Life can only be understood backwards, but has to be lived forwards.

Such is the rule of existence. Everything that lives, anything that breathes, is bound by this one principle. Mortals and immortals know this. Even those few who can see the future, those that can pierce the dark veil of destiny, of fortune and doom, know it. They can see, but can't understand. Not yet. Understanding is something that is acquired with time, by looking back. Looking back, however, is not living. It's the polar opposite. Understanding is not living.

Azrael had lived his life. We now need to live it again, so that in the end we can also look back and understand. Just like he did. That is why we need to start from the very end of the line, from the very moment he fulfilled the prophecy laced in his soul and bound to his blood. When he killed the World-Eater, when he returned to the ones who had helped him on his journey.

His travels had led him far and wide, through space and time, through reality and dreams alike. He had seen things others would rather not see. He had done things others would rather not do. But in the end, that did not matter. Fate had led him where he now stood, and as a part of it he had completed his task. And this is exactly what drives this tale.

Azrael, the Last Dragonborn. The Godsplitter. The Assassin. That name and those titles alike still echo with strength in the hearts of Men and Mer, and they even would in the ones of Daedra and Aedra, if only they had one. For some his name is the best of blessings, for others the worst of curses. It's spoken with caution, said with fear, uttered in terror. There is not one place where the Assassin does not have eyes and ears. Once he considers you a relevant threat, you're finished. There's no escaping that which cannot be escaped.

Few sources that describe his still exists. The ones that detail his appearance are even fewer, and yet quite accurate. Azrael is a peculiar character, those who saw his face remember it well or wrote about it in vivid details: long, thick hair that fall on the shoulders, black as raven feathers; a full beard and bushy eyebrows of the same color; his eyes are of a deep crimson, sparkling with the flare of the flames that gave him birth. And yes, Azrael is a Dunmer. His irises blaze with the wrath of his ancestors. A long scar comes down his left cheek, from the temple all the way down to the chin. It's mostly covered by the beard, but the darker line is still visible and distinguishable from his skin, which is of the same color of ash. Not that slightly brownish grey that most Dunmer have. His skin was truly grey. Colorless.

And what has led to this moment, you might ask. That is exactly what we are going to uncover. That is why we started here, at the end of the line. But even at that time he knew not that one day he would have looked back and understood, when he was finally free from heavy shackles. Because to understand something is to look at it from the outside. Just like we are going to do. That's the thing that need to be remembered. Always, not matter what.

Life can only be understood backwards, but has to be lived forwards.

This story end with the thunder of the Thu'um, but it starts with the squeaking of a boat.

A creak. Another creak. Then, an angry sigh of desperation.

'Helain?' someone asked. It was the voice of a Dunmer, and it was deep.

'I can't sleep. I just can't,' replied another Dark Elf.

'You could avoid preventing us from doing so, at least.'

'Keep calm, Alaeli,' said the one with the deep voice. 'We're all on the same ship. Both literally and metaphorically.'

'Very funny, Azrael.'

The Dunmer with the deep voice laughed darkly, and then stood up. The holes in the hull of the boat allowed weak rays of moonlight to come through. It was around midnight. In the dim light, the shadowy silhouette of the Dunmer was noticeably higher than the one a normal Dark Elf. Normal, since Azrael was in fact exceptionally tall. He moved three steps towards the lantern they kept with them, kneeled down and took it in his hand. A weak flame flared in his palm, and the lamp brightened up.

'What in blazes…'

'Calm now, Ernak,' said Azrael, putting the lantern in the center of the small circle the four Dark Elves formed. 'Helain can't sleep, I thought we could stay up a little bit more.'

'Fine…' he muttered.

Alaeli crawled out of the bedroll and sat next to Azrael, resting her head on his shoulder. Helain leaned against the hull of the ship, and Ernak sat in front of them, his legs crossed.

They remained silent for a while.

'What will you do once we arrive to Skyrim?' asked Helain suddenly. He was the youngest of the four Dunmer, followed by Azrael, then Alaeli and then Ernak, who was the oldest with his two centuries of life.

'Who knows…' said Alaeli.

'I guess we could try and join the Imperial Legion,' said Ernak. 'That way me might get an excuse for being in foreign land.'

'Spit on the military,' hissed Azrael. 'We'll arrive there, get placed in the front line and die after a week. Besides, speaking of weeks, it's a two or three weeks travel to get to the Legion headquarter.'

'What better choices do we have?' asked Ernak. 'The only thing that's needed in Skyrim is soldiers. They need nothing else.'

'We could introduce ourselves as sellswords. Or bounty hunters,' rejoined Helain.

'Oh, yes?' sneered Azrael. 'First, they'll leave you as a last resort and have their countrymen first. Second, you don't even know how to use a sword.'

'I know a bit of magic!' the young Elf snapped back.

'Yeah, sure, and what can you do with it? Light a candle? Perhaps. Kindle a fire? Maybe. Kill someone? Not in Oblivion.'

'Azrael…' Ernak rustled, his voice shaking with anger.

'What?' he asked, without even raising his voice. His tone was enough to render the old Elf silent. 'You know it's true. Damn it, you've seen the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis, you of all should know how misery is and how it works. We have little possibility to find a decent living condition in that frozen land. You know it, but admitting it makes you angry. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.'

'But… As mercenaries… We could try to train,' tried Helain again.

'I'll never kill,' whispered Azrael, with an undertone of deep sorrow. 'After what happened to me, I'll never kill. Let alone for money.'

Alaeli looked up at Azrael. The scar that went from his left temple to his cheek was truly impressive. The sailors had removed the bandage from that the day before, and it never ceased to amaze her how extensive it was. His full, black beard hid it somewhat, but it was far from invisible. Of all the stories that the passengers of that ship could tell, Azrael's was considered by some the worst one. Almost all of them came there trying to get away from Morrowind to look for a better life, while he was desperately escaping. Despite that, he seemed to always retain some wicked sense of humor. Sometimes his mood was agreeable enough to be called good. However, for the vast majority of the journey, he had been annihilating any good thoughts others had with his cynical and lapidary sarcasm.

'In the end, we'll decide for ourselves,' said Helain. 'I'll still try my luck as a mercenary.'

'I'll maybe try to get to the school they have for Mages, up at the North,' said Alaeli.

'I'll try to join the Legion. I don't care if I get slaughtered. Moreover, if I heard right, the Nords are up with a little uprising. They might use some more troops.'

'Azrael?'

The tall Dunmer laughed. His deep voice made it a bit intimidating.

'I just need to run.'

'And once you'll be safe? What will you do?'

'Don't know, maybe start growing crops again.'

'I don't think you'll be able. It just doesn't seem likely.'

'Good luck to you too,' he whispered, sneering sardonically.

The four friends split up at the docks of Windhelm the day after. They never saw each other again.

Helain, having heard of wolves on the main road and wanting to impress the authorities, tried to go out at night and wipe the pack. A hunter found his remains some hours later, but the pieces of gnawed flesh were impossible to recognize.

Alaeli decided to take a boat from Windhelm and go directly to Winterhold, where the College of Mages was. On the second day of travel a storm broke out and wrecked her ship, which crashed on the cliffs and sank. Nobody survived.

Ernak, convinced to join the Legion, began his march to Solitude. On the way, starving and dying of thirst, he stole some water and some pieces of bread. Captured by the guards and sent to jail, he spent his last three days of life in agony, forgotten behind the bars. He died of dehydration. Nobody remembered to give him something to drink.

Azrael, having received news that a suspicious looking Dunmer armed to the teeth had been searching for him, took the few things he had and set off immediately to the West. Where to, that he did not know.