Chapter Text
"She, who will destroy the Dark Lords, whatever colors they wear, bides her time, until she deigns to appear. The Dark Lord who is proudly dark shall fall first, and they shall falsely credit a child, when it was the mother, and yet he shall only be delayed, not destroyed. The Dark Lord who claims to be Light, shall torture that child, in his hubris and arrogance, his belief that he is infallible. But she who will put an end to them both; she shall be overlooked, hiding in plain sight, until, for each of them, it is too late. She who will destroy the Dark Lords, bides her time …"
Down in her strongly built vault under The Rook, Pandora Lovegood, the one active Seer in Britain, came back to consciousness, unable to remember the Prophesy she had given. Only the dicta-quill in the corner, always ready to record her notes and calculations, had captured the vision, when she had 'spoken true' as only a Seer can do.
Ironically, timing wise, just as this true Prophesy was being spoken, the false Prophesy of the fake Seer was being replayed in the Hogshead Inn, so the Spy could take part of it to his Master.
That false Prophesy was stored in a glass globe by the Unspeakables, who did not detect the falseness. It went on a shelf and was soon lost among hundreds of other glass globes. No one saw that the white fog within was not an active prophesy but a lying spell.
The true Prophesy never made it into their hands, or their ears. 'Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.' Only in the family archives of the Lovegoods was it preserved, and so it remained unknown to the other players.
"All the world's a stage" the Bard had written, and yes the players have their entrances and their exits. But, for the moment, no one gave them the correct script.
So it was that a baby, with deliberately unrepaired damage, was left on a cold step, to a colder fate, for no good reason, by a megalomaniac Dark Lord who called himself Light. No matter that he spiritually dripped with the blood of dozens, nay hundreds, maybe thousands he had condemned to death in his oddly combined cowardice and his arrogance.
The Old Gods watched closely as the play unfolded on the stage of the Earth.
She who was destined to be the savior of those who survived, from both the Evil which proudly proclaims itself, and the Evil that cloaks itself in false platitudes of Lightness, bided her time until the very moment the birth cry of the baby who would be called the 'boy-who-lived' rang out.
The very second his cry of complaint rang out, at entering the world which would treat him so badly, was the very second SHE chose to be conceived.
As he grew and prospered with his loving parents, who hid when they should have run, because the lying Dark Lord of the Light deceived the father, she grew within the womb of her mother, safely unhunted, because the true Prophesy remained secret.
On February 13th, just one minute before the change to Valentine's Day, she announced her arrival with a healthy wail and the cord was cut, and she was in the world alone, a separate being, who had been attended by unseen beings at her birth.
Hecate was there smiling at Her Chosen One, who would command magic Merlin could only dream of, Morrigan who promised buckets of evil blood flowing back into the earth, Brigid who brought the blessings of the Emerald Isle to the one who would revere plants and animals and the gift of Sight of the Unseen, Athena who bestowed the Warrior's Aegis on her so she would walk through chaos, storm, fire, and death untouched, and who also anointed her with olive oil from the Sacred Tree upon the Acropolis, and Boudicca, whose deeds had elevated her out of the halls of Valhalla into the rank of Goddess of Righteous War.
In their respective lairs, whether a castle school or a 'borrowed' minion's Manor House, cold chills ran up the backs of both Dark Lords as the Goddesses Themselves bestowed their blessings on their sister Nemesis Herself, who would walk uncloaked and unhidden, until the Days of Wrath were unleashed from her, currently tiny, fingertips.
When those days came there would be no hole deep enough, no ocean wide enough, no mountain tall enough to hide from one who looked like a handful of sea foam or a glass full of morning fog, who would prove invincible, intractable, and without a dram of forgiveness, for the sins of the Evil Ones.
Yahweh, the male God of Hosts, might be sitting this one out, the Ladies had not given Him any invitation, but he would be watching and applauding when She unleashed the multitude of powers she carried, cleverly hidden, until the time was Now. After all, he loved a good, well deserved, slaughter.