Disclaimer: I'm writing on a fanfiction site here. Does it strike no one as odd that if Pern belonged to me I would publish my ideas here instead of popping down to a publishing firm and setting it as a concrete part of my world? I hope that's a sufficient disclaimer, readers. =)

Elder, were I to tell thee true,
That I saw a dragon clad in blue,
Wouldst thou believe me?

Youth, thine eyes speak truth,
Let thy worried head be soothed.
Why wouldst thou deceive me?

Elder, in the early morn I saw
The tiny wings, the smaller jaw
Of a creature that did soar
Above my head, before it blinked
Into a darker cold that winked
Of secrets from beyond the brink.

"This dragon, no longer than mine arm."

Youth, thy tongue wags long.
Thou speaks of myth and song.
No creature such as this exists.

Elder, I am not sure myself,
For though I sat long upon the shelf,
It vanished into morning mists.

Youth, why dost thou carry on?
Cease thy prattle: 'tis overlong.
Thy youth astounds me.

Elder, I do not linger still,
Upon that rocky, sandy sill,
I merely tell what I've seen.

~ A Teaching Ballad, c.2518

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The dim light allowed only the faintest idea of shape in the pre-dawn kitchens, but perhaps that was fortunate. Palma did not wish to be disturbed, and it would be a full hour before the drudges ventured into the kitchens to revitalise the great fires that had been banked for the night. As the weather had been unusually balmy, the practice had been maintained throughout much of the past half-Turn, but soon the fires which lent their heat to much of the main Weyr through a series of pipes would become essential for the winter, and a drudge would be posted throughout the night to keep the flames alive.

The Northern hemisphere was not kind in her coldest months. Those who did not own one of the heating units so ingenuously crafted by Pern's few engineers (and they were many) felt her chill to the marrow. The earth became hard and unkind, and hoards of grain and other necessary fruits of harvest could easily spoil in a quick frost. All this and more Palma instinctively knew, for just as her hands were an extension of her body, so the Weyr and all its matters had been integral in her identity. She had spent the better part of her life involved in its affairs, and the abrupt loss of it had borne upon her quickly in the ebbing euphoria of Impression.

She could not regret her bond with the infamous character lying sprawled across the floor of their weyr. Keth, who spanned a bare ten feet at three months' growth, was not unaware of how far he was dwarfed by his eggmates. He had not hatched last of the clutch, nor had he been smallest at their birth - but although he was well-proportioned, his build was delicate. Palma kept him so well-cleaned and oiled that one of her former fosterlings had declared she must have scrubbed his hide away, her eyes alight with humour. As Palma was known for her meticulous inspection of flagstones and hearth once any individual proclaimed them finished, the comment, made in careless jest, somehow took firm root in the minds of those jealous that a Headwoman could Impress a fighting dragon. Suddenly, where her rigid attention to detail had once had her known as the best Headwoman of all the Northern Weyrs, she was now stigmatised as cosseting, over-anxious, and fussy.

Palma's lively sense of humour had allowed her to withstand the first sly comments. Her common sense told her that they could not last with proof to the contrary. However, when K'min had drawn her aside the day before to discover whether there were truth to the rumours, she had been angry. It had taken a rather rare spurt of common sense on Keth's part to remind her that the Wingleader wasn't the cause of such falsehoods. She had replied to his questions with an attempt at her usual wry manner. Later, the young dragon had headed towards the lake, to practise diving into its deepest waters and holding their breath. As Keth was fond of spiralling to a lofty height before snapping in his wings and cannoning into the depths, the former Headwoman adjured him to take care. Wouldn't want you injuring yourself, love. It was just a comment tacked onto the end of their conversation together, but the young blue snapped back with an unusual bite to his words.

I'm not a hatchling! As he had abruptly turned away and disappeared in a blast of cold air, following the coordinates of the older ones, Palma was left speechless. Her indignation had quickly turned to a frank examination of her own actions, anxiously cataloguing her manner towards the individual who understood her most. It was why she found herself in the one place whose busy atmosphere had always afforded her a kind of peace. In the odd calm as dawn came and went, she found that it did not give her the same tranquility it had always done. Had she, perhaps, treated Keth like the fosterlings, with their small worries and complaints? She recoiled from the thought. Palma Headwoman, cosset any person of sound mind? Pah. It did not bear thinking of. And yet, she could not deny that she worried for her precocious dragon. Despite his evident delight in flying, she (and many others) worried that he would never be sturdy enough to bear a rider, and Keth was already anticipating the day they would experience it together.

You will like lake-diving, he had commented in his impulsive way, his hide ablaze and brilliant from the cold of the lake's waters. He glanced at her sideways from anxious, whirling eyes, and Palma blurted that she knew he wasn't a hatchling anymore. She knew it, but she also wished that it was easy to ignore the niggling hurt that she could not be efficient and omniscient in their bond. Perhaps she had expected it to develop with no hitch. After all, their Impression was based on an unconditional love. It seemed ridiculous, and even laughable, that this could not just be sufficient - that one had to work as hard in this peculiar relationship as with other humans.

Hands that knew instinctively where each utensil lived came to life. The drudge that entered a bare twenty minutes later was astonished to find his former mistress bending over one of the numerous hearths, occupied in decanting a measure of fresh broth into a beaker. Even more astonishing, perhaps, was the combination of herbs that had been blended to make the unappetising concoction. Gurril couldn't know it, but the lovage on the table was not just useful for providing a sharp, tangy flavour when used in cooking, but provided a soothing relief for coughs. Spongy fellis ground to a paste induced a calming sleep, and the tarragon leaves and stems steeped in the brew encouraged appetite and aided digestion. For the patient Palma had in mind, it was perfect. She cleaned her working area efficiently, and by the time the bemused drudge had finished stoking the rest of the kitchen fires, Palma had disappeared, bearing the beaker towards a certain junior queenrider's weyr.

Vorlith is never going to forgive me, San told Palma, shading the sign that meant her beloved dragon with the fondness that accompanied the statement. Her puffy eyes peeked through her lashes. I promised that I wouldn't get a cold from that dunking in the lake, and I didn't keep my promise. She gestured helplessly at herself, swaddled in thick furs and cupping a steaming cup of the strong-tasting brew Palma had made. It left a bitter taste lingering on her tongue, but already the congestion in her lungs was being eased. Vorlith looked on anxiously, crooning her remorse at the state of her rider.

As it was clear to anyone with half an eye that Sannel wouldn't recover well as long as she was trying to cajole her lifemate out of her evident distress, Palma decided to intervene. It was simple to cast aside her own worries for the time being, and let such matters rest as long as she had something to do. As the former Headwoman interjected her opinion that Sannel was unlikely to die from a mere headcold, shook out the furs, and gave the young queen of Igen a reassuring pat, she gave a small sigh of relief that she was of some use, however slight. For her part, San was glad that Palma was as brusquely kind as ever, and gave into a healing sleep.

Author's note: The poem at the top is mine, but I wanted this part to reflect a little more of Pern's history and largely pharmaceutical culture, I though it appropriate. I know that this chapter isn't as long as some others I have written, but I said I would explore this sub-plot, and it's one of the parts I enjoy writing most about. I know there are numerous things I could improve on - so tell me of them!

I also must apologise that it's been so long since I updated. Mostly, I'm drowning under revision and exams, and despite my best intentions, I'm not so organised that I can churn out chapters quickly. Hope that this was worth the wait!

Much love,
Rachel