Let me just take a moment to disclaim Anne McCaffrey's work.

Disclaimer: I disclaim. =)

Ahem. To be serious though – I disclaim any claim to the aforementioned claimant's work due to my non-inclusion with the object of claimancy (the literary works of Pern). T'were it mine to claim, I'd be decidedly richer, far older, and American. I'm a student (therefore poor and also young), and British (we spell things the right way). =P Just kidding.

Harper, sing to me of another life,
A tale that beats to some other drum
Let not the pain, the joy, the strife
Fade from thy fingers or thy thumbs

Let weyrmen stamp for the rhythm,
Let thy own harp ring forth the tune.
See how our friends wing to the sill
And softly, lightly, brightly croon.

Harper, sing to a different drum:
Beat it strongly, sound it true.
Weave a tale of life's past singers,
That is only told by men in Blue.

----
II
----

Feasting in the weyr was a serious business. Since dawn of the Hatching, Palma had presided over the kitchens of Igen Weyr with her usual grim fortitude, and under her rule, the activity of those worthy cooks flourished. The rich aromas of her famous stews and soups enticed more than one cheeky weyrling to try his luck at wheedling a small portion before the evening's feast, but most settled on a quick retreat nursing their stinging posteriors. Palma might be a devoted fosterer with time for even the most exasperating of those in her care, but she was surprisingly agile with her ladle, and more than one lazy drudge quickened his step when she cared to observe his work.

Palma's zeal for good husbandry was matched only by her fierce observance of providing for weyrlings first. Before the spits were turning, or ladles spooning the thick gravy for her excellent self to sample, the drudges were set to chopping raw meat into bitesized goblets for the hatchlings that would be making their entrance around noon. As the last of the huge bowls was carted to the antechamber just off of the arena, there to wait in the cool of the stone room, a low, resonating note wormed its way into the kitchens. Palma froze, and then forced herself into action, harrying cooks and underlings, and speeding the sluggish drudges on their way. She urged them to hurry, to make haste, threatening dire consequences where encouragement did not work.

The headwoman's sharp gaze was quick to notice the small, wiry body standing still by the door. The drudge's eyes were glazed, and his thin hands were trembling slightly. Palma, whose customary ladle had been abandoned for a broad leaf with which to fan herself, quite sympathised. Obviously the poor thing had been working too hard. Heat like this did not encourage busy industry. She turned back to the others, deciding to allow him a few moments' grace before tanning his scrawny backside.

There was a commotion behind her. With a sudden, jerky movement the drudge dropped his burden and began to sprint the corridors up towards the sands, leaving the heavy bucket of grain pooling on the flagstones. Palma made an impatient noise, and cursed herself. Give them an inch, and they took it a clik. Trust her wits to become addled in this heat.

She snorted, and set a worker to clearing the mess, and then began to tell another to catch the drudge. He would feel the effects of his infraction alright. It occurred to her that it would be more provident to catch the culprit herself, and with a flicker of her fingers, motioned that her messenger should instead clean the batch of tubers that had just come in. Yes, Palma thought as she walked through the empty passages, it was a good plan. She would inspect the meat while she was at it, and possibly catch a glimpse of the sands before retreating to her domain, which was far cooler despite its hot ovens.

The lad was leaning against the wall just outside of the arena, his eyes flicking around the hatchlings. Was he searching for something? A pang of wistfulness echoed in Palma's chest. She had missed her chance, all those years ago, when presented as candidate on the stands. Too late for that now; she'd Turned thirty-seven this season. Shots of grey wove through the sensible bun she wore her hair in, and there was no denying that kitchen duties kept her busy, if not content. She marched towards the lad with a glint in her eye, determined to send him back to the cellars with nothing more than lifting and carrying for the rest of the month, if she had anything to do with it. Palma got no further than the entrance to the sands before a large something bowled her over, driving the breath from her in an accelerated whoosh.

She landed on her back, her startled gaze meeting that of not something, but someone. A bony head shoved itself into her vision and nudged her with his dazzling nose. I'm Keth, he said gleefully, and she caught his smugness at how easy she was to pin. And I'm hungry. She struggled to sit up, and he tumbled over onto his backside, his claws becoming tangled in his wings. His indignant snort made her bite back a choke of laughter, but already she was responding to his discomfort as though it were second nature. It should be, Keth put in quickly. You're mine and I'm yours and can I have some meat now?

They made an odd pair, the tiny, middle-aged woman and the bony blue, but there was no denying that Palma's hands lingered on her lifemate's nose more often than she shovelled food into his belly, and he snaked his head under her arm for no other reason than for her touch. But then, this was Impression, and despite the astonishment of her former drudges and cooks, this was right.

San awoke with her limbs tangled beneath a golden wingspan. It took only a moment, in which she caught the dry, spicy scent of her lifemate, to recall the day's events and find a reason for the cramped muscles in her legs. It had seemed expected for her to sleep briefly before attending the feast that evening. The depression in the floor of her – their – new weyr wasn't adequate for both of them, but as Vorlith seemed reluctant to allow San to go further than a metre from the only individual who could hear her, the young girl had grabbed a blanket and settled next to the young queen.

Not that she minded, exactly. The very idea of sharing her silence was novel, and Sannel gloried in the sensation of not being alone. As Vorlith wasn't yet awake, San had a moment to reflect in the strange soft light that heralded dusk's coming. Welded into her identity, woven into her very soul, the precious creature that had made all this happen had entwined her sinuous tail around San's ankles. Even in sleep, the hatchling seemed loathe to let the young girl go. San stifled a giggle as she carefully unravelled the golden rope. On the edge of her consciousness, she could sense Vorlith's awakening mind. The young dragon wouldn't be long in following her into the twilight, then.

She blinked, suddenly aware that Vorlith's familiar presence was not the only one chafing at the edge of her mind. There were others – many others. Who were they?

Good evening, little one. The tender greeting – green Elseth, her mind supplied - was repeated by a couple of other voices, whose timbre she recognised. With a groan, she understood that the "voices" she had heard over the past few days were none other than dragons. The realisation came with a sudden, thrilling relief that she wasn't mad, mixed with a rueful regret at her own ignorance. She knew that some people were able to hear all dragonkind. After all, wasn't Lessa herself such a one? She answered the dragons with a gladness that wobbled with gratitude. Her silent world was no longer so empty.

The weyrling rolled onto her back and kneaded at the knots in her neck, resisting the urge to give a moan of discomfort. Away from Vorlith's body heat, the twilight air was decidedly chilly, and San shivered as she rose to get a wrap. The young hatchling's claws scraped at the empty air in front of her, and she abruptly awoke. San!

Here! I'm here, San soothed, hurrying back to the golden creature who was lurching unsteadily to her feet. Vorlith shied away from the open windows, bereft of blinds until furniture could be removed from storage. She scrabbled away from the dying light: a melting blend of lilac and gold that was retreating with the sun. In dismay, Sannel watched her regal queenling burrowing her head into the folds of her clothing once more, broadcasting her discomfort, which was slight compared to her earlier agony. San found herself searching her lifemate's body with a mindtouch that was as thorough as it was tender. Vorlith's neat wings were folded; her trembling body was without injury or flaw; and her skull had no lesion – but her eyes…

San mused, scratching her dragon's eyeridges while her thoughts whirled. Vorlith, your pain is gone now that you've closed your eyes.

Yes. Her irreverent dragonet didn't seem to think much of this revelation.

She led her golden companion towards the shadows of their inner rooms, despite the fact that Vorlith's size made it difficult. Then she crouched in front of her dragon and asked her to open her eyes. The young queen did so, her eyes coloured the wary shade of yellow. San crooned to her comfortingly, ignoring the slight pang that she could not hear her throat's vibrations. Her hands cupped the fine cheekbones. Can you see me, love?

Vorlith was offended, and she let it be known. Of course I can, she retorted, as though it would be impossible not to. Her gaze returned slowly to a whorl of blue. She angled her head slightly, and blinked lazily as she felt San's answering amusement. Her harrumph was echoed mentally, and San let loose a bubble of laughter.

Sorry, the girl replied, not at all apologetically. Vorlith nudged her playfully, and Sannel staggered backwards, startled at the movement. With a decidedly mischievous air, her lifemate pounced, delighting in the softness of her companion's belly and pinning her clumsily to the ground.

Now you're sorry, the young queen guessed devilishly, and San's fervent nod as she rubbed her poor abdomen elicited a draconic bark of laughter. As a wistful look shadowed the young girl's face, Vorlith's attitude changed drastically. I don't mind, said the dragon fiercely. I don't care that you can't hear that. You can hear me, and that's all that matters.

San's smile was sad, and her reply was achingly soft. I care, love. Vorlith heard her make a sound in her throat, and twined herself around her lifemate as the frizzy-haired weyrling buried her head in the golden neck. The image of a tall young man flashed into her mind, and the hatchling felt the sense of betrayal in San's heart as acutely as if it were her own, although she didn't understand the emotion. I don't even know his dragon's name! she uttered, clearly affected by what she saw as a great oversight. Vorlith hummed, letting the vibrations rock through her lifemate's body, compelling her dry, hoarse sobs to slow. The golden dragonet rubbed her own cheek against the other's pale, freckled one, sneezing as her nose caught a whiff of San's frizzy hair.

You smell nice, Vorlith murmured artlessly.

A moment later, the young queen froze. San drew back, and cocked an eyebrow. What is it? she asked quizzically, trying to regain her composure. Her words were coloured with embarassment, and Vorlith sent a wave of reassurance and affection even as she gave her tense reply.

Someone's coming. A snatch of sound that almost translated to the tread of wherhide boots breezed through San's mind, and was gone. Before she had time to register its meaning, a lean woman entered the room. Her dark eyes were clear and sharp, and as she hesitated slightly on the threshold, San realised that it wasn't from any shyness on her part. The young girl nodded awkwardly to invite her in, getting to her feet so swiftly that she almost lost her balance. A quick glance at the woman's shoulderknots told her that this was the weyrwoman of Igen - rider of gold Baylith. Sannel racked her brains for this queenrider's name and retrieved it with a feeling of triumph. This was Nadira, the oldtimer queenrider who supported Benden Weyr's authority.

Although she was still clad in her ill-fitting robe, Sannel sketched a quick bow. Her curtsy wasn't elegant enough even with the aid of skirts, and the former Hold girl wasn't about to risk tripping on the hem in front of her superior. As she inclined her head, her mass of red curls slipped past her ears and reminded her that it had escaped its bindings during some point in her nap. The knowledge that she most likely looked as unkempt as she felt did nothing for her confidence, and she felt a rush of blood spring to her cheeks.

Nadira's scrutiny was appraising. As the weyrwoman studied her new charge, the dress again leaped to the forefront of her examination. She ignored it, thought. There were greater considerations at hand - the first being the challenge of communication.

"Can you hear me at all?" She spoke slowly, elongating her vowels and rounding the consonants. San felt a flush of frustration creep up her neck. It would be impossible to read the weyrwoman's lips if she continued to mangle the words like that.

San asks that you speak normally, weyrwoman, Vorlith said, deftly placing her neck under her rider's fingers. Her tone was cool and only borderline respectful; the hatchling was aware only that the weyrwoman's entrance had added to her lifemate's consternation. San directed a grateful glance at Vorlith's decision to act as intermediary, and her attention flickered back to Nadira's slightly startled face. She quashed the smouldering resentment in her chest, and tried to concentrate. Why did most assume that she was deficient in intelligence as well as hearing? The weyrwoman repeated her question, and San shook her head, and then pointed to her mouth to show that she couldn't speak anymore either.

As for Nadira, she had seen the spark of emotion flare in the young girl's black eyes, and approved. So, the newest queenrider had spirit, did she? She gestured behind her, and a woman older than her by seven or eight Turns appeared in the doorway, her impossibly green eyes sparkling. She looked, with her straight brown hair and those distinctly coloured eyes, like a tiny, feminine version of Darrin. The resemblance rocked Sannel further still, but she held her ground. Despite her stature, this woman's presence was strongly felt, and she was in no way lost behind the large pile of materials in her arms. Behind her peeked a small, bony blue just about to squeeze through the doorway, despite the fact that he couldn't easily fit.

Keth, behave! San caught the woman's mildly scolding tone, and also heard her add a command to stay at the door. Keth, whose belly bulged with meat, and who exuded the air of a dragon well-pleased with both himself and his world, balked at first, but had to content himself with hovering on the threshold. San's lips quirked into a half-grin, glad to see that she wasn't the only one with a stubborn dragon.

You can come in, if you want, she said quietly. Keth cocked his head, and then pranced forwards, replying to his rider's raised eyebrow that the girl asked me, so why can't I? He butted against the woman's arm with a manner that was both endearing and cheeky. His rider was rubbing his eyeridges almost before she knew what she was about, although she was echoing his answer out loud with a look of stunned amazement. A moment later, Keth froze, and then glanced at San with curiosity. Is it really strange for you to hear me? he asked, with all the naivety of a youngling. San quirked a grin, and nodded. It's surprising, at any rate, she replied. Her gaze flickered to the weyrwoman's face, wondering why this new woman was here. Who is your rider, Keth? San queried, puzzled. Why did Nadira want her to come up here?

Keth paused a moment, darting a look at Vorlith, who was staring at him. Her name's Palma, he said proudly, and then added, and probably because she was - He seemed lost for the word, and asked his lifemate. Headwoman. If he could have wrinkled his nose, he would have done; disapproval coloured his thoughts. She wants to give you new clothes. Nadira doesn't have anyone else to take over Palma's role yet, so she's got to do it. He sounded as though he were relaying a message almost word-for-word; he seemed to have only the vaguest of comprehensions of weyr hierarchy. San, torn between amusement and dismay at this hatchling's pedantic character, felt her self-discipline slip as Vorlith asked what's wrong with your dress? I like it!

San choked on laughter, her cheeks flaming as she tried to stop her giggles, but quickly found tears smarting in her eyes. She gulped them down. New clothes for her? But she was only a foundling, the deaf niece of the Lord Holder who had reluctantly taken her in. She had had no way of earning her keep, so her rich garments were the better-kept remnants of Fraya's extensive wardrobe. In fact, in the face of Nadira's perfect grooming, and Palma's neat, comfortable appearance, she felt no better than a drudge trying on the Hold childrens' clothes. A hand took her arm sympathetically, and she turned to see the former headwoman's face. Palma's green eyes were businesslike, but they held a softer emotion that San couldn't identify. "My husband became deaf before he died, Sannel," the older woman said quietly. Though she knew that the new queenrider couldn't hear her, Jaran had always appreciated her speaking normally and not too quickly. Palma hoped that this girl had some modicum of lip reading skill, or there really would be a problem. She felt relief when she saw San's eyes brighten, turning from black to a deep, rich brown, and the girl squeezed her arm gratefully.

I'm a sentimental old wherry, Keth, she grumbled good-naturedly as she unloaded her arms of her burden. Nadira had said nothing more since she had entered the room, but she bade them farewell before departing. Palma guessed that the weyrwoman had wanted a few quiet moments to take this new rider's gauge, untainted by others' opinions and noise. She pursed her lips and held up a pair of long trousers, tossing them towards Sannel with a belated "Heads up!" The sheepish cast of her smile belied any malice in the action, and San shed her dress with good humour. The wherhide fit well around her legs, but she would need a belt to cinch the waist, and a few minor alterations to the ends, which were too long. A comfortable green tunic followed its mate through the air, and the young girl slipped it on, unsure of whether she liked its softly clinging lines. She glanced to the untouched bed, where Palma was currently riffling through the heap of clothes. Keth was snaking his head around her hips, trying to see what it was that she was so involved in doing. He sneezed several times where dust had accumulated in folds of fabric. With a declamatory gesture, Palma held up a soft grey jerkin, decorated with embroidery. It was clearly an item of women's gather apparel, and San had to admit that she liked its snug fit. It would keep her warm, now that the air was so chilly, and the long trousers suited her far better than any dress.

Palma dusted her hands, and surveyed her critically. Yes, it was much better than that awful robe had been. These, at least, fit the girl. She was still awkward, pale and plain, but her adolescence would leave her with a fine figure, and perhaps her face might mature into an attractive sort of feature in time. Her slippers (Palma snorted, those soft excuses for boots would have to be replaced) would be fine for the feast, which would be starting at any moment. The elder woman's lips twitched into a smile, and then she said, "Well, are you ready? The feast shouldn't be too long, and you'll no doubt be able to leave whenever you wish, as a new weyrling." Her expression softened utterly as she was reminded that she, too, could do so. A weyrling. Shards, she hadn't been one of those for years! Her smile faded slightly. Not a headwoman, nor a young candidate who had just Impressed. What was she doing, a middle-aged woman with a dragon?

A flicker of her indecision must have shown itself, for the new queen of Igen bespoke her. San says that you are both unsure about your place in the weyr, Vorlith said. There was something slightly sad about her tone, but she added, so as we're both exploring new territory, why not do so together? Having heard her lifemate relay her message, San ducked her head, suddenly shy. But then, she heard Keth's delight at his rider's reaction, and looked up. Palma's narrow face was suffused with genuine amusement. Despite their contrasting ages, the pair had a mutual bond. Neither belonged, not by tradition. So they would have to make their own.

The weyr's harper was a small man, with quick, grey eyes and deft fingers. His passion for music was evident in the way he cradled his instrument, letting the rhythmic notes of the ballad shimmer softly in the air, from whence he had plucked them. Those assembled in the hall not dancing were stamping their feet, their faces alight with enjoyment. If Palma noticed that San had slipped her feet from the slippers and was resting them on the floor to feel the music's pulse, she said nothing. Her hand grasped the new queenrider of Igen's shoulder briefly, but that was all. There were no words for some things.

Author's note: Le gasp. A middle-aged woman Impressing? It isn't possible! – or is it? Anne McCaffrey's only argument against older Candidates (aside from practical considerations – not being able to get onto their dragons is definitely a disadvantage) is their inability to change enough to accept a new identity. Well, as she concedes that it might be possible if the rider was able to change, I'd say it'll be a learning curve that'll prove very interesting. I mean to explore it as a side-plot.

If you have any other questions, or you cannot ignore your wish to express your offended sensibilities at my audacity (wink wink), please put them into a review. I answer all of them as best as I'm able. Take care until the next update!

Rachel

PS: Dragovian Knight - your PM feature is disabled, so here's a quick thanks for your review. =) I'm trying to reply to all the reviews I get so readers know I got their feedback.

And to Dino, I couldn't remember whether I'd replied to your review, but rather than looking like a pleb by repeating myself in email, I'll do it here. Thanks for your positive comments, and I'm glad that this is important to you. I wanted to raise people's awareness of how deaf people cope in a hearing world. Enjoy!