Shallow tombs, enough only to keep the dead from being eaten. When all are opened, everyone gathers, people appearing from the trees on all sides, brought together without signal. They speak the name of Cyzicus as he is pushed inside headfirst among the bones of his ancestors, dark place from which no one returns. Voices rising as Cleite is pushed in with him, a greater lament for the queen.

Jason standing at the entrance, first among mourners, first in worship of himself. Medea should join him, she knows, but she remains where she is, at a distance.

Every ritual should be at night, by fire. The day too solid and hard, nothing shifting or becoming, all made smaller. The Hittites burn their dead, and a king’s burial lasts for thirteen days. Immolated at night for every god and dark corner of the world to see, the fire extinguished with wine. His bones oiled and wrapped in a double layer of fat, something to be devoured. To provide a rich life afterward, perhaps, but it seems also a way to call the wolves. Hellhounds of Hekate, misshapen creatures of the weather god of the sea, and every other demon waiting to tear and scatter and consume.

This burial of Cyzicus only a body placed in stone, and another body, and another, stacking of firewood. Most ancient of rites, leading all the way back before memory, simple burial in a cave. But these people have no priestess to lead them, only a few old men wearing bones and mumbling to themselves, incoherent, making nothing from nothing. An old rite become too old, gods far away and sleeping, all their good work with Cleite reduced.

Slain Argonauts placed in their foreign tombs, Jason presiding, saying a few words. Each man apparently was the finest of all men, the bravest in battle and strongest, despite being so easily killed, and each a king in some land that must overlap or expand infinitely to make room for so many kings. Minyans liars, a people of outrageous words and no particular deeds.

Heat of the day moving in, all wobbling a bit as they stand, grown dizzy and bored, wishing Jason could have fewer words. And the dead are not great performers themselves. They lie there, then are stuffed away. A stomach grumbles, a few thoughts of food.

She sees now why her father hangs the dead from trees in untanned ox hides. Grove at the edge of the city never forgotten. Spinning in the breeze, sacks of flesh in the open air. Men eternal, associated with the sky, only the women forgotten below. Over time, the city will be ringed by the dead, and none will leave or enter without passing these strange cocoons.

Her father out there somewhere still, looking for the remaining pieces of his son, unwilling to hang only part of a prince.