Her father is gaining. Medea would have her oarsmen transformed, that fine dusting of gold, and she would have their oars ply air, the ship lift and sail free of water. She can feel the weight of the boat, pressing down into the sea, burying itself, a kind of grave, slowing. Her father’s sail lit by torch against black, straining closer, eager, following a track invisible and inevitable through veins of night. Cave journey, unseen walls. Quiet. The sea could be tilted downward and they wouldn’t know.

Medea clings to the stern and fears. She must drop another piece of her brother into the water, but she can’t be too early or too late. Too early and there won’t be enough of him to last. Too late and her father might not stop, might overtake and return for the remains.

Spear tips in the light, fifty cold metal slits glinting and disappearing and appearing again. She can see the curve of backs, her father’s men rowing. Their spears hugged close, ready. They’ve gone to war before. Their sail pulls at the mast, pinned above and below on its yards. Close enough now to hear the lower binding creak, close enough to see a man standing aft with his legs braced, holding a line thick as his arm to tug at a lower edge, to find the wind. Ponderous heaving of the sail, restless and bloated. Her father knows this sea better than the Minyae, knows the wind rises now just before morning. His helmsmen know not to work the rudders, know to let the boat slide free and gain momentum. The rudders beside Medea working too much, snaking back and forth, turned against each other, losing power and speed. These helmsmen afraid.

She can see her father’s hand on his spear.

I let him have me, she yells to her father over the water. Here on deck, in front of his sailors. The daughter of a king. Or what used to be a king.

She sees his spear and shield brought in closer.

In every land, we’ll show the fleece, and I’ll say it’s the only one. The robe of a king, and no king without it.

He raises his spear, pulls back and lunges with a roar. Thin line in that night, arcing, glint of light, starfall, and no way of knowing where the arc will end. But Medea opens her arms wide, makes herself as big a target as she can be, and laughs as the spear falls short, faint rip into water and gone.

I’ll save my brother’s heart and say it’s yours. I’ll say the king of Colchis is dead and any may have his land. I’ll hold your dried little heart and pretend to weep and say I loved my father but he was too weak.