I've written quite a lot about my Dragonborn, but I realised recently that I've been neglecting her husband. Which is a shame, because without him, she probably wouldn't have survived to defeat Alduin. Three Pieces Of Amber is the story of how they met, and how they turned from unlikely travelling companions to soulmates.

About half of this story is an extended flashback, but I promise it will eventually return to the original plot. This was originally going to be a oneshot, but then I kind of lost control of it and became really long, so I'm splitting it up. I hope you enjoy. :)

Three pieces of amber. Small, round, polished to perfection. Three golden-orange stones, shining in the sunlight, set into a silver band. Three pieces of amber, glinting almost mockingly at the man who cradled the ring that held them in his hand.

Derkeethus gazed out over the waters of the lake, listening to the sound of the wind whispering through the branches of the golden-leafed tree that stood beside him. The silver ring felt heavy in his palm. But his heart felt a thousand times heavier within his chest.

Silently, the Argonian turned the ring over in his hand, watching the way the light flashed off the small orange stones. Something within him, some deep-seated, burning rage fuelled by grief and pain wanted to hurl the ring away from him, as far away as he could get it. He could see it in his mind; the small silver band spinning through the air, arcing away from him, shimmering in the sunlight as it fell. In his head, he heard the faint splash as it hit the water of the lake and disappeared underneath, never to be seen again. It would be the work of a moment.

But he did not throw it. He held it tight.

He remembered every second he had spent making it. He remembered visiting the Bee and Barb to ask Talen-Jei for advice, and he remembered speaking to Madesi at the jewellery stall, and purchasing those three pieces of amber from him. He remembered the hours he had spent with Balimund, the blacksmith, learning to shape the metal. And he remembered the fierce, bright feeling of joy that had welled up within him when he had finally held his completed masterpiece up to the light.

He had known even then how much easier it would have been for him to simply visit the temple of Mara and buy an amulet. But that was the Nord way of doing things. And to Derkeethus, it had always seemed somewhat shallow. Flighty, almost. All the Nords did was hand over a little money, wear the amulet for a while and hope the person they were courting noticed. The Argonian way of doing things meant so much more. Derkeethus was proud of every burn on his hands, every drop of sweat, every hour of labour. This was his way of showing his devotion. He had poured his love, his heart, his very soul, into the ring he now clutched in his hands.

And all for nothing. He kept reliving the moment. He had never officially joined the Thieves Guild, and he had never actually completed any jobs apart from a few small errands for Vex and Delvin in Riften, but he was welcome in the Cistern and the Ragged Flagon. He had been in the Flagon, enjoying a mug of Argonian ale, savouring its sharp taste, when Brynjolf had entered. Derkeethus had thought nothing of it at first. There had been so much else on his mind. But then the Guild's second in command had walked straight over to him and stood beside him.

'Is there something wrong?' Derkeethus had glanced up at Brynjolf, and the Nord's grim expression answered his question before he even spoke.

'There's bad news, lad,' Brynjolf had replied quietly. 'Mercer's just come back.'

There was something about the way he said the words, with such uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice and deep, bitter grief in his eyes, that Derkeethus's blood instantly felt as if it had turned to ice. His heart suddenly racing, the Argonian had asked the question in a shaking voice.

'Where is J'shana?'

And Brynjolf had swallowed, looked at the floor, closed his eyes briefly, and looked back at Derkeethus again.

'I'm sorry, Keeth. She's dead.'

Derkeethus dimly remembered staring at the Nord, waiting for him to laugh and say something about how he'd thought Argonians were supposed to be smart. But he didn't laugh, and he didn't say it. A moment passed, a moment that paused and waited and dragged on for a million years. And very slowly, the meaning of the words sank in.

J'shana was dead.

J'shana.

His J'shana.

Dead.

Brynjolf had started speaking again. At first the words were nonsensical, washing over Derkeethus like water over a stone in a river. But gradually, they had started to make sense, and the story had taken shape. How Mercer and J'shana had arrived at Snow Veil Sanctum, how J'shana had volunteered to take the lead, since she saw better in the dark, how they had entered the final chamber and an arrow had come out of nowhere, taking J'shana through the throat, how she had died instantly, and if it was any consolation, she wouldn't have felt any pain…

It was no consolation. None at all.

Derkeethus had stood there, staring, hearing the words that Brynjolf was saying, but not really taking them in. The rest of the world seemed to have melted away. Sounds were blending together and fading into a blur of meaningless noise. Time slowed. The ground fell away, crumbling beneath Derkeethus's feet, leaving him to fall through empty space.

And then his hand had closed around the silver ring in his pocket, and reality had come crashing back.

'No.' The word was barely even audible. 'She can't be dead.'

Brynjolf hadn't met his eyes this time. 'I'm sorry. I truly am. There was nothing anyone could have done.'

'No!' Derkeethus remembered feeling a sudden, vicious rage rising up within him. Why was Brynjolf lying to him? J'shana wasn't dead. She couldn't be! 'She promised she'd come back!'

The Nord thief had said nothing, but his silence had been his answer.

For a few seconds more, Derkeethus had stood there. Then he had turned and ran. Out of the Flagon, through the Cistern, out of the trapdoor exit and into the city. Through the streets, until he reached Honeyside. He had fumbled for what had seemed like an eternity with the key before the door finally swung open. He recalled how he had burst into the house, shouting J'shana's name, waiting for the reply. She would be there. Brynjolf had been mistaken, that was all. Any moment now, the Khajiit would appear in the doorway, her whiskers twitching as they always did when she was confused, and that soft, cautious voice would ask him what was wrong.

But no one came.

And so he had wrenched open the back door and run past the lake, heading for the stables. He knew that Frost would be there in his stall. J'shana must have returned already, she just hadn't got round to visiting the Guild yet, or going to Honeyside.

But the palomino stallion's stable was empty, heartlessly empty.

That was when it had hit him, as hard and as painful as a blow from a dragon's tail. She wasn't coming back. She was never coming back. She had gone to that ancient tomb, and she had stayed there, one more body added to the hundreds down there in the darkness and the dust.

He had lost her forever.

His senses numb, his heart tearing itself apart within his chest, he had stumbled back to the side of the lake. And there, beside the shimmering drift of water, he had sunk to his knees and wept.

A day had passed since then. And every moment of it had been nothing short of torture. When Derkeethus had woken up in the morning, it had seemed so wrong, not to have her lying next to him, her tail twined with his and the sound of her quiet purrs filling the air. The house had been so empty without her, and so silent without the sound of her voice. The sunlight seemed less warm, the air less fresh, and even the brightly-coloured birds that flew past seemed drab and dull.

He had not gone back to the Guild yet. What was there for him with them, without J'shana? He got on well with some of them, that was true. Brynjolf was good conversation, Rune was friendly, Sapphire had mellowed towards him quite a bit, and it was impossible for him not to talk to Etienne a lot, seeing as the Breton was the only other member of the Guild who knew the truth about J'shana. But he wasn't a thief, not at heart. He was a fisherman and a miner. He didn't belong in the Thieves Guild if J'shana wasn't there with him.

Now, as he stood by the lakeshore, turning the ring over in his palm, he let out a long sigh, his head hanging forwards. 'I never deserved her,' he murmured.

He felt so lost. J'shana had always been the leader. He had walked alongside her, but she had chosen the way. That was how it had always been, right from when they had first met.

He smiled as the memory resurfaced. That had been the day his life had begun.

Only a year and a half ago, or maybe a little more, he had been nobody. He'd spent his days in the sleepy, secluded village of Darkwater Crossing. It was a small place, with so few inhabitants that Derkeethus could count them on his fingers. They had all known each other well, and they had worked side by side in the mines. When the day was done, or if it hadn't been his shift, Derkeethus would go down to the river, catching fish, or else just swimming. It had been peaceful, and it was safe. But all the same, he had always felt something stirring within him. An urge to leave behind his simple life behind and find some new, more exciting existence – one that actually meant something.

More than anything, he longed to be an adventurer, to strike out alone and seek quests and battles, just like the heroes of the old stories his mother had told him when she was young. When he heard the stories of the Dragonborn, a fearless warrior who was, everyone said, to rid the land of the dragons for good, his reveries had intensified. But it was never something he had actually considered doing, not seriously. His place was in the Crossing, and he intended to stay there. It was his home.

But then he had heard the Greybeards' call to the Dragonborn, and for weeks he hadn't been able to banish the sound from his head. The traders and couriers who occasionally passed through the village would bring the stories with them – stories of how the Dragonborn had defeated a dragon in Whiterun, and another at Kynesgrove.

For some reason, Derkeethus had slowly but surely found himself growing restless, edgy and agitated. His friends had noticed that something was wrong. Despite their increased efforts to get him to tell them his troubles, he had waved them away, saying he was just tired after working all day in the heat of the Heartfire sun. Eventually, though, he had confided in Hrefna, for though she was still a child, she had a good and smart head on her shoulders. He had told her how he still harboured dreams of finding adventure for himself, though he knew he could never live such a life. She had shrugged and told him it seemed like he needed to get some time alone. 'Just go and camp out by yourself for a bit,' she had said. 'That's what I'd do.'

So that was what he had done. Looking for good fishing and mining spots wasn't much of an adventure, but still, it was an excuse to leave the Crossing for a while, and he could defend himself if he needed to, being capable with a bow and all right with a pickaxe- even if they did make rather unwieldy weapons. So he had packed a haversack of food and equipment and set off, following the river south. Hrefna had been right. The freedom of fending for himself out in the wild… it was wonderful. More than that, it had made him feel alive in a way he'd never experienced before.

On the second day, it had begun to rain reverentially, one of the heavy storms that were common at that time of year. He had taken shelter at the foot of a cliff, and that was when he had noticed the door leading directly into the cliff face.

And that was when he had been a fool, a complete and utter fool, and opened the door and walked in.

He wasn't sure why he had done it. Partly just trying to get out of the rain, partly the sense of adventure, he supposed. He had found a chest not far in- a chest which, to his delight, contained several jewels and some coins. Intrigued and excited, wondering what more was to be found, he had made his way further inside.

The tunnel had eventually opened out into a wide chamber with a waterfall at the far end. Seeing fish stirring in the murky blue-green water, Derkeethus had shrugged off his pack and knelt down by the water to see if he could catch any. And that was when he had heard the hiss.

With a startled hiss of his own, he had jumped to his feet and drawn his curved hunting bow. A strange creature - hunched and pale-skinned, with bloodshot eyes - had emerged from a hut at the water's edge and started to run towards him, uttering a long, drawn out, high-pitched screech. The cry had brought more of the monsters running, weapons ready and greedy delight all over their pale faces. He had fought furiously, but eventually numbers had overwhelmed him, despite his desperate struggles to break free. And then, with gleeful hisses and growls, the monsters had dragged their helpless prisoner through the freezing water of the cave and into a darkened chamber. One of them had activated a lever hidden on one side of the room. A stairway had opened up nearby. The creatures dragging him had pulled him over to it and kicked him down the steps, making screeches that sounded horribly like laughter as he cried out in pain as he landed on the hard, cold stone of the floor. A couple had dropped down after him, and thrown him into a small, circular chamber filled with thigh-deep water. Then the door had been shut, key had turned in the lock, the way out had been sealed, and Derkeethus had been left utterly alone in the darkness.

Days had passed; by counting the number of sleeps, Derkeethus guessed it had been nearly a week, though time had no meaning when you could not see the moon and stars and sun and sky. What had worried him the most was that the Falmer – for what else could these foul creatures be? - appeared to be trying to keep him alive. Once a day- at least, he thought it was once a day- they had thrown food down to him. If you could count the remains of a fish that had nearly been picked clean of meet and an assortment of moss and tubers and other cave plants that he had no names for food. He was perpetually hungry. It was enough to keep him alive, but only just. And that was what worried him. Why did they want him alive? Why didn't they just get it over with and kill him? That would be better and easier than living this wretched life, down in the damp and dark like one of the blind, squirming things that scuttled around the cave walls and in the water that lapped constantly around his feet.

On the day that his life changed forever, Derkeethus made a decision. If by some miracle he survived, he would never again leave his home. No, he had learned his lesson. He would go back to Darkwater Crossing and be glad that at least he had his home and his friends there. He would long for adventure for all his life, he knew, but he would never again answer the call of the wilderness, knowing that only death awaited him out there. The Crossing was peaceful, and it was safe.

But in his heart he had known that he would never go back. He would die there in the darkness, alone and forsaken, either through starvation, or at the cruel whim of his captors.

In his mind's eyes, he saw it again. He saw himself, sitting hunched in the driest part of his prison that he could find. He saw a tear well up in the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek. Angrily, he wiped it away. Crying wouldn't save him. But he couldn't stop the tears from coming. His friends would never know what had happened to him. Hrefna would blame herself, knowing that it had been her idea. His fellow miners would have to work even harder, being one man down. But after that, he would be forgotten. Just one more name lost to the passage of time. Not even a grave to mark his final resting place.

There was a sudden clatter up above, followed by a loud hiss and the clash of metal on metal. Derkeethus sighed. It sounded like the Falmer were arguing amongst themselves again. They did it several times every day. A clack of claws on stone surprised him. Were the Chaurus fighting too? If their masters had summoned them to fight, it was rather more than the usual petty squabbles. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wet wall of the cave, listening to the screeches and caterwauling up above. There was a twang, followed by a thump and a shriek of rage from one of the Falmer. Had one of them just killed another? Maybe it was a fight over leadership. Derkeethus didn't care. He didn't really care about anything anymore.

Quietly, he got to his feet, then knelt down, bowing his head. 'Oh, mighty Hist, Trees of Argonia, who walk beside me and decide my destiny, hear me now. I pray that I will return to my friends in Darkwater Crossing. I pray that I will see them again and sit by the fire again after a hard day of work, that I will feel the wind against my skin and hear the thunder of the waterfalls. I pray that I shall see the sun and sky again. I pray that you will lead me through this nightmare, to return to my home. May you remain beside me and guide my footsteps, in this life and the next.'

If the Hist were listening, they did not answer.

'Please,' Derkeethus whispered, almost too softly to hear his own voice. 'Please, show me you're listening. Please send me something, someone, anything, anyone. Please help me. Please…'

There was a crack up above him, as if something wooden had just snapped in two. A startled, catlike yowl sounded from above his head. Derkeethus's head jerked up, and he was just in time to see something large and greyish fall from the staircase beyond his prison, make an agile twist in mid-air, and land perfectly and lightly on the floor of the cave.

Derkeethus froze. Out of the darkness ahead of him, beyond the door of his cell, a pair of amber eyes stared at him through the gloom. They were the colour of fire, and the pupils were slits as black as ebony. They locked onto his gaze, and Derkeethus found it impossible to look away.

A moment passed, a moment of complete silence. Then the owner of those flame-coloured eyes stepped forward into the light.

She was a Khajiit, her fur the pale grey of ash, patterned with night-black stripes. A quiver was strapped across her back, and the arrows that filled it seemed to be of a hundred different varieties, as if she had scavenged any and every arrow she could find. There was a dwarven style dagger sheathed at her belt, and slung over her shoulder was a bow of the sort he had only ever seen in illustrated books. It was the kind of bow usually pictured in the hands of Draugr, but even in the darkness Derkeethus could see that it had been decorated in a very different fashion. Swirling patterns had been carved into the wood and filled in with some sort of ochre die. Her armour was equally patchwork - simple brown leather, but in places what appeared to be pieces of metal had been tied in place for extra protection. Derkeethus blinked in surprise and looked again. It wasn't metal. They were the scales of dragons. He had never seen one before, but he knew what they were. What other sort of scale could be so large? Did that mean that this Khajiit had fought dragons? And won?

'Who are you?' he heard himself breathe.

She stared at him for a moment, her mouth half open. Then, very softly, she whispered, 'J'shana.'

She took a tentative step towards him, and Derkeethus moved forwards as well, until he was standing with the end of his nose poking through the bars of his cell. 'I'm Derkeethus,' he said.

'What are you doing here?' Her Elsweyr accent wasn't as strong as that of other Khajiit Derkeethus had met – not that he'd met many – but it was still startlingly foreign. It caught him off guard for a moment, and he struggled to come up with a response.

'I'm… I'm from Darkwater Crossing. North of here.' Derkeethus wasn't sure why he was suddenly feeling so self-conscious. 'I followed the river looking for fishing spots. These creatures caught me. I should've known better than to swim all the way to the falls.' He grasped the bars. 'Can you get me out of here?'

Without a word, J'shana reached into one of several small leather pouches attached to her belt and produced what looked like a lockpick. Derkeethus moved back slightly as the Khajiit slipped the thin piece of metal into the lock that held him prisoner, a look of intense concentration on her face. 'Hold on,' was all she said.

'Please hurry.' Derkeethus cast a nervous look at the stairway that led to the rest of the cavern. 'If the Falmer find you here – '

'It's all right.' J'shana didn't look up from the lock as she spoke. 'This one took care of them.'

Took care of them? Derkeethus stared at her in shock. 'You killed them? All of them?'

'I think so.'

Now Derkeethus knew exactly why he was feeling self-conscious. This Khajiit had managed to fight her way through the cave, and had reached him uninjured. . Here she was, having beaten the Falmer with just as much ease as they had beaten Derkeethus, effortlessly picking the lock that had stopped him from escaping for so long. She must think him so weak and pathetic, allowing himself to be caught. He knew that she would never have let it happen to her.

There was a quiet click, and J'shana withdrew the lockpick with a small purr of satisfaction. His heart racing, Derkeethus gave the door to his cell a small push. With a low creak, it swung forwards.

Sometimes it's the small things in life that are most wonderful. To Derkeethus, that soft creak was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

J'shana pulled the door fully open, and smiled at him. It was a warm, slightly shy smile, one that glimmered in her eyes as well as playing around her mouth. 'We should go. Quickly.'

The Khajiit led the way back through the tunnels and caves at a fast but not difficult pace, frequently glancing back to make sure that Derkeethus was following. At last, they reached the entrance, and J'shana tugged the door open. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the sunlight had warmed Derkeethus's scales, and the sound of birdsong echoed in his ears.

It was daytime, near noon, it seemed, judging by the position of the sun. A few clouds were drifting high above them, looking like pieces of sheep's wool. In front of him, the river raced past, a few fish glistening silver in the deepest parts of the water. The trees on the bank stood swaying slightly, their branches rustling.

It was a sight that at any other time he would he considered normal, but now was to him the most beautiful sight on Nirn. He stared and stared, wanting to burn every last detail into his memory. The way the light danced on the surface of the river. The snowy whiteness of the clouds. The way the breeze stirred J'shana's silver fur.

Derkeethus let long gasp of pure joy and relief and sank to his knees, his eyes suddenly wet. 'Thank you,' he whispered, to the Hist, and to the Divines, and to J'shana.

After perhaps a minute, he looked up to see J'shana smiling at him. She held out her hand, and Derkeethus took it. Her fur was soft as the feathers of a young chick.

The Khajiit pulled him to his feet, her eyes shining.

'So,' she said, her smile wide and bright. 'Which way is it to Darkwater Crossing?'

A bit of explanation: At the time she met Derkeethus, J'shana had only been in Skyrim about a month, hence her raggedy gear. She lived homeless in Cyrodiil for a while before coming to Skyrim, so she was beginning to refer to herself in the first person, though she forgot sometimes.

Chapter Two should be coming soon, and will explain how Keeth joined J'shana on her travels, and learned that she's Dragonborn. Hopefully all unanswered questions will be sorted out in the rest of the story. Thanks for reading! :D