Dromeda

We've got through the blackest darkness again. When the Queen who cannot be named remains. I'd like to think I helped a little. I think so. For months I've fed them. Toasted crumbs seem to be their favourite, which I make over an open flame fissuring just near me. Spit bread I get. And Stygian tea. I can spare both and they don't need much. For some reason they don't get anything, being from another lore. It's what I imagine to be dilicular in the upper world. When I feed them. Me too. We all have some. I so enjoy passing the crumbs through the bars. I have to get on my knees. They take them gratefully and share them round, the biggest one always giving me a nod. It's quite charming and gets me through what passes for a day here. I try to ignore the agonised screams of boulder rollers and fruit wraiths erupting from the dreadful hills and pools. I have to endure it. Endure the endless herding of wailing souls into internal pens and watch every devil and demon consummate. I hope the two rulers of this world have forgotten me. The loathsome king and his winter wife. It's been years since I was imprisoned, my once- beautiful face ravaged by penury and hunger. Now I imagine I would be unrecognisable to my kin, whom I am certain I shall never see again. Withered, leathern, a sack of marrow, this is my penance. My surrender. My exile from myth. The captives across from my cage stare at me. The feeling of night has passed and it is time to feed. Despite it being made of a dark moist flour spun by the spider wives, the bread is quite edible, more than most get here. Better to wither like this with my tiny friends from other tales than have filled the salted belly of the Kraken. Once the chained lady, now I'm caged forever behind the bars of Tartarus, feeding newborn harpies who like me fell into Hades from another time and myth.