Author's (rather gratified – and sheepish) note: My thanks to the reviewers who took time to write down what they really thought. Honesty can be better appreciated than many compliments (although they are gratifying). If you don't want to read this bit, please skip this note and move straight to the story.

Anyway, I first wanted to address, with some apology, the readers who had to put up with my ignorance of Pern. Though it may sound stupid, simple and idiotic, I had not researched thoroughly a world which I was prepared to write fanfiction about. Hopefully, I have now remedied that a little (although there is to come in this chapter something which is completely AU, because Anne McCaffrey clearly states that a dragon cannot survive unImpressed, nor can they be separated from their bond). So fired up with visions of such graceful beasts as Anne McCaffrey's words inspired within me that I rushed off to write a chapter without thinking. (An inexcusable crime, and one I shan't commit again.)

To try and give (or rather make up an excuse for the names of dragons in the first chappie really quickly), I think my line of thinking will be thus: To show the complete isolation from bondage with the Pernese, all of Kiroth's offspring will not follow the trend of –th at the end of their names, although Kiroth and others of her clutch (who are now all dead), including her mate, Hasath, will end in –th, to show the tenuous link formed at their Hatching in the arena.

I am also sorry for not making clear that this is not in keeping with any of Anne McCaffrey's works: i.e. that it is indeed both AU and non-canon. Although the inspiration is purely from the literary kingdom she has created, the characters are my own. To put this disclaimer more briefly:

Anne McCaffrey owns everything.

'K?

Ah, now that my oh-so-eloquent apology (pfft) is finished, please ignore my delightfully boring words and… on with the story!

Chosen by Dragons: Part Two

Heat. It is so hot, so stifling inside this black shell. She is so impatient to break free – to struggle forth from what has so long squashed her and cramped her. Unfamiliar hands have touched the sensitive egg-shell so many times that she wants to snap at them, to wrench herself free from their confounded fumbling and nonsensical speech. Their mumbling makes no sense – it hurts her ears. Mother stop them stop them speaking stop it - MOTHER!

She can hear a humming – a low, loud drone that buzzes in her ears and thrums through the sand beneath her, making her haunches vibrate and her tail wish for more room so that she can whip it, whip it around and thrash that sand into a whirlwind, because she is so ANGRY – so angry her jaws ache from keeping them shut because she can't move inside this cramped space.

Her head begins to butt the eggshell with frightening intensity. Again and again she feels it buckle beneath her onslaught, but it isn't enough, and she can't get free. What can she use?

There is a painful, gnawing ache in the top of her jaw, and suddenly she plunges into the hard, sticky membrane around her, tackling it, worrying it – tearing it. YES. This is it, it's working. She can glimpse a beautiful – oh what can you call that sort of shade? – it is in the Up, she knows that, and suddenly her newly-freed, glistening wings want to stretch, stretch and fly into that glorious Up.

Eager, clumsy claws. They must belong to herself, she realises in surprise. She stumbles across the sands. Too hot, too hot. She hears the hungry creeling of so many others around her – others like her, her eggmates! They know what she feels – they must do! Her angry screech rents the air with ferocity. It's a command. Her golden skin is becoming more brilliant as the hot dries it.

And suddenly, she feels like she's in the egg again, small and insignificant, because there's a girl – a weakling human – in these busy, loud ones – who's looking at her. And her gaze seems so familiar, like she's known her before. Like that tugging in her gut is what's calling to her, what's making her cry to that weakling girl that her name is Kiroth – and that she – her rider! – can feel the cool if she comes with her, comes into the Up. But there are angry voices, and now urgent hands are tugging at her so that she can turn around.

Suddenly she feels scared. Too many people. Too many noisy ones. She has to go. Her sudden, tragic scream speaks of loneliness as she tears herself away. Mirrol, she's crying, come with me! You have to, YOU HAVE TO! And though the girl has wet on her cheeks, she can't get to her, and that voice that speaks to her is crying too.

I can't, Kiroth, I can't. I can't walk, my darling one, I can't walk! I'm not supposed to, I'm not allowed to – I – Kiroth!

The cry is cut short in anguish as a man – a big, loud one in black – cuffs her Mine into Between. And she's so angry, because her Mirrol isn't there, and she can't feel her because she's sleeping. And it's because of that man. The wings, abnormally large and graceful, beat the air as the furious Queen throws up her glittering head. Her mental voice is so loud that everyone in the hatching grounds can hear.

MIRROL! Her breath is coming in great, billowing gasps, and her tail thrashes the sand. DIRTY! YOU NOISY ONES – NEVER STOPPING, NEVER RESTING. ALWAYS SO LOUD! Can't stop it, can't stop it. Her mental voice subsides to a whimper, but the anguish still makes many flinch. Oh, Mirrol, where are you? Why aren't you here Her crimson gaze rests on that man, that noisy one, the one who hurt her Mine. And she knows that her eggmates are behind her, that they are ignoring everyone else, and that they know no other but her.

Her breath is rasping. She takes a desperate, agonized look at her Mine, who still breathes, but now the need to fly into the Up is consuming her. She feels like she will suffocate, because she's drowning on the ground, in this sand, and every one of those noisy ones is just looking at her, and she can't stop. And she knows that she can't do this if her Mine isn't sleeping. Savagely, with a jerk of her ferocious and yet wildly beautiful head, Kiroth feels her heart breaking. It's breaking it's breaking it's tearing and ripping and –

And tendril by tendril, thought by thought, minds that have been melded together so irrevocably, so tenderly, are being brutally separated. She can't feel anything but this pain, this horrific pain that thunders against her chest and makes her head pound. And in one, split second, as their last thought is severed, she screams

Mirrol!

It's enough. The girl wakes up and looks at her, and suddenly she's dragging herself from her seat and falling onto the sands, not caring about the heat that burns and blisters her soft skin, because she has to get to her Mine, and Kiroth can feel her pain, that terrible agony that is in her soul –

And then she feels nothing. The world is silent. She does not hear Mirrol's voice, the voice that makes her want to stay. She's done it. Driven by instinct, she shrieks a command to her eggmates, her brothers and sisters, and spreads a wingspan that dwarfs her infantile body. And now she's gliding into the Up, and she does not hear her dam's commands to come back now, because dragons have to have a Mine, but she's revelling in the cool, the wind, and she knows that her mate is next to her because he's stronger than the others and his name is Hasath and that one day they'll love and know and mate and –

Kiroth woke up. The boy did as well, shifting beside her with a great yawn that split his small face and displayed a few white teeth against grimy cheeks. She suddenly remembered the day before: the battle, the deaths – the boy.

Not a boy, the human scowled. I'm Ronan.

His face is so expressive, Kiroth mused. I wonder if they grow out of it?

The boy was confused, she noted, feeling once more the torrent of confused thoughts that were directed nowhere, everywhere. She eyed, with a pang of – was it consternation? – the angry red weals upon his chubby forelegs, but especially the great burn that still pulsed on his right one. He looked so delicate.

The human definitely understood that.

"I'm a big boy!" he shouted tearfully. "I'm not little! I'm STRONG like Pati." His noisy sobs racked his body as he tried to run away. A quick swipe of a gargantuan claw sent him tumbling (rather more roughly than she had intended) against a wall.

Do not PRESUME to have a temper tantrum with me, the dragoness thundered. He glowered at her, his little body shivering from the coolness of the cave they had slept in. The sun was not yet up in the sky, and the horizon was smudged a dirty grey from the early dawn. All the child had was a smock turned ragged by fire and grime on his scrawny hide, the dragoness thought, and cocked her great head on one side.

He was her enemy – this tiny little child – but she knew so little about him. Her hot, acrid breath swept over his face, and his shiny eyes blinked. Then, once more, he laughed, his little chest heaving with each chuckle that bubbled from it.

"Ki-kirrofhh," he gasped between giggles. The Queen's eyes snapped in irritation at the mangled form of her name.

Kiroth, she corrected sternly.

Kee-roff, he repeated solemnly. She said it to him again, exasperated, but it seemed that this undignified address was a compromise, and the little one would change no more. And then, suddenly, from nowhere, it seemed, a rumble emanated, growling in the air. Kiroth's finely moulded muzzle whipped up, seeking the dragon that it must have come from – but there was none, except the boy, who sported a rather sheepish expression.

That was you?! she exclaimed in amazement. But how could such a small creature make such an extraordinarily loud noise?

"'M hungry," he explained, reverting to the human-speak that she found so difficult to understand. It was so – so rough around the edges, so insensitive. It couldn't compare to mind-speak. So why, the dragoness wondered, don't they speak telepathically?

Hungry? She asked again. Then it hit her, forcefully. What on earth was she going to feed it?

They emerged from the cave some time later, when the sun was approaching its zenith in an absolutely lovely blue sky. Kiroth's frustration was evident in the snapping yellow streaks in her quickly whirling eyes, and the boy was still hungry. He had refused, out of all reason, the fresh meat from the tunnel snake she had quickly killed (while it was still warm!), and when she had finally asked what he did want, his stubborn answer had been berries. Berries, of all things. At this time of year, too.

Besides, why would a dragon – a carnivore – know where to find berries?

Their slow walk, due to the boy's short, chubby legs, and the fact that the Queen was not nearly as graceful on land as she could be in the air, her natural element, brought them through the valley to a small gathering of water in a rocky hollow, and a few hardy bushes sparsely covered with berries. The berries, though only small in number, were fat with juice, and there were enough for a child who barely numbered three Turns. His cheeks were soon stained purple, as were his hands, and Kiroth was struck that humans, like dragons, probably liked to be clean, or were made to, if they didn't voluntarily.

You need a clean, she told him severely. The sudden panic in the baby's eyes informed her that he knew exactly what that meant.

Don't need a baff, he said stoutly, while he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his grubby hands behind his back.

Do too, came the stern reply.

DON'T, he shouted. The Queen's eyes narrowed.

I don't see why I'm even arguing on this point. You will have a bath.

The next thirty seconds saw a violently protesting infant flung into the water, which conveniently was more of a puddle than a pond. The child, gasping for breath, managed to look indignantly back at his guardian.

Wash, the dragoness instructed. Now.

Mati always washed me, the child replied smugly. Don't know how.

Kiroth glanced at her claws, which were larger than his entire body and large enough to cradle a runner. They ended in talons the width of his arm and sharper than her teeth. Certainly not the gentle hands of a mother.

Perhaps it's time you learnt, boy, she said wryly. The babe squirmed under her gaze, and tentatively scrubbed at his cheeks with his fists. Kiroth snorted. You're not coming out of that water until you're clean.

As it is, berry juice takes a long time to come out without the aid of soapsand or washroot. Ronan spent a miserable hour splashing the cold water over himself and trying, as best he could, to wash the tangled curls atop his small head, and reducing the great purple stains to faint smudges.

Alright, the dragon mother said gruffly after a while of watching him. Come here. The sodden toddler stood, shivering, in front of her, not meeting her eyes. On realising he was cold, and that he wouldn't take kindly to being told to fly for a while to dry off, Kiroth snorted hot breath over him, trying carefully not to burn him with her heat. Even so, the tiny infant winced once or twice. Then he smiled at her, as though, now that he was fed and dry, he forgave her everything.

Kiroth, who had been trying to prevent her return to the clan as long as possible, shook her great head. It was time to find a village or settlement – perhaps even a Hold – that would take care of her dragon child.

A dragon mother is no fit mother for a three Turn old human, she reminded herself sharply. When called, Ronan sat comfortably between her upturned talons and clutched grimly on, with a grin on his face that said he would enjoy flying again.

Are we going to see mati and pati now? was his tired question, and Kiroth caught the impression of a warm fireplace and his favourite stew. The child was tired again, she realised.

No, she said as gently, but as firmly as possible. The child wriggled his discomfort, and she sternly adjured him to keep still while she spread her wings. The great, glittering wingspan shadowed the earth as, with a mighty heave, she launched into the air. Mati and pati, she tried to explain carefully, as the wind whipped past them, cannot look after you anymore. They're dead.

Dead?

Deceased. Killed. Dead. The point is, she continued frankly, that they're not coming back. You must learn to live with that. You're strong. You can do this.

So who's going to – to look after me? was the pitiful question posed, and it sounded so pathetic that the dragon mother felt her heart break.

I don't know. Not yet, anyway – Ronan.

And with that, they flew westward.

Well, what did you think? I know I said in the last chapter that the dragons didn't Impress. :chuckles: I lied. I also know that it's impossible for dragons to break their bond. It would drive them insane, probably, as it would their rider.

Erm, I hide behind my rather pitiful shield of stating that this is AU.

Ah, the plot thickens. Such a sweet, irritating, child. Is the Dragon Mother becoming fonder than she should? Please ponder and review. I like reviews. They make me happy.

- Colour Me Stunned