They raise the king and bring him his queen, puppet show from the afterlife. Refusing death, demanding ritual even if they have to carry the bodies themselves and move the limbs. Cyzicus as Cleite is brought into his arms. Lovers raised higher than the crowd, become giants, her arms around his waist, neck long enough now to hook over his shoulder. Her face dangling, openmouthed, lost in some other ecstasy. A hole in his back, her love so powerful it has eaten right through him. Jason straining on tiptoe to keep Cyzicus’ head from lolling.

Medea understands now this was their wedding day. A bridal dress Cleite wears, of linen brought from some better land, and a bridal wreath in her hair, and the bands at her wrists. She waited in her wedding bed as Cyzicus went to war, was left a virgin and chose to remain a virgin forever.

The death of Cyzicus not only at the hand of his friend but also on his wedding night, his bride waiting, and when she hears of his death, she tries to cross over to join him. Too beautiful not to have been planned, some irruption of gods into this common world to form a story to last not a hundred but a thousand generations.

Cleite, Medea says. Beautiful Cleite. Not some sad, small thing. Much larger than I thought. But you will still be alone. You will wander and never find him. The one he lay with first after death was me.

Medea wants all to know this last part of the story, the most beautiful and sad part that makes the rest, but of course no one will ever know. They carry the lovers now to their wedding bed, would give back what Cyzicus and Cleite have lost. Carried up the stairs holding each other close, let down gently to pass over the threshold, disappeared within to lie together. The sound could be of revelers at a wedding, not so different, a crowd weeping in joy rather than grief, the beginning rather than the end. Each part mirroring every other part, all repetition and pattern.

Small citadel and a people living the most important moment of their history. All who came before and all who will come after will be forgotten. Only this night matters.

Unremarkable sky above, stars appearing briefly then gone again, low cloud moving but no storm, nothing to mark the occasion. No howling of beasts in the wilderness around them. Gods working invisibly, mute shaping to go unnoticed, and perhaps it has to be this way. The story has to be about Cyzicus and Cleite and Jason and not about the gods. Cyzicus has to be the one who chose, not sent against his will, and Cleite has to have chosen also, when her time comes.