Medea watches the sea disappear beneath the wooden keel. The home shores she knew well have fallen below the ocean's curve.

Evening, before the constellations rise; quiet every seaman's voice. Evening gives her peace. She whispers her crimes; the judgemental seabreezes bear them west. Her trespasses are heavy, unforgiveable, vile before heaven's throne. Her brother's dismembered corpse wanders the ocean's surface behind the fleet, sent waveward, scattered, unshriven, lest enraged Aeetes overtake her fleece-stealing, curly-bearded lover.

He comes behind her. She smells, over fishsmell, over tarsmell, over bloodsmell, the unbounded, regal scent she loves above every other. He touches, gently, her shoulder. "Medea," he breathes. Her eyes, her treacherous eyes, remember home, remember the hearthside laughter, remember her unmanned father, remember her beloved brother, remember everything forsaken, everything gambled, everything sacrificed. She keeps her eyes averted. He chases her face, kisses her neck, her ears, her shoulders. She shudders, shudders, watches the sea below. White faces are there, peeping, jeering beneath the waves. She cries, angered; the faces dissolve; Diane's serene, alien face ripples there below.

"Love, love," he whispers. She feels her love wither inside her. Something drier, like leaves, like fire, like patience, takes love's place, something speaking 'Power', speaking 'Revenge', speaking 'Life'. She leaves the eastern sea behind her, faces west, watches her brave lover smile.