Avias worked, in fact it worked perfectly. The Red Star never bothered Pern again and there were no ill effects, or so it seemed. Technology continued to advance, civilization spread, for the first time in ages Pern truly thrived. This included dragons, who were able to prosper without risking their lives to thread. But things did begin to change over time, a way that no one stopped to think about before.
It was only logical that the dragon population decreased once they were no longer needed to fight thread. What they hadn't guessed was how much it would decrease. The change was gradual, taking thousands of years. For a while dragonriding was still serious business, dragonriders were revered as always. But as technology advanced the seriousness of dragonriding was forgotten, it wasn't like they were risking their lives any more. Dragons couldn't hurt humans, and thus were no good in the battles that began to break out between weyrs over time, much like the wars of old Earth. Wher handlers became the new protectors of Pern, the people that made sure everything remained peaceful. Firelizards remained plentiful as ever, no matter how times changed people sure loved their pets. But dragonriding became an eccentric hobby, something that took time and money. By three thousand turns after landing it was only for the rich and exceedingly lucky. Yet the dragon population remained stable enough, despite there being less than five hundred alive at one time.
Over the next thousand years the dragon population began to shrink again, the clutches becoming smaller and smaller with more and more duds. The general population didn't put much thought into it, though if they put effort into finding the reason why they would discover that the dragons had begun to suffer from a disease that decreased infertility. When they took notice and found a cure it was too late, there were only twenty dragons left on Pern, two of which were golds.
It was turn 4059 as a gold sat staring out of a cave. Ten turns. It had been ten turns since the population was reduced to twenty dragons, ten turns and it was only her. For eight turns the dragons lived with their riders at Fort. Not Fort Weyr anymore, the weyrs had long since been turned in to Wherholds. She suspected that it was only because of tradition that they were allowed to stay, some sort of sentimental value. One day there was a fire, a fire in the dining cavern at lunch time. There were many casualties, including all but five of the riders.
They stayed for a week, long enough for the injured riders to recover. It was then that the dragons told their riders that they didn't want to stay in this place, this mockery of what a weyr used to be. So six of them left silently in the middle of the night, the five riders and and greenhandler. The greenhander was the mate of the only other gold's rider, Alianti. The thought of the young gold and her rider brought a blissful feeling to the old gold. For a while they had been dragon kinds last hope, them and the bronze Cadriath. When the young gold, Tiath, rose he was supposed to chase. Unfortunately it was not meant to be.
The group went between to the area once known as Landing, the birthplace of the dragons. Of course it had been repopulated by humans but the surrounding wilderness was mostly untouched. They flew some ways, making a makeshift weyr along the cliffs of the southern coast. The old blue, Makiath, was the first to go. His rider was old, probably the oldest of the group. He died silently, sleeping. For the third to last time the dragons keened.
The next death did not occur for nearly two turns, when the deaths started and didn't seem to end. Next to go was the bronze, Cadriath. It wasn't long after Tiath's mating flight, won by him. No one saw it coming, it was just a routine flight. But Cadrith's wing cramped mid-flight and he panicked, attempting to between back to camp. They never emerged. For the second to last time the dragons kreened.
It was a month after Cadrith's death. Tiath was expected to clutch any time, but she didn't want to stay on the ground and do nothing. The gold and her rider went flying, talking while they went. Unfortunately they weren't paying much attention to where they were going, and neither were Kenidri and green Vilath. The pair of them collided in a tangle of claws and wings, once again it was between that claimed them. For the last time the dragons, now dragon, keened.
Gold Astriath was now the last and there was no one there to keen for her when it was time, and she knew it would be time soon. Her rider, her Sandara, was sick. It was her heart, too weak to support her any longer. Despite her dragon's begging she refused to go back to civilization and seek help, claiming that it was too late for her, she wanted to spend her last moment with her dragon. Randrian, the wherhandler, Alianti's mate, remained by her side, loyal to the last dragonrider.
She had been staring out at the sunrise when she got a feeling from her rider. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. Immediately she turned around and headed in their makeshift weyr, not stopping until she reached her rider's bedside. Randrian was already there, holding her hand. Randriask sat by her bedside, a low whimpering sound leaving her. Astriath's voice was soft and broken as she called, Sandara? When she failed to open her eyes or say anything the gold nudged her and exclaimed in a frantic voice, mine? Please wake up!
Slowly her eyes fluttered open. For a moment her gaze fixed itself on her dragon and she smiled, a smile filled with a lifetime of memories. A single word left her mouth, a whisper of, "Astriath..." Then the light in her eyes went dull and her last breath left her body. With that last breath Astriath was broken, alone in the world. Silently she walked out to the exit of the weyr, her head helf low. The rapid pitter-patter of feet sounded behind her, the sound of a wher desperately trying to keep out. As she spread her wings a voice sounded, whispering to her, Randriask remember, promise. Make them remember too.
For a moment she paused, glancing at the wher with pain-filled gray eyes. She then launched herself into the air.
When she went between she reemerged over Landing, the birthplace of the dragons. She was golden against the early morning sun as she took one final flight. People, people hat had lived their lives without ever seeing a dragon stopped to look up at her. For a moment she flew, for a moment the dragons had returned to the skies of Pern. Then, as fast as she had come, she was gone.
There were no dragons left to keen for her, but that did not mean Pern would be silent. The moment Astriath went between every wher and firelizard on Pern stopped, tilted their head back, and keened. It was not just for Astriath but for the dragons, a final goodbye for the protectors of Pern.
It seemed that once they were gone mankind remembered everything the dragons did for them. The world was abuzz with talk of the great things dragons had done, tales of the riders of old. Less than a month after the event a great statue stood in the center of Landing. It was a dragon, full-sized, reared up, and ready to take flight. Its hide was covered in swirls of green, blue, brown, bronze, and gold. A flame left its mouth, reaching up to touch the skies. At it's base were two words, a message from everyone on Pern. 'Thank you.'