She has let the fire fall and will never stoke it, simmering the king and ram. Heavy sop of his head and hair, pushed down to the bottom, held in place with the paddle, as if he might come up for breath and must be prevented.

Voices outside, some new disturbance, and Jason appears. White ghost come from some other realm, from the mountains of her home, peaks of snow. Cold breath of him, stone heart.

I have made you king, Medea says. Take what is yours from Acastus.

Where is Pelias?

In the stew, chopped into pieces by his daughters, trying to make him young.

What have you done, Medea?

Are you Acastus? Those were his words. Take your throne. Wait until the sun is coming, so they know Pelias has not returned, then claim what was taken from your father.

Jason steps closer, looks down to see his feet in ash and blood, thick red paste turning black, steps away again. You risked our sons, he says.

Yes. I risked everything. Don’t waste it.

We could have been slaughtered in our sleep.

He turns away, as he always does, leaves her. Cost of years separated, without rest, Jason and Medea foreign to each other now, and Medea can no longer remember. It may always have been this way. He joins the supplicants outside, entreating an empty moon as it falls beyond the mountains.

Last dark of Nute, only stars and cries of grief from daughters. Long night seemingly without end but then the sky has already lightened, a deep blue, and Medea waits for Jason to rise but hears nothing. She stirs the remains, fire gone but cauldron still hot. The sky pales, Jason as weak as his father, not claiming his birthright, so Medea throws the paddle to the ground, steps outside, leaves this room forever.

Iolcans, she yells. Pelias the thief, untrue king, without birthright, has been hacked into pieces by his daughters. Peisidike said she would make him young, as she did for the old ram, but apparently she wanted her father dead. Tyrant king, loved by no one, not even his daughters. So now you have a true king restored, Jason, son of Aeson, whose throne was stolen.

A hundred voices at once, everyone rising from the ground. Terror in all, because all need to be ruled. It is not possible to live without a king. No one wants a moment like this, the world unordered. They would put a goat on the throne before they’d leave the throne empty.

Jason light blue at dawn, the white dust of marble transformed. He looks like a god, cut from the air, emanating his own light. He raises his thick arms, shaped by the quarry, and finally there is only one other voice, Acastus, thin whining demanding the guards kill, but no voice of a king, and the guards wait, for now.