious—two sexes in one house.” He gestures to a mighty pine behind him.

It comes back to her now. “I must have forgotten that lesson.”

“I have a thought. You could visit the Underworld. That uncle can help you. I think he will be inclined to do so.”

“Hades?” she exclaims, surprised. A memory flashes, being tossed in the air, laughing, and a sudden longing takes hold.

Guardian slow-blinks. “I can help you open a way. Understand, a journey of this magnitude would take time. Your Mother will weep when she cannot find you. There may be… consequences.”

“If I tell her, Demeter will stop me.”

He fusses over emptying the last of the tea into their cups. “To travel, you would need to shed your body for the duration. I would watch over it here, keep it nourished for your return. Think on it. I will be here if the time comes that you are sure.”

A sureness has already come to Persephone. “Now,” she says softly, “could we do it now?”

The golden glow of his eyes shifts. He sways back and forth slowly on rootlike feet. His feathered ears twitch. He says, “This requires a somewhat different tea.” He brings forth a snail-shell whistle and calls out upon it.

After its note, silence holds in the forest for a suspended moment.

Hummingbirds, mice, and rabbits begin to whisper into the glade, each bearing a leaf or flower or mushroom to drop into Guardian’s stone cauldron, leaving just as quietly. He stirs. The cauldron begins to steam again.

“Go choose something of a single plant that speaks to you,” he instructs Persephone. “Bring it to me.”

She wanders, thinking this one, then seeing that one beyond, again and again. At last, she finds herself before a broad linden tree. A cluster of blossoms, white, cream, and grey, detaches and drifts downward. She steps to meet it, catching it on her palm.

When he takes if from her, Guardian smiles. He lets it fall into the cauldron. A bird whistles a single musical note from above when it touches the liquid. “Just so,” he says, pleased. He gestures beyond the fire, and Persephone perceives a small, round hut of wattle and daub.

“Was that here all along?” she exclaims. She knows that Guardian does not dwell indoors.

He chuckles. “Folk see what I deem safe. You may look inside.”

Woven willow covers the dirt floor, flexing beneath her feet. Tidy, with shelves built into the walls bearing small jars and bundles, it appears to be his storage for medicines. A basket holds folded blankets of undyed wool.

“You will be warm, dry, safe. No predators enter my space to feed.” He holds out her cup again.

This brew tastes noxiously bitter. She swallows it without complaint. After, he hands her a bit of sweet bark to chew upon.

“Better,” she says, taking a deep breath as the acrid taste dissipates.

Guardian hands her two river pebbles, smooth, flat, reddish brown. “For Charon’s obol. One in your mouth for the journey in—do not swallow it, one in your pocket for the journey out if you do not find another way.”

“These are stones, not coins.”

“Are they?” He sounds amused. “You will find them to be what you need. Come now, lie down before the concoction takes effect.”

Wrapped in the blankets, surrounded by the scents of green things, Persephone finds it easy to still her mind. “Thank you, Guardian,” she says reverently before placing one pebble in her mouth and closing her eyes.

He makes a pleasantly dismissive sound and begins to sing.

Persephone doesn’t understand his words. Perhaps, like him, they come from a faraway place to the north. The melody floats above a distant sound of drums.

Her breathing slows, not by her initiative. It frightens her, then she remembers that he would never do her harm. In the reddish dark behind her eyes, she begins to see the outline of a cave mouth. She draws closer, sees a gate draped with chains. When she touches the metal, it becomes molten and flows away, leaving the way clear.

Each heartbeat takes longer to come than the last until blackness drops over her like dark wings, feathers whispering against her skin.

“Ah, Nephew↔Niece, be welcome to my home.”

“Uncle.” Persephone startles at the changed sound of his own voice. He loses speech altogether and croaks like a raven for several breaths. The chamber, everything in it appears monochrome in the silver glow of light that comes from no sun or moon or torch. He lifts his hands and looks at them. He sees that his hands are not raven claws. Voice returns, “How did you recognize me?”

Hades shrugs, lounging in his large chair that many have called a throne. “Seph,” he chides, “I see inside. All your aspects are visible to me.”

At the sound of a favorite childhood name, Persephone finds his eyes full of tears.

His uncle gestures to a fearsome head resting in his lap. “Typhon sensed your journey and alerted me.”

The head lifts. Movement reveals a massive neck and body in the shadows of the throne, a dragon, wings folded, scales glittering in the contradictory light. “Cousin,” the monster rumbles, “did you not wonder why Kerberos lay down and slept when you stepped from the boat? You have a way with animals, but that creature would still try to consume you. I lulled him so that you might pass.”

Having no memory of the river, the shore, the beast, Persephone bows, “I am grateful, Cousin.”

Typhon chuckles. “There is no debt.” He uncoils, a susurration of scales. “I must go find my supper.”

Persephone expects a rush of great wings, an expanding flight, but the dragon shrinks and vanishes into a point of silver, a flash.

Hades stands, tall and comely in a sharp way. “You’ll want to see my library.”

They walk vaulted halls, labyrinthine. Soon disoriented, Persephone breathes more quickly in apprehension.

“Fear not.” Hades says, “I will give you means to navigate.”

In time and many turns, they come to a set of mirrored doors so tall that the tops cannot be seen. Before them, reflected, next to Hades’ imposing form walks a slight young man with hair the variegated shades of moonlight, elsewise of the same countenance as she who began the quest. Clutching hands to his chest, Persephone feels flat muscle there. Yet, looking in the mirror remains looking within to the known heart and mind.

Hades’ arm falls about his shoulders. “Where I rule, you will see that which has been hidden. Around you, inside you. Secrets seek the darkness for safety. Here, there is no reason to hide.” With the other arm, Hades throws open the doors. They enter a library so vast that Persephone immediately comprehends that it has no other end, only stars visible in the mad distance above and beyond.

Shades pass among the shelves, some carry books or scrolls. Persephone looks up into his uncle’s face.

Hades returns the quizzical gaze, kindly. “They are on about their own business. None will harm you or beg boons. While you explore, I shall compose a worthy rumor to explain your absence.” He appears to relish the idea. “Matters among my siblings have been too quiet of late.”

He presses a large, black pearl into Persephone’s hand. “Keep this about you. With it, you cannot become lost. Oh, and you needn’t eat or drink here, you will feel no hunger or thirst. Partake only for pleasure.” His smile grows broader. “There are rumors that when you do, you become somewhat attached to my realm.”

“Is it true?”

Hades snorts lightly. “I would never hold you here against your will.” He kisses Persephone on the cheek. Scents of woodsmoke and night jasmine drift around him.

The touch causes a shudder, a confusing sensation of pleasure and apprehension without fear, felt differently in this body than the one left on the other shore.

“However, Seph, because you have left a living body behind, you must join in my evening cup of ambrosia. I like to take it in the gardens beside my prized white poplar. Anyone you ask will direct you.”

Persephone watches the cape, darker than black, swirl and eddy in Hades’ wake as the double doors part and thunk solidly behind him.

He does not recall ever thinking of his uncle—affectionate and entertaining to a small child who used to be freely permitted to play with him—as attractive. But being seen, truly seen, is itself exciting. Perhaps that suffices to explain.

The scents of vellum, paper, and ink pull Persephone to walk among the shelves, boggled by the sheer amount of knowledge, observation and opinion alike, that must be archived here.

A philosophy said to exist in Ma’at’s own hand comes to mind. Before Persephone can look about for an index of the library, a shade appears carrying a thin folio inscribed with, The Scales of the Balance of Wisdom.

He accepts it reverently, then speaks to the shade, a woman too young and healthy to have died naturally. “I know the Declaration of Innocence by heart, but this work was said by Zeus’ own archivists to be lost.” He searches her face. “I suppose, when one has murdered the artist, one might try to determine what of their art will survive and what will not.”

“It is difficult to murder a goddess, and even harder to extinguish her work,” the woman replies, with a canny smile. “I hope that you enjoy your forbidden fruit.” Briskly, she walks away.

Wishing for a place to sit and having seen none in the entry or the stacks, Persephone suddenly finds himself in a bedchamber, appointed with silvery hangings and pillows. After recovering from the startlement of instant travel, he looks about. Besides the inviting bed, the room also holds a writing desk and chair, pegs on which to hang clothing, a table with a vase of blooms, and a chaise. A placard rests on its high back. Penned in strong script, it reads simply, “For you, Seph.” He huddles there and commences to read.

Byakko heaves a dramatic sigh. “Were I not absolutely committed to truth-telling, I’d skip this reading part.”

Laughing, I reply, “You know I adore books.”

He rumbles, “It makes the story… uncinematic.”

I snort. “These events took place two millennia before cinema would be a consideration.” The numbers on my watch stare back, glowing red, 3:09. Has it been so few minutes? I know dragons have a power to compress time, but I’m always surprised anew. “Please, Byakko, don’t lose the momentum.”

His grumbling in reply is a requirement of his art. He cannot simply disappear into a tale. He’s a star, not a character player.

A muscular tentacle curls past me and smacks him lightly in the face. In our own ways, we have both spoken.

“Very well. As long as neither of you is bored.”

On the third day, Persephone asks his uncle whether he might have a chore to be useful. Hades assigns him to the stables two hours a day.

Day upon day, Persephone grows familiar with Hades’ palace and grounds. He meets ordinary folk, a few suspected deities, several heroes—the latter being those who immediately give their names with emphasis. There are flora and fauna of the usual and monster sorts, all of them easy for Persephone to befriend.

He reads, mucks out a few stalls and feeds the beasts, enjoys the baths, walks, thinks. Each evening, he shares a cup of ambrosia with Hades, as he would with Demeter back home. He is not inclined to eat or drink anything else. Each day passes in this comfortable rhythm.

He regains his balance in this differently-weighted form. His shoulders straighten and his chest expands. No one corrects his posture or instructs modesty. He stands with his feet further apart. He walks where he will. No one follows him unwanted. He laughs more easily.

It makes no sense that with their powers and freedoms, the gods, and particularly the goddesses, would insist upon a hierarchy among themselves that places one sex above another.

One afternoon, when he knows the audience chamber for supplicants will be empty, he goes to find his uncle. Hades is alone and, unexpectedly, arranging flowers. Persephone watches for a few moments from the shadows, trying to decide whether or not to intrude. He realizes that the arrangements in his room might have been made by these hands.

“Come out, Seph,” Hades calls, good-naturedly, placing a last iris into the glass.

“You looked so peaceful, I wished not to disturb you. Might you have a bit of time to speak with me?”

The tall figure turns. “Time for you? Always.”

Feeling a pang for the words, Persephone tries to explain. “As far back as I can remember, I have felt as though a parallel me is trapped inside. I endeavored to describe this him-self to some few. Mother insisted that I put aside my imaginary friend and above all, stop talking about him.”

A flash of rage lights Hades’ face but his body is still as a tall rock in a fleeting storm. “To what effect?”

“Other than not being believed, it did not matter much when I was a child. I was mostly allowed to behave as I would. But as I grew, I was instructed to behave in what felt like unnatural ways because girls must, women must. I began to shrink myself, speak more softly, mind where I go and when, stop doing certain things that I loved to do, hold my head just so when listening. I knew I would never truly fit in my mother’s world, but I tried. Yet, this shadow never left me. Finally, I went to Guardian and, risking Demeter’s retaliation, he helped me come to you. When I arrived in your realm in this aspect, I thought it must mean that this is my true form.” Persephone pauses, hating that his voice is wavering.

Hades regards him compassionately, waits.

Reflecting upon his uncle’s exceeding patience, Persephone continues. “Over the days, now weeks, I perceive that as I adapt to this form, my mind is the same as it ever was, but my actions are not. Others’ actions toward me are different. What if I were to act this way in my usual form? Is it possible that I hate being her not because of who I truly am but of who she is required to be?”

Hades sighs. “If this were not part of your true form, it could not be your shade. But do not mistake it for the whole. It might be, it might not be. That is for you to discover. Here, you have all the time you need. I hold no expectations.” He looks directly into Persephone’s eyes.

The love felt is overwhelming. Without thinking, Persephone runs to embrace Hades. For what seems a long time and yet too little, he enjoys safety and calm in the embrace. Then, something else blossoms in his chest. He raises his face and brushes his lips against Hades’.

Softly, Hades accepts and returns the kiss, a hand rising to cradle Persephone’s jaw. But when Persephone would deepen it, Hades pulls back, his smile wistful. “Seph, although we Olympians have never much heeded degrees of family in our affairs—your parents, for example—this is not a time for you and me, as much as we might be inclined.”

Feeling the hot rush of embarrassment, Persephone begins to slip out of the curve of Hades’ arms.

Hades catches him close. “Do not take it back. You are so very dear to me, and someone in all the many realms must be a source of acceptance for you without the other entanglements.” At last, he releases Persephone and walks to the window. “I do think it is time you took a lover here. Which will not be me.” He emphasizes the last with a stern finger raised.

“I would not know where to begin. As my mother’s Kore, this has been forbidden.”

“I have opinions, of course,” Hades replies, dryly. “I will keep them to myself. For the one concern that has any merit, suffice it to say that no offspring are conceived in my realm, the flow of time here does not allow it.”

“I have not met anyone here who… well, never mind. I will consider what you have said.”

Hades clasps Persephone’s face and kisses him between his brows. “There. I have marked you. It will make you visible to more shades and protect you if any happen to be in a hostile mood. Thus,” he adds with a mischievous smile, “you will have more choices. Now be on your way,” Hades urges with evident affection. “I will see you for the evening cup.”

At first, Persephone feels shame each time he thinks of Hades turning aside his advance. But in their shared time, his uncle behaves as before, and so Persephone lets the embarrassment fade.

Left undiscussed with Hades are the explorations Persephone has undertaken for the past year—at home and here as well—of what joy could be had alone. With Hades’ endorsement of partnering and promise of safety in mind, Persephone looks upon the other shades with new curiosity.

Over the next six days, he finds, and thoroughly enjoys, the attentions of several others. Persephone takes care to explain his temporary presence and his explorations, mindful that especially here, under the graces of Hades, truth is required.

Each partner avidly repeats the experience. There seems to be no sense of the future, of abiding relationships.

On the seventh day of these adventures, Persephone awakens feeling strange. As he throws back the sheets, he realizes with a shock that a transformation occurred in the night. His body has reacquired its former characteristics.

Having dressed, walking to the great library and seeing her reflected back, Persephone braces for that familiar feeling of being trapped. It does not arrive. She goes about her day.

She schools herself not to curl inward, not to move or speak differently than she has been.

The horses poke their soft noses at her as always, the hounds follow at her heels. Those known to Persephone give the usual greetings with recognition.

When she enters her uncle’s presence, he registers no surprise and makes no comment upon the change. Their conversation is both as easy and as pointed as ever, rambling over topics as they walk in his gardens.

Nyx arrives and Hades becomes distracted in a way that Persephone now recognizes. With a smile, she slips away.

In the afternoon, she seeks out one of her recent partners, Kyveli. The woman remarks upon the change, but it does not alter their attraction or what follows.

Persephone awakens the next morning as herself, having missed the evening cup with Hades for the first time. She rushes to dress and hastens to the audience chamber. It is empty but for Typhon.

“Worry not,” the great dragon yawns. “Missing one cup will not harm you. And your uncle has been well occupied with Nyx. I believe he is still asleep. Abed at least.”

Persephone comprehends a shrill of jealousy in herself. “I am ridiculous,” she announces to Typhon.

He peers at her with concern. “More than usual, tiny person?” he asks with humor.

“Good point. Is there anything that you require?”

The startlement on the creature’s face almost makes her laugh. “Hmm,” he rumbles. “It has been so long since any being has asked me that. I find that I cannot formulate an answer.”

She does laugh then. He joins. Any regular person coming upon the scene would flee in terror.

Another day, a shade in the guise of an exceedingly handsome youth catches up to her on horseback on the great plain. “Persephone! Are you avoiding me?”

She pulls up. “Zale! I imagined that you might not be interested now.”

He squints at her. “What in our conversations would lead you to think that I am so narrow?”

She shrugs. “Perhaps the entire world from which we hail?”

She does not let on that the time spent with him in the tall grasses that afternoon is her first experience as a woman with a man. She finds it as much to her liking as everything else she has sampled here.

Persephone awakens in the morning as him. He seeks Hades in the gardens. Beneath the favorite tree, a table has been prepared, and an empty chair awaits across from his uncle. “You knew I would come just now?”

“Forgive me for being scarce,” Hades says, pouring water for himself. He gestures in query with the pitcher.

“Please.” It will be Persephone’s first drink of anything here but ambrosia. It is a risk, but he believes Hades’ pledge. “Your guest is compelling,” Persephone says with a wide smile, taking a sip. “I understand. Nyx and I have become friends—just friends,” he hastens to add, raising his hands in mock defense.

“You have taken my advice about having guests of your own.”

“Perhaps not coincidentally, I have begun shifting between forms.”

“Then, you have the answer you sought in coming here.” Hades regards him with kind eyes.

“Do you prefer me one way or the other?”

“You are you, Seph. I prefer you.”

The answer, given without guile, almost brings him to tears. He diverts attention. “Why do you suppose darkness is regarded as something fearsome, evil?”

Hades selects a pomegranate from the bowl. “The simple answer might be that humans lack night vision, predators take advantage. That does not affect us. Going beyond that simplistic answer, our kind and humans often fear looking into themselves. When we focus inward, it seems dark there, does it not?” With strong hands and sudden, easy force, Hades splits the pomegranate.

Persephone gasps. Within the flesh, seeds gleam scarlet, vermilion, cinnabar, purple, the first colors seen since slipping into trance in the forest.

“Now,” Hades says, “I will share the ruse. Hecate and Helios ran to your mother some months ago—in earthly time—to tell tales as planned. One said, and the other corroborated, that I rose in my chariot from a hellmouth and snatched you while you were innocently picking flowers. Demeter has been in mourning since, punishing the earth, making various appeals to Zeus.”

Shocked at the idea that months have passed for Demeter and the sunlit world while having abided mere weeks here, Persephone listens, guilt settling heavily over his shoulders at the thought of Demeter’s grief.

“In order to dispatch any obligations upon you as a former maiden, they allowed her to think that I have likely done more than imprison you.” Hades looks extremely amused. “As though I would ever force a person—including by disguise, too much drink, or deceit. What is death if not liberation from lies?”

“Uncle, this entire ruse is a lie. I came here on my own. I will tell her.”

“My relationship with your mother is fraught. She loves you and is given to extreme demonstrations. She ought to know that I would never do you harm but apparently, matters between my sister and me are worse than I had thought. Defending me, Nephew↔Niece, will not produce the desired effect.”

Persephone smacks a palm on the table. “But I—not you—wanted there to be more between us.”

Hades’ expression turns rueful. “Ah, yes, things desired that were not explored. Life sometimes requires that of us.” He flicks loose several seeds.

Persephone regards them with simmering anger. “I am to eat those?”

“You need not. I only offer that it will be easier to tell a truth to your mother which aligns with my fiction.”

Their eyes meet. There is much there, too much for quick words.

“You have not eaten or drunk since you arrived beyond sharing our evening cup and now, two sips of water.” He sweeps a hand at the laden table. “You withstood temptation as Demeter taught you. Finally, you chose life.”

“But the cup—"

Hades sets aside fruit and knife. “My sister need not know that I shared my cup to sustain you. She believes that once you eat of this food, you must return to me each year. A useful misconception. I promise, Seph, that you will always be free to come and go.”

Persephone stares at the seeds. “Let us say that I am willing to play along. It remains that I want her to know who I am. I suspect she will not hear it, that she will, at best, continue to ignore this part of me. Still, I must try.”

“I would like to think that Demeter, even in her obsession with the proper ways of ages past, is wiser than that. Should your worry prove true, my fiction is even more useful. You may be both in her world and here, as you need, for respite.”

Persephone struggles with desire to climb into Hades’ chair and kiss him. Instead, he reaches across the table, catches up the seeds, eats them. A burst of redolent flavors, tart

Awakening in Guardian’s hut, Persephone spits out the pebble and sits up.

“Ho!” says Guardian, holding out a cup, somehow already prepared. “Successful, were we?”

Persephone accepts and drinks thirstily. He becomes herself, and then himself again.

“Excellent!” Guardian helps him to his feet. “Are you homeward bound?”

“It is time to reckon with Demeter. Delaying will not change the outcome.” A sorrowful thought occurs. “This is the last time I will perceive you?”

The owlish gaze reflects like a mirror.

Persephone already knows. “I ask now, and will await your answer—how may I be of use to you, Guardian?”

The answer comes quickly. “A school. Without entrance fees and not only for boys. Mathematics, art, languages.…”

“Will you teach medicine?”

Big hands clap together, “Just so.”

“What has Foul Hades done to my beautiful daughter?” Having rushed in at her herald’s call, stopping short of embracing her child, Demeter stands gazing in horror.

“I am here, safe.” Persephone shifts to the familiar form, then shifts back. He fights the desire to curl his shoulders and soften his voice. Mother looks wild, unslept, unkempt, and the temptation to soothe her is powerful.

Storm clouds gather. When Persephone left, it was not within Demeter’s power to change the weather. She had always depended upon Zeus to favor her crops. Not so now.

Persephone nods to the thunderheads. “Yes, rage has its uses. I have missed you and so, I have… been allowed to come home.” He wants more than anything to embrace her, this generous but difficult, stubborn person. Nearly always, when they fight, he apologizes first. He never wanted her to suffer but his quest was necessary, and he will not apologize for it. “It pains me that you were frightened.” He opens his arms and takes a step toward her.

Demeter’s expression shifts from shock to love to something else, something ugly.

He knows, even before Demeter turns to walk back indoors. Over her shoulder, the goddess says, “I forgive my daughter for going into the fields alone, as I have warned her so many times not to do. She will always be welcome.”

Persephone watches her pass the astounded servants who had greeted him with joy. He nods to the stablemaster, who leaves to fetch his freshly watered, still-saddled horse.

He does not shift again until galloping across the Vale of Nysa. Dismounting at the hellmouth, she offers into it a bouquet of irises.

With extended silence, Byakko signals the end of his tale. I’m tired, but my mind feels clear.

Akkoro speaks, her deep voice echoing. “For those who are not children of gods, this is not possible. One can change only with great effort, not fluidly.”

“All fairy-stories involve the improbable,” Byakko grumbles back. “Otherwise, they would be fact-stories.”

I interject, “Hades’ acceptance is the most important lesson. We are weakest when we don’t feel we belong anywhere. Not everyone finds an understanding parent at the end of the rainbow. But somewhere, we belong. I can find my people. Thank you for this story, Byakko.” One’s dragon must be properly appreciated.

I realize something I haven’t noticed in all the years spent studying my monsters. I run my fingers over Akkoro’s nacreous skin, Byakko’s sparkling scales. They are, like Hades’ cloak, darker than the surrounding night, the blackest blackout, which is why I can always see them—Stygian Blue.

“You will always be free to come and go,” I say even though I might lose them to their freedom.

Seph voices my last thought before sleep,

There is light,

there is also darkness,

between them, every tint of grey,

beyond them, impossible colors.