The Last Dragon Priestess

My Home

I was born in the mountains, where the crisp air stripped bare the sapphire skies. My mother had begged the women to open the balcony, to allow in the frigid breeze. The birthing bed had been soaked in sweat and blood, surrounded by the smoky incense of prayer. My mother said it was the gust of mountain winds that had brought me forth, and that I had the hardiness of winter in my blood. So taken by the cold I was, that I was born blue. But the midwife moved quickly enough to save my life, and unwrap the cord. If she hadn't, I'd imagine my mother would've struck her down, no matter how exhausted from birth.

There was always fear in my home. Everybody felt it. Every feared it. Yet we all accepted it; it was as natural as breathing in the Forelhost monastery.

My father, among the esteemed of the Dragon Priests, was Rahgot. Rage, his name meant, in the tongue of the dragons. His mask was an imposing visage, a deep-carved orichalcum green. It was his angry face, I used to think. He wore it when he sent people to die, or to lead men to war. Or, scariest of all, to commune with the dovah.

But behind that green mask, he was not an angry man, not to me. In my eyes, he was kind and good, a man with a smile that could melt the Winterhold ice. He was simply papa, and I loved him as any daughter would. He would read me stories as I sat on his knee, telling tales of his childhood in the wilds.

He would give me shining trinkets, play with me when I was lonely, and make me laugh when I was sad. No matter how many he killed, enslaved, and fed to the Dov, I loved him dearly. Papa was always right, I thought. He only does what he must.

My mother was a lesser priest, only half as important as my father, but that hadn't stopped their marriage. He'd taken her as a wife when he was given his name, mask, as well as Forelhost by Kahvozein, our patron dovah. At first, it had been simply principle. But they were certainly fond of one another, by time I was born. I don't know if I would call it love -- if they did love one another, it was a strange kind -- but it was a blessing to have them together. They were a powerful unit amongst the priesthood. They were feared because of it.

My big brother was always my favourite, though. Ruvaak, he had been named, for his raven hair. He had taken after my mother, thin and dark and blue-eyed. I'd taken after my father's powerful physique, with golden locks and emerald eyes. Oftentimes, most people didn't believe we were brother and sister, but I had never felt closer to anyone in my life. He was my best friend, my protector, and the one who scared the boys away.

We were both raised into the priesthood. Trained in the sword, unlike most of our contemporaries -- our father had been raised a proper Atmoran, as we should be, he'd said -- along with the powers of fire, flesh, alteration, and summoning beings from the aetherial planes. Most of all, we studied the dragon tongue. Not the thu'um - Kyne had not blessed us yet. But the sermons and the prayers. All in the priesthood had to know the scripture, lest the dragons destroy us for our insolence.

I remember being told that only when I was a priest, could I say the word, dragon. If I dared even whisper it otherwise, I would be eaten by Kahvozein himself. I had been so terrified, I dared not utter the word for the next six years, until I was ten. I was alone in my bedchamber, but even then, I barely whispered. My voice next to silent, I exhaled all the forbidden words, all to myself, scared that someone, something, would come to eat me. I curled up under my furs until morning, still alive and whole. An nobody the wiser. Even as a child, I knew how ridiculous it was, to forbid a word. But I also knew when to hold my tongue.