Azrael closed the old squeaking door behind him. It took both hands: the metal wings of the portal were heavy as boulders. The first thing the Assassin did once he got out was cover his eyes from the sunlight. He had entered the ruin by night. Had he entered during the day, his eyes couldn't have adapted quickly enough to allow him to see inside. It was roughly four in the morning when he got in, and now it was almost midday. He went up the stairs, and was welcomed above by a loud neigh.

'I'm here, girl,' he said, looking at Shadowmere as she came closer to him. He patted her on the neck, and she in turn touched his shoulder with her muzzle. 'Come on, let's get going. Riverwood awaits.'

He mounted, grabbed a piece of cooked meat from the saddlebags and then gripped the hair of the horse tight. Shadowmere knew that it was the 'go' signal. She reared up, neighed again, and galloped forward, towards the East.

A fork. They needed to go South. That was the fork before the Nightgate Inn. The road that headed South went towards the Whiterun hold. It was already seven in the morning, roughly. Azrael did not know for certain, since huge banks of clouds was blocking the rays of the Sun. The first day of travel had gone quite smoothly. The forests of the Pale were thick with snow, and those clouds clearly showed that more was about to come. The Dark Elf wanted to avoid the snowstorm at all costs, but he did not need to remind Shadowmere to go fast. She was already galloping at breakneck speed in the middle of the road, entering the woods when there was someone on the road that was best to avoid.

Azrael let go of her hair with one hand, and grabbed the note that he had found instead of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. A rather mysterious, cryptic piece of text. He had developed an insanely strong immunity to secrecy, but that was just a little bit over the top. Sneaking in a house is one thing, but someone making way into an entire buried Nordic ruin and stealing something seemingly unimportant really was something beyond him. Not beyond his abilities maybe, but definitely his imagination. Whoever had done that had saw fit to make a great investment of resources and effort to ensure such secrecy. Or to ensure they could see me.

He looked at the note, feeling a bit guilty. As he put that away, he looked at the half-fingered gloves he wore, and realized that he had got them less than three weeks back. He had completely overlooked the affair with the Greybeards since the Dark Brotherhood business started. There had been nothing to remind him of that. Then, with Titus dead and the situation somewhat stable, he had found himself looking for something to do. The Dragons immediately came to mind. The choice to start pursuing that path again was made out of mere curiosity and interest, but as he delved inside the Nordic barrow he had found a text in the Dragon Tongue. The call he felt, the strength with which the Words drew him near reminded him of how enormous the task ahead of him was. Both for himself and the world.

And now we pick up old dealings again. Dragons wanting to destroy the world and so on… I wonder what that's all about. And the strange thing is how close I felt to that one I slew. Mirmulnir. I still remember his memories flowing in me. They are confused, I can't see his past, but the knowledge that came with it is now mine. In death, he granted me a great gift. I have never felt nearer to someone in my entire life, maybe excluding Titus and Laila… Laila, dear child. Will I ever see you again? All the lives he had lived, all the people he had met now intertwined into one, and he didn't think he could keep track of everything.

Lost in memories and reasoning, the Elf did not hear clearly the strange noise that came from high in the sky. He just looked at where it had come from, raised an eyebrow and then gripped the hair of Shadowmere again. He could not see past the veil of clouds.

Some time passed, and he did not see anything else. The grey shroud above his head remained still, not even the wind was moving it. Then, suddenly, Azrael started to hear a regular pulse, something flapping in the humid air. He looked behind him, where the sound came from, but he didn't see anything strange.

I'm imagining things… It's not a good sign. Unless…

The clouds began to move, the veil began to shimmer; a moment later a huge green creature nosedived from the skies and flew just past him, descending quickly and raising its head. A big, membranous wing flung right above his head.

The strong gust of air knocked Azrael off Shadowmere's back; he tried to hold, gripping her hair as strong as he could and then surrounding her neck with both hands, but got thrown off the horse's back anyway. He landed on the frozen grass, rolling and managing to direct the last spin and get up, leaving a shallow track in the soft snow. He put his left hand of the ground to keep standing, shook his head and looked up in the sky.

The Dragon was different from Mirmulnir and even the huge black one he had seen at Helgen. This one was green, not grey nor black, and had a broader head and a flat end to the tail. It also had strange fins on its back, which were not hard like the ones of the black Dragon, but it did have the same skeletal crest on the forehead. The green scales fitted together thanks to lines of white tissue, not overlapped like the ones of the Black Dragon. The Assassin had never seen one of those before, and resigned to analyze it on the spot. He had some time.

The wings seem fragile in comparison to the rest of the body, it could help. The head… There is a larger space between the bony crest and the eyebrow… There shouldn't be any bones there, it might be easy to penetrate. The brighter scales seem more thin. I should try to hit them. However, he had inadvertently picked up more information than strictly necessary. It did happen as of late. The claws, the teeth. This one's a fighter, I would guess. And a vicious one, at that. Not my immediate concern, but maybe it'll be useful later on.

The Dragon flew over him again, threateningly, and the Dunmer followed it with his gaze as it passed above. It was really fast, the chances of hitting it mid flight were low, but when it was about to attack it would have needed to slow down, and that could have been a good moment. He grabbed the bow and nocked an arrow, standing and keeping the fletching of the projectile near his eye. He needed maximum accuracy.

The monster turned around. It saw the arrow aimed right at its muzzle and quickly adapted its strategy. Azrael got very confused when the huge creature began to sway around, spinning and whirling on itself. The Dunmer decreased gradually the tension of the string, not really understanding the reason of all that movement, and also because he was unable to aim very well at weak spots. The Dragon used its advantage and nosedived, coming very close to the Elf, who had to release the shot and roll away. The arrow, however, had not the strength nor the precision to hit well; it flew and began to fall before reaching the target. It struck a neck-scale of the beast and snapped in two, leaving nothing but a scratch.

Damn, he's toying with me. Fine, you're free to do what you want. Just stay alert, because I learn quickly.

The Assassin looked at the beast flying higher into the air again, turning quickly and preparing for another attack. This time Azrael caught a glimpse of its eye, and that yellow iris sparkled of a brutal and ancestral cleverness. The Elf sensed that, and felt something was not quite right. He looked at his enemy, flying over, too high to be preparing for and attack on the ground.

He leapt away just in time.

A gruff roar covered all other sounds there was, even the beating of the wings, as a raging firestorm erupted from the Dragon's mouth. The flames melted the snow and scorched the earth, leaving a trail of smoke and vapor in a huge line. Azrael, who now stood right beside it, sighed with relief and drew the bow again. He had been played with twice, and now he was getting a little bit tense. He did not know how much aces the Dragon could still have up its sleeve.

The Dunmer glanced around, looking for Shadowmere, but there was no trace of her. He did not fear for her, she was safe and would have returned, but she might have been of use in that fight. He did not fret, she would have arrived in due time. She always did. One thing that may have helped him survive that battle was his complete calm. In times past, being toyed around that way might have angered him to extremes; make him lose his lucidity. Now, after all that had transpired, the sizzling fear and emotion of combat had become natural and welcome, and left space for his mind to focus. Under his hood and the mask, his face was looked like ice. The only thing that overcame complete rationality was the sarcastic sneer that never disappeared from his lips, only sign of feeling on his emotionless face.

The Dragon noticed that its tactic had been successfully avoided, and now the element of surprise was not playing on its side. It decided to descend, this time more directly.

He's going for another nosedive… thought Azrael. Good, as soon as he gets near we dodge and stuck an arrow in its leg.

The Assassin calculated all he could, drew the bow for the third time and walked slowly without losing his target for too long; the Dragon descended, flew closer and looked like it was going to slope.

But it didn't.

The huge monster opened its wings to their full span, braking absurdly quickly. If it successfully did what it was planning, it would have squeezed Azrael under its body and ripped him apart with the claws of the rear legs. Azrael understood it when it was far too late to roll away, dodge out of the landing area of the monster or fire a shot that would have forced it to raise again into the air. It was too late. The full weight of the Dragon had been used to perform that maneuver, and he could not have moved away. There was no way someone could survive that.

I need to get away from here, I need to get away from here… How do I do this?

The Dragon was meters away from the ground, the claws already stretched forward to grab the flesh of the Elf, the eyes still sparking of that old and ancient cunning that made them mysterious and frightening at the same time. Azrael looked at the green shape collapsing on him, his doom crashing down with incredible force. His emotionless reasoning continued, seeking every possible way out.

And there was one. You're Dragonborn, you idiot.

'Wuld!'

The collision between the Dragon and the ground proved violent. Very violent even. Entire pieces of soil flew off and rocks emerged from the terrain, as the frozen grass got torn off with its roots and thrown everywhere. The monster advanced, dispersing the force of the impact and moving its claws in search of elven flesh to rend. But, to the Dragon's surprise, they found nothing.

The beast moved its head around, looking in every direction. It finally turned completely and looked behind itself, and saw the grim shadow of its youngest brother standing ten meters behind its own tail. The Assassin showed his back to it, with his head slightly turned and his gaze over his own shoulders. He held the bow in one hand and three arrows in the other, standing straight with his feet firmly planted on the ground and his long cloak flapping behind him.

I too have got a couple aces up my sleeve… though the Dunmer, his sarcastic sneer turning into an even colder and crueler expression of victory.

The Assassin rotated in a dark flash, with the bow already drawn and the arrow ready to be fired. He released the first even before stopping his spin, and by the time he completed his turn another had already being nocked. The three twangs were very close to one another, and the arrow reached their target with the same astonishing frequency. The first hit the leg of the creature, the second struck the scales of the neck, cutting it, and the third sank right into the eye.

The Dragon roared loudly, shaking its head furiously and breathing smoke from its mouth.

The Dunmer, however, did not care. He had seen Shadowmere coming before, and now she was a few meters behind him. He sprinted forward and the horse ran beside him, slowing just a little bit and allowing him to jump on her back without decelerating too significantly. The horse and the horseman, finally reunited, galloped forward and then turned back, ready to strike again.

The Dragon beat its wings and raised up in the air again, but could only see on one side and the arrow stuck in its claw proved very painful. It felt that wound as an opening in its body through which its life force flowed away and its strength dissipated.

The Assassin looked at the Dragon struggling to raise high enough in the sky and smiled pitilessly. The poison he imbued the arrow with was doing wonders.

Babette might be small, but she is a really good teacher…

The beast roared, suffering, and tried to raise higher. Every beat of its wings cost it much effort and pain, and Azrael was sure the light in its eyes was slowly fading. He watched the creature flying farther, turning and then coming again in his direction. It would fly overhead, not attack him, and so he adjusted his strategy a bit. Those two projectiles would have been really useful nonetheless. The Assassin breathed deeply and picked two arrows from the quiver, knocking both and holding his breath.

At the right moment he fired both.

The projectiles hissed sinisterly and reached their target right in the joint between the scales of the abdomen and the sinews that connected it to the membranous wings. The metal tip sank in the soft flesh and severed nerves and sinews alike, on both wings of the beast.

Half blinded, crippled and unable to fly, the Dragon roared again as he started to fall down to the ground. His thundering growls became more frightened and agonizing the nearer he came to earth. Azrael looked as the creature fell down, put his bow away and grabbed the Blade of Woe from his belt. He strongly gripped the hair of Shadowmere with one hand and patted her on the neck with the one holding the dagger. She accelerated immediately.

It was the second time the Dragon collided with the ground, but this time it could not control the impact. It crashed against the terrain, sliding further and helplessly roaring. It barely had the time to move its head when a new, sudden and ravaging wave of pain came from the abdomen. It knew what had happened immediately, it knew a blade had slashed its belly, but it did not expect a human blade to be able to do that. Its adversary appeared beside its neck immediately after. The Dragon arched its neck and then shouted. A flaming inferno burst from its mouth.

Shadowmere, well aware of the danger, awaited the command of the Assassin. As he heard the groans, first signs of the giant blaze, he moved the hand gripping to her hair to the left. She turned without a single doubt, and the cascade of fire just passed beside her.

The Dragon, unable to see or think clearly, lost the perception of the world around it. A humanoid would have fainted in that state, but Dragons don't have that possibility. And so it continued to limp forward, blind and feeling its strength waning with every new step. One of the last things it confoundedly felt was a strong pain delivered in a single line around its neck. A long, deep cut. Life did not disappear from him, but began flowing out. The very last thing it perceived, or rather heard, was the deep voice of the Assassin.

'Farewell, brother.'