Or perhaps they’re not allowed that yet. Perhaps they linger at some gate of stone, some corner in shadow, and bend toward each other, wanting to devour, held back, what she felt for Asteropeia. Jason with his fist in Glauce’s hair, biting her neck, feeling his spine. Medea replaced, all desire for her gone, no thought of his children, no thought of consequence. Because what will happen now?

Men never think of consequence. Given too much, and they believe all will be given still. But Medea knows, even in her rage, that she will take him back. When he returns and begs, what choice will she have? Father of her children, and all she has, alone, an outcast, unwelcome here.

They will leave, walk back toward Athens, perhaps, somewhere beyond the base of that long valley. A friend of hers, King Aegeus. She should have insisted they flee to Athens, not Korinth. Aegeus knew her father. Another king without a son, like Kreon, but an older king, softened over time. And no friend of Kreon’s. No bordering kings ever friends. He will favor her over Jason, has no daughter to offer. Something in him likes Hekate, knows darkness and despair and loneliness and older gods born from earth. Older world in him, someone who knew the previous king of the Hittites and a different pharaoh in Egypt.

He visited her temple to Hekate, at night surrounded by fires, came alone and wanted her. Old man and desire that he will not forget, no one to answer to and nothing left to lose in his final days. Athens more powerful than Korinth, and she will find shelter there.

Jason never does return. Helios appearing, pale light of Medea’s defeat. Husband lost, all sacrifices made for nothing. Something in her still believes he will cross that threshold, come in and kneel before her. Her willingness to forgive him, to take him back, how could that not be used?

Can one night mean so much?

Aeson and Promachus rouse in the light, push and grab as they wake, yawn and flop against her, innocent. To them, an easier night than any before. Easiest night of their lives. Feast and a comfortable bed, their mother to themselves. No mud hut, no sleeping on the ground or on goat hair. Waking in a new place to explore, no longer slaves. Hungry, and slaves are listening outside, appear through the door at the first sounds, bring figs and honey, bread and cheese and milk, set a feast on a long table against the wall.