Introduction to From Whence Came She: An Exploration of Pharasma and the Windsong Testaments
Edelgarde Midwyck, professor of theology and cosmology
Lepistadt University, Lepistadt, Ustalav
Before the birth of everything, there came an ending, to which only one survivor bore witness.
In an ancient time inscrutable to us who now live, a universe unknown met its end. Whether this realm exploded in an unquenchable fire, or found itself snuffed quietly out like a candle, none can say. All that remained scattered amidst the blackness of space, speckling the void with the dying embers. Nothing remained but she: The Survivor, the Lady of Graves, the Mother of Souls. She, who threads the weft and warp of fate across the centuries; who holds life and death in her hands, gathered the remnants of existence and began anew.
Her name is Pharasma, the First and the Last.
Pharasma’s role as mother to our universe may seem strange to those who do not know her. After all, is she not the goddess of death? Does she not author the final pages of our soul’s journey? Those more familiar with her worship know better; after all, she also safeguards the passage into life. Midwives invoke her name and bless their knives with water drawn from her holy fonts. A goddess of cycles, she sharpened her skills on the greatest birthing of all: that of reality itself.
What her role might have been in those days before, none can guess. After all, we have nothing to draw from, save the groundless assumption that this previous incarnation must have resembled the current. I have my own suspicions, as do dozens of my contemporaries, the scholars and ascetics who dedicate their intellects to untangling the riddle of what could have been. Personally, I wonder if the Pharasma we know and the one that traversed an all-consuming apocalypse eons ago were much alike at all.
Consider Nocticula: once a demon lord, she murdered her contemporaries and assumed their roles, stole their devotees and quite literally built her kingdom upon their backs. Now, she has transformed herself into something new – a goddess of freedom and redemption. Perhaps, like Nocticula, Pharasma transformed herself upon the death of what came before, changed into a deity to suit the season of creation and destruction. Perhaps, Pharasma once knew a time when life and death did not hang in the balance of her every word and gesture.
Of course, if we further explore my theory, one must then wonder what sort of deity Pharasma could have been, back in those unfathomable days. I can envision her as a young deity bursting with vigor and life, ushering the fragile souls of the unborn into the light, guiding the hands of those wise, skilled women without whose ministry so many would meet an untimely end. Perhaps she walked among the people, with bare feet and ruddy cheeks warmed by the sun of an ancient world. Perhaps then, her face was not haunted by millennia of shadows.
Regardless of what form she took then, I cannot help but imagine how devastating that moment must have been – the moment when Pharasma looked around herself and saw that she truly existed alone, swaddled in void, with no one but the vast, unknowable Outer Gods watching from beyond with hungry eyes trained on our little empty scrap. How brave of her to take that solitude and wrap it around herself like a mantle, mold it into a shape that we could call home, breathing life into the ash and embers of the things she’d loved and lost. As a mortal, it may not be my place to do so, but I cannot help but pity her.
Some of my contemporaries take it upon themselves to criticize my work. They feel that speculation of this sort leads to nothing but confoundment and consternation; I cannot help but disagree. What are they gods, if not reflections of ourselves? What does it hurt for us to imagine Pharasma not as an impersonal arbiter of our fates, but as a servant to our souls, and as keeper of the loneliest duties of all? How can we not grow closer to her, knowing that our penitent souls are the only brief company she keeps?