She was Dovah; among her kin were things of legend and myth, the very will of Akatosh Himself made flesh. So terrifying were she and hers they bore fear and respect into mortalkind long after their departure from this world, theirs used synonym for rage, for strength, nobility and terror.
The Elves discovered this firsthand.
All fell silent in the aftermath; a sort of calm that follows catastrophe no matter its taken shape, and her catastrophe was absolute. Crumpled forms littered here and there, tossed and broken in their gold-tarnished-crimson armors, their black robes of gold trim. The crackling of dying flames were but static in her ears as she stood petrified - not at what she wrought but at the horror she witnessed before her upon the mantle, so lifelessly glaring back.
It was…such a small thing, barely the size of a wolf’s skull. So macabre was it displayed in sickening trophy fashion that for a second her mind failed and tried to convince itself it was but a farce, it was not real. But the silent grinning scream of set-jaws, the hollow sockets that stared were not to be denied.
And she screamed.
She smiled - a genuine article, pure and so unlike her. But she could not help it. Regardless of the unknown turmoil they’d brought to her life she could not help the pride, the love that filled her at those first pips, the small scratchings of egg-teeth against shell. When the first piece fell away, and that small thing drew breath, she knew.
And the pain came.
It was an ugly, wordless thing, dripping hot-pitch down thorns borne into life within her breast, clawing at her lungs even as she loosed her anguish. A breath taken and she staggered half to the floor, only catching herself in a step towards her shame.
Viirmeyzahaak half-dozed, listening to the sounds of play carry across the cave as the embers warmed her belly scales. Through heavy lids she watched small claws scrabble on stone as her children bit and pulled - some tugging at long-cleaned bones, while others tackled their siblings and rolled in their unguided roughhousing. But one small dragonling contented itself in curling against her, having found the hollow formed where shoulder met spine and settled in for the long sleep.
“NO!” wailed a second breath as shaking hands pried it loose, what anger she would have at the sight dwarfed by the sorrow that drowned her sight, “no, no…”
Idle chidings left her mouth as she scooped the child-wyrm as one would a babe, rescuing him from his eldest sibling. Even in her mortal frame her children knew their mother, and youngest knew her best, knew her to be safety. Knew her to be home.
Her will left her. Viirmeyzahaak knew not how long she screamed before she crumpled to the floor, wounds torn open as old pains renewed themselves within her. Apologies poured from her lips a frantic prayer, begs and pleas to the divines, to her Father. Please, take it back. Let it not be true.
Memories flooded fresh and carried her grief further; the scent of fire and new things, a smell only fresh lives held. The warmth of breath, the coiled form of scales still forming so as to be soft to touch. Small, steady breaths felt beneath her palm as she sang them all to sleep, sanghim to sleep.
But those empty eyes stared, unanswering. Lips touched bone and tears soaked the white and she spoke in a hoarse whisper, “I am sorry, my little one. I could not…”
A half-sob choked her words. “Please forgive me. Gods, forgive me. Come back. I am sorry, I will do better this time. Please. We all come back. Please come back.”
She was Dovah; among her kin were things of legend and myth, the very will of Akatosh Himself made flesh. Yet she wept - regardless of divine birth - as she was no longer dov. She was not strong, or terrible, or fierce, but broken and lost.
Vera pressed her child so hard against her breast the bone broke her skin, but she did not care.
“You are home, my love. I am sorry I could not find you sooner.”
