Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Why have you gathered us here, Pharasma?” Iomedae asks, passing her steely-eyed gaze over each of the nine gathered goddesses, one hand still on the hilt of her sword.

“Indeed- you rarely intervene in anything. Are you plotting something, Phara?” Calistria purrs, leaning forward on her hands. The movement causes the numerous wasp-shaped citrine hair clips woven into her braids to click against each other.

Pharasma tilts her head, the spider-web veil on her head shifting along with her long black hair. “I do not plot. I plan, I watch, and I act.”

Shelyn snickers into her elaborately-manicured hand, the sound uncannily like a dove’s calls. “Suuure you don’t, P.”

“Regardless of whether Pharasma’s actions may be defined as plotting, we still have not been informed of why we are here.” Iomedae points out.

“Rovagug stirs. He is not meant to stir, not for another two Ages.” Pharasma explains.

“Well, that was cryptically spooky and very unhelpful.” Desna sighs, wings fluttering and shedding tiny motes of light. “Typical Pharasma, I guess.”

“She’s trying her best to be plain with us, I’m sure.” Sarenrae chides, giving Desna a searing glare. “Don’t be rude.”

“Wait, does this mean I get to make a Rovagug-sealing device?” Brigh is practically vibrating with excitement, the gears ticking behind her eyes pinging loudly. 

“No, it does not, Brigh.” Alseta sighs, her long white hair fluttering in an unseen breeze. 

“Aww…I had so many ideas…” Brigh crumples, and Shelyn gives her a comforting pat on the back.

“I feel like my presence here is unneeded.” A spray of saltwater accompanies Gozreh’s words, flung from her watery form.

“It is not. All of us are meant to be here.” Pharasma raises her hands into the air, the bat-wing cape on her shoulders flapping. “Each of you will receive the child fated to be yours. These children will ensure that Rovagug remains within the Cage.”

With the snap of Pharasma’s fingers, eight skeletal psychopomps walk into the room, each dressed in a flowing maroon dress and a crown of bright red flowers, and carrying a sleeping mortal infant swaddled in black silk and spiderwebs.

Without another word, each catrina deposits their cargo into the arms of one of the gathered goddesses and leaves.

“You may not keep them forever. They will stay in your domains for a day, and then they must be returned to the surface of the Cage. I trust you to determine where.”

With that final declaration, Pharasma turns on her heel, and walks into her personal chambers.

The final child lies on her desk, in her carved-bone out-tray. Unlike the other eight children, he is awake and alert, eyes fixed on Pharasma’s approach.

“Hello, Bruce.” Pharasma lets a rare smile cross her face. “I hope this is the last time we meet for a good long while, my Knight.”