Asteropeia cleaves a shoulder, white bone and joint with pale membrane that catches the light of flame, some new life in Pelias, reborn of fire, no son of Poseidon at all. Tended still by a sea nymph exiled to a grim world of blood and ash. She works alone, hacking and grunting in shadow light, flinging one arm into the cauldron and then the other.

Medea stirs, dark stew that will fuse old ram and old king. Let muscle and vein connect, she chants in her tongue. Let the head of Pelias live within the stomach of the ram, let him scream and scream and never be heard, encased in flesh.

Arc of the ax flung over and over, wet slap into thick hams, severing a leg, torso turned downward into whatever might lie below and be seen without eyes. One legged, armless, headless, basted in ash, and his daughter works to free him. Peisidike! she yells again.

Acastus, Medea says. Peisidike must do what she did before. Why won’t she bring your father back to life?

Peisidike broken, held up by a guard, unable even to look toward the body, but her brother slaps her, grabs her arm and forces her to her knees. He shakes their father’s face in hers. Bring him back, he roars. Some blood of Pelias in him after all.

Peisidike given an ax, and she turns her head as she chops.

Hurry! Asteropeia yells at her. His blood is going cold.

Limbless torso turned on its side, and the sisters hack through flesh until they reach spine. A popping sound. Peisidike can tear through the last ropes of entrails now, last thin strands of muscle connecting his hips and groin to his back. Awaking to her task. She kneels close to slip the blade of a knife under his balls. Shriveled and coated in blood and ash, hidden, but she rips them free as Asteropeia crushes through ribs and folds his back in two.

Segmented king, faceless and neutered, returning to some earlier form. Summoned by his daughters. Slack scrotum searched for its two eggs, Peisidike’s tongue and teeth finding other wet flesh until she sucks in the first small orb and bites down, gagging, spitting into the cauldron.

Seed into the stew, Medea says in Colchian, barbarian. Fed to his daughters, and everyone will have a taste of this king, even the dogs. Demigod meat.

Scrotum a loose second chin for Peisidike as she searches with her tongue. Held in both hands, eyes closing, at the edge of the cauldron. Something Medea wishes Pelias could have seen. Peisidike grown from his seed and returning to the source. Plump young flesh wet in firelight, believing herself a priestess, favored, biting down a second time to crush what remains of kingdom, spitting and tossing this flap of skin to join the other parts.

Medea stirs.