Disclaimer: I would like to aspire to such talent as Anne McCaffrey, but as of yet I have not become the able woman she has, and am not likely to. I follow my own road, but in dabbling in her world I'd like to say that I practise. =)

Thou should turn back
Fool rider
Who dares to Impress gold

Thou should retreat
Fool rider
Back to thy curséd Hold

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I
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Sannel waded through the choking heat in a dress that didn't fit. Usually, this wouldn't have bothered her, as Tillek (which was home now, she reminded herself severely) was as empty of visitors as it was of cheer, but the too-small robe clung to her damp body as she shuffled forward behind her uncle. The Hold where she lived was nestled into the cliffs near the western Ocean, and this oppressive heat was utterly foreign to her, accustomed as she was to the Hold's brisk winds and cold winters. She twitched the sleeves in an effort to pull them over her long limbs, but caught the irritated glance Ranrel sent her, and subsided.

It wouldn't do to put the Lord Holder in a bad mood, not when he might yet allow her to attend the feast after the Hatching. Darrin had promised to teach her a proper jig, which he'd learnt (apparently) in the three Turns since he'd been sent to foster at Igen. Oh, how Sannel missed that rogue: the easy-mannered, grave brother whom she enjoyed such a rapport with, despite the fact that she was just a girl child.

On reflection, Darrin was unlikely to keep to his word in this case, she decided. The stone benches were padded with cushions for Lord Holder Ranrel and those in his purview, and she was grateful for it as she looked to the sands. From here in the lowest tiers, San didn't even have to squint to see tall, quiet Darrin, his earnest gaze locked onto the clutch of eggs. Despite their uncle's misgivings, he had been allowed to stand as candidate when he was Searched, but Ranrel was not pleased. Darrin had been due to return to Tillek this year, to learn Holding under their uncle in place of the heir Helana had never borne him. And as the young Hold girl believed her brother capable of anything, she didn't doubt he would be far too busy with his new dragon (which would be bronze, of course) to pay any attention to the little sister who had Turned fourteen only that autumn.

She shifted slightly in her heavy dress, and wondered anew where Ranrel's firelizard, Drosk, had perched himself. The little blue was utterly devoted to his stern master (although San couldn't for the life of her see why), but he was friendly enough with Ranrel's niece that she missed his saucy ways. Briefly, San wondered which ledge he was sunning himself on, or whether he, too, was assembled for the occasion. She caught a flash of blue above their heads, and felt her lips quirk into a smile. So, the little flit was as curious she was.

Ranrel shot her a warning look, and only then did San realise that her disobedient feet were tapping against the bench. She desisted, and abruptly understood why her uncle's expression had been quite so stern. There was a thrumming in the soles of her feet. Startled, San glanced around the Hatching sands to see more dragons than she'd ever witnessed in her life, all turned to the luminous assembly of eggs on the Sands. Their throats were trembling with sound, eyes gleaming a whorl of different shades as they gave voice to the resonating hum that heralded Hatching.

It was a legendary sound, older than the first Egg hatched by the colonists, if AIVAS was to be believed, but it was something that San could not hear – or at least not well. It was like a far-off buzzing in her ears, and San resisted the urge to shake her tousled head. But at least this way, the voices in her head were silent. After all, she thought darkly, no one would fault Ranrel's disownment of her if she admitted to "hearing" voices. It only made it worse that she had not heard their like before her arrival at the Weyr – and if she spoilt her only brother's Impression, she would never forgive herself. Voices were from Before, and she would never hear another again.

Any glances Darrin could have spared for her were now at an end, his attention now solely focussed on the rocking eggs before him. As the first dragonet exploded from its shell, she wished desperately that she could hear its frenzied creel, and felt despair engulf her. Her brother, the only individual on all of Pern who had bothered to communicate with her, to help her construct a language composed completely of gestures - would be gone so soon. No one else had bothered. She was proficient enough at watching the shape of others' mouths to understand their orders, and if the meaning escaped her, a sharp push in the direction they wanted her to go in was eloquent enough. She would be lost, once more, in this silent, all-encompassing world.

The Hatching continued. Smudges of colour wrestled their way from the egg, before powdering the remnants to dust. San traced the obvious delight on the candidates' faces with a gaze approaching that of a starving man. What she would give to hear their proud words, proclaiming their lifemate's name! A pang of bitterness resounded in her chest, but she choked it down, unable to look away from the Hatching. The vibrant shades of the hatchlings' hides were muted by egg-damp, but as the sun continued its merciless way across the sky, drying wings were being stretched clumsily, and the sands were choked with deep sapphire, bright emerald, rusty brown, dazzling bronze... and as of yet, no gleam of gold.

In fact, the jealously guarded egg had not wobbled once. Despite its evident hardness, there had been nary a tremor from this reluctant queen. Restlessness stirred in the crowds, and those who had not yet Impressed gathered closer, their hope tangible as they regarded it. And then - the slightest tremble shivered across the egg's hard surface, beginning to crack in slow, jagged segments. The young queen was certainly taking her precious time about it, San noted dryly, her own troubles forgotten in the momentousness of what was occurring. An indignant tone inserted itself into her consciousness.

Well, I am Vorlith, the new queen of Igen. They've been waiting for me.

Not all of them, San replied acerbically, startled into answering. It would be quite difficult if you Impressed all the candidates on the sands.

No, just you, came the cheerful rejoinder, although it was twisted by a wistful note. And you're not on the sands. Where are you? Something was lurking in her mind, using her eyes, and she felt a pang of dismay that wasn't her own. You're all the way up there? Why didn't you stand in front of my egg like all the others?

San was stunned. She was still staring, mouth stupidly agape, as the egg shards were flicked forcefully away from a large, wet body, and Vorlith stepped proudly forth, her whirling purple eyes flashing frantically around the masses of milling people and beginning to turn amber. Where are you? I can't see you! She lurched forward, but her claws became tangled with her wings, and she lost her balance. The candidates inched forward eagerly, and she gave a shriek, its mental echo grating against San's mind. Her dam, Baylith, reared up protectively behind her golden daughter, refusing to acknowledge her rider's urgent orders to back away. The approaching candidates came to an abrupt halt. The little gold hatchling's mindshade was becoming hysterical, and she gave a wordless, awful scream as she continued to seek the girl.

As Vorlith's head slanted upwards towards the sunlit sands, San felt another flash of sudden pain across her eyes. She almost raised a hand to her face, but realised disjointedly that it wasn't her own discomfort at the same time as she knew there was something wrong with her queen. Her queen. Who was hurting her lifemate? Who dared? She didn't remember rising to her feet, suddenly determined, stumbling towards the steps. She sent a shaft of love and reassurance towards that precious, gleaming body, yelling incoherent platitudes in her mind. It's going to be alright, love, I'm coming – Vorlith, I'm coming!

Abruptly, there were hands on her arms, pulling her back. It was Ranrel, his face rigid with anger at her movement in the midst of such uproar, holding her in an iron grip. Frantically, San struggled against him, gesturing wildly with her fingers, and then remembered that he couldn't understand. Although she couldn't hear, she made her mouth form the word and flung it towards him with all her might. "NO!" She lurched away from him, and in a moment San was racing down the stone steps towards the flickering heat of the sands.

Where? Where are you? Vorlith continued to cry, although her tightly shut eyes were turned towards the young girl. Dimly, San sensed that it hurt less that way. As though she sensed her lifemate's presence, she began to sway towards San's awkward figure, stretching her head forward with an oddly lost look. They met in a tangle of limbs and flesh, San doing her best to avoid Vorlith's flailing talons as she gathered the precious dragon to herself. San's breath came in hoarse, grateful gasps, but the completion she felt at just holding this other half of her was absolute.

I'm here, love, it's alright, it's fine. Vorlith buried her large head into San's abdomen, and despite her pain and overwhelming hunger, snorted comically at the stiff material. San choked back a laugh at her lifemate's estimation of her apparel. She knew there was something expected, something important, although it escaped her. She could barely think, struggling to comprehend a feeling of pain that wasn't hers, yet was, because her lifemate, her soul, was hurting – and then she was seeking the shadows at the edges of the Hatching sands, motioning towards the helpers frantically, hating her inability to communicate with them. Her raw, incomprehensible cries brought aid quickly, though, and they were ushered into the shade.

It took a moment for San to realise that her dragon's thoughts were now tinged only with hunger – a hunger that was deep and instinctual and urgent, but not pain – and then, her hands were busy with offering thick pieces of raw meat to those open jaws. Distracted once more from her own urge to tell those gathered here that this was her dragon, that Vorlith had spoken to her, Sannel was missing an array of expressions whose variety was rich in nuance. Surprise, anger, indignation – but many were amused at this girl who had seemingly been so caught up in Impression that she had borne her lifemate from the sands before telling anyone the dragon's name. However, those bonded to dragons were sharing in confusion at the way that Baylith's rage at her daughter's pain had so quickly subsided. Nadira was at her lifemate's side, evidently questioning her as she leant her head against the golden neck.

The light was hurting her. Baylith's unfathomable answer didn't do much to assuage her rider's curiosity, and the weyrwoman of Ista regarded the pair frankly. The new rider was kneeling awkwardly as she struggled to keep up with her dragon's voracious appetite, but the glowing look on her features gave her plain face a rather different appearance. Yes, they had certainly Impressed. Nadira took a moment to gauge this new weyrling, noting her frizzy red hair and pale, freckled skin. Certainly an odd-looking person, and too long and lanky to wear the dark blue dress that she was clad in well.

A voice hailed her, and she turned pensively to see a man dressed in the soft blue garb of the Fishcraft Hall at Tillek. He apologised profusely, gesturing towards the euphoric pair on the edge of the sands and gabbling about how unsuitable Sannel – was that her name? – was and how deeply my Lord Holder regretted this incidence. He gestured towards a man whose tanned face was pinched white with anxiety and whose resplendent apparel proclaimed him the Holder in question. His thin mouth was pressed firmly closed. It was a few moments before Nadira was able to comprehend that somehow her new queenrider was just wrong, in some way. But why? The weyrwoman made an abrupt movement for the journeyman to stop talking.

"Dorcas, what are you trying to say?" He was the son of an Igen bronzerider, she recalled quickly, fostered out to a Hold several years ago to learn a Craft. The young man shot her a sheepish look, but didn't abate his urgent speech.

"Weyrwoman," he repeated respectfully, "Sannel is my Lord Holder's niece." Nadira quirked an eyebrow.

"Did you want compensation, journeyman?" she asked, her tone dry. "You'll have none from me. Impression is a compliment to his guardianship skills, you may tell him that." Privately, she thought that fishing had done much for his confidence, but not for his intelligence. Such politics were of no interest to her, and he should remember that.

"I –" He swallowed visibly. "We do not seek – reparation, weyrwoman. I am trying to prevent such a necessity being demanded of us." That caught her attention, and a low rumble behind her gave her notice that Baylith was now interested. Dorcas saw her sharp gaze and lowered his own in response. He seemed tongue-tied now, unable to give voice to the source of his anxiety. Nadira was by no means a patient woman, and she clicked her tongue against her teeth.

"Dorcas-" Her voice was tightly controlled, but the journeyman evidently remembered its like from his mischievous days as a youngster here in the weyr. His reaction was automatic.

"Sannel is deaf, Nadira." From his stricken look, it was evident that he had not meant to say it so plainly. For a moment, the senior queenrider of Igen believed her own hearing to be faulty. Sannel couldn't possibly be. Surely a dragon would not… Her eyes turned to the pair, searching for any visible defects, as though there should be some physical manifestation of her disability. The girl was laughing, a bubble of joyful sound that surely shouldn't be possible. Her face was alight, and her dragon's expression was a blissful blend of purple and blue. And yet, even as Nadira watched, a tall figure tending a large brown locked eyes on the girl and gasped in a low, hollow voice – "No, San."

She saw him. The tall girl staggered to her feet, and the two stared at one another. She made a hesitant gesture, to which the young man shook his head violently. His return motions were harsh and blunt. It was evidently a communication of some kind, for the girl – Sannel – reeled suddenly, as if from a blow. She moved towards him, but he backed away, his gaze dark with grief and regretful. His own dragon followed him as he turned his back and made his way from the Hatching grounds. Nadira watched, stunned, as the girl's lanky figure wavered and Vorlith interposed herself neatly beneath her rider's arm as she groped for support. The weyrling's face was ashen and her eyes were haunted, and as she turned from the arena herself her motions were slow and numb.

Nadira swallowed, a shadow creeping across her as she accepted the veracity of Dorcas' words. It was true, then. The new queenrider of Igen was deaf.

Author's Note: Well, I've tried to express the confusion and inability to multitask that I'm pretty sure would happen with Impression, but even though I've rewritten this numerous times, I'm still not content with it. If I don't post this however, I'll never be able to give you a second chapter, and as my muse is being pretty chatty right now, I think I'll be a good girl and obey her. Please give me your honest opinions, and don't be wary of my feelings. I can take concrit.

I researched the names and canon-characters as well as I could, but my reference to AIVAS is somewhat oblique due to the fact that I don't want it to feature heavily in this story. I don't yet know enough about it to write well enough. Just thought I should mention that. Hope you enjoyed this first chapter!