Creator
*****
Imagine a world.
No, no, too broad.
Imagine a blue-green planet, swirled with white clouds. It appears so idyllic on approach, but go down, down through those clouds. Beneath their protective surface, it is no longer so beautiful.
From down here, the clouds are more grey than white. The scenery is illuminated even now, at night, by the thousands of yellow-white lights, shining and reflecting, and the thousands of red lights, warning the many people who are awake, even now.
Listen.
Listen to the rumble and honks of traffic - for this is a world driven by technology. Listen to the cries of people. Listen.
But now, turn away from the city. Go on, on, until a different scene comes in sight; snowcovered hills and valleys, groves of leafless trees. It is darker here, for there are few lights, and quieter; fewer people inhabit the countryside.
Imagine a house, a residence of wood and stone, sheltered beneath the hills. Approach it, but take care, for there are few lights here to guide wandering footsteps. In fact, it is dark, but for an odd, pale blue light that shines through one window, in an upper corner of the house.
Enter the room. It is small and would be cozy, but at the moment, the blue light emitted by the computer in a corner gives it an eerie feel. Bookcases line every wall, and each shelf is filled with fantastical titles.
A woman sits in a straight-backed chair before the computer. Her head is propped wearily on one hand, but she types in the near-darkness, seemingly unaware that it is late. Upon closer examination, her hair is rather grey; her face is worn and lined. Even her green eyes are tired, though more from physical weariness than from life.
She finally sits back, cracks stiff fingers, and smiles, slowly, at the computer screen, where black characters tell the final story of a world, a lifestyle, and a people. "It is done," she murmurs, to herself. "I am done."
For her saga is complete, and its ending has come none too soon for its weary writer. She loved it, yes. In the beginning, it was an expression of her dreams... dreams of flight, of freedom, on dragonback. Of a miracle, a perfect bonding between hearts and minds, full of love.
And it was a wonderful experience, sharing her dream.
She was successful, oh yes; perhaps even too successful. For people loved the world she wrote of: loved it and empathithized with its characters and lived their lives, through the tales, and wished, secretly, that they too could fly between fragile dragonwings.
The publishers, too, loved the stories, though for a different reason. They sold well, and were profitable, and in high demand.
And readers and publishers both demanded more tales, more adventures, more expansion on the world.
And her own connection... was both of these, was more personal at the same time. She was intrigued by her own creation, because, hers though it was, she learned more about it each day. And the lure of riches, of being famous, respected, also called her. Who could resist it?
So she wrote more, more about the world, more about its people, and the great winged protectors that characterized the planet.
Except... she tried too hard, wrote too much. And it showed in her writing.
And then... The responses that had once thrilled and gratified her became a problem, not so much to her, but to the publishers. They didn't want anyone else to write of the dragons, for the younger generation had begun to understand the world better than its creator...
And, a little jealous of their insight, she had gone along with it, though she hadn't ever seen the stories that the fans wrote. She only had a vague knowledge that they were wrong, that the publishers were right, that these deviant stories should not exist.
But she is done now, done with all of it. She is tired of forcing herself to write, tired of fighting, tired of the tyranny over those who might have come into her world.
She saves the last story, and contemplates turning the computer off. What does she need it for, after all?
But... she doesn't.
She opens a new window, and, feeling daring and guilty, searches for one of the illicit fan-written stories.
It is surprisingly easy, and she feels a twinge of anger that so many people have dared to go against her. But no... that is the jealous writer of the past speaking, and she is no longer that person. So she only admires their bravery in persisting, and daring. She certainly hasn't made it easy for them.
She chooses the first name that catches her eye, and begins to read.
And in the story of that one girl, who dared anything and everything for her Hold, and finally to Impress, she is welcomed into her own world anew; welcomed and enthralled and fascinated again, by the story of the girl who had become a queenrider.
And when she finishes, she wonders, for a moment, just what was so new to her, how one story could reintroduce her to her world.
And then... She realizes. The world written of is hers in name, yes, and in plants, and animals... but it is also more. There are places, people she had never written of, and... She knows, with a little sadness, that it is more the world of the fans than her world, now.
But it could be your world, writer. Come with us - into your world, all over again.
"I can't," she tells the voice, ignoring, for the moment, that she must be going crazy, to be talking to a voice, not her own, in her mind. But it doesn't matter now. Yes, that is it... "I can't, because it's over. Finished. Ended."
"Ah, but there you are mistaken."
The low, female voice startles her - for it is too clear, too real to be another product of her imagination. She turns, and finds herself meeting the bright brown eyes of a woman in the corner.
She shrinks back, startled, and the woman smiles, and comes into the light. "Apologies, writer. Xhorieth and I didn't mean to startle you." Her accent is rather odd, but the old writer can't place it.
The woman seems fairly young, perhaps in her late twenties; she is short, with sun-tanned skin and dark curls. She extends a hand to the writer, and when she takes it, it is calloused from... what?
"Who are you?" she manages to ask, and the woman smiles.
"Think, writer. Think."
Something teases in the back of her mind, but...
"Rise."
She stands up, slowly, stiff joints creaking, grateful for the woman's support, and is guided to the window, to look out upon the valley and - no.
For no familiar scene comes to her gaze, but a golden head obscures her view, a great iridescent eye watches her.
She gasps, stumbles back, and is caught by her mysterious visitor. "Careful, writer. But don't worry. Xhorieth would never hurt you."
And she turns to the woman, and names her. "Angeoria."
A warm smile greets her. "Very good, writer. You do know Xhorieth and I, and Abri, I think."
"Abri..." She frowns, bothered. "Abri wasn't one of the Weyrs."
"Perhaps. But Abri is my Weyr. Shall I tell you the way your fiction differs from my reality, writer? Your world has ended, and none too soon. My world lives with me, and it is shaped by myself, by the people of my Weyr, of many.
"You could live in it, too."
"No... no. I can't. I belong on Earth."
"Do you?" Angeoria's gaze is annoyingly questioning, and the writer looks away first. "I think you've completed your work."
She considers this. "Yes. I have."
"Then come with us?"
"Why? What good would it do?" She holds up wrinkled hands, ruefully. "I'm not going to live much longer. Why bother going to a new world?"
"It isn't new to you," Angeoria corrects. "And that's why you should come. I think... that you would live as long as our world exists." She gazes into tired green eyes. "Besides... Don't you want to fly?"
"I'll come," she whispers, and the rider nods.
"I knew you would." Angeoria opens the window, letting cool winter wind fill the room, and gestures to the writer. "Come. Xhorieth will help us out."
"Wait." She returns to her computer for a last time, making sure to leave her last story open and visible. "Silly, I suppose," she apologizes, feeling self-conscious, "But I'd like them to see it when they look for me. Perhaps they'll publish it."
"Yes."
She goes to stand by the window, by Angeoria's side. Fearlessly, the rider steps out, into golden claws, and the writer follows, far more cautiously. There is a brief moment when she can see the ground, see that she is far above it, and then she is upon a dragon's back, and there is only awe.
Even from the security of the harness, she can see the shine of the pale gold body, see the snow-spangles on the wings unfurling around her. She nudges Angeoria, seated ahead of her. "Xhorieth... she's part..."
"White, yes. Metallic gold-and-white."
I was hatched from a winter clutch, a Flurry, the dragoness adds.
"I didn't write it like that. There weren't supposed to be... sports, after Ruth."
Angeoria gives her a hard look. Finally, her gaze softens, and she seems almost pitying. When she speaks, her voice is quiet. "Would you deny me my beautiful Xhorieth?"
"No. No."
"If you come with me, many things will be different - especially the dragons, and the riders. You'll have to accept this. It will be hard for you - so I'm not taking you to Abri. Many of my riders are... different, from those you wrote of, and many of them come from other worlds. I have confidence that you will be able to adjust, but I'll take you to a Weyr that follows more closely your laws. Darkling Dawn."
She nods. What is there to say? What can she say?
As Xhorieth takes flight, and her home and her world drop away beneath her, she thinks of the one thing appropriate. "Anne. My name is Anne."
And then there is a long moment, of the deepest darkness of between, between the worlds.
Finally, they emerge above a dusky Weyr, grey in the early morning half-light.
Xhorieth speaks, solemnly. And now you are Anne of Pern. Welcome, Creator.
The blue watchdragon echoes, Welcome, Creator. Welcome to Pern.
Xhorieth acknowledges the watchdragon, and spirals down, into the Weyrbowl. Her rider slips down, easily, and helps her passenger dismount. They walk towards a cavern branching off the Weyrbowl, softly lit.
A queen, a dragoness of pure gold lies guard upon its sands, curled around her clutch of eggs. Angeoria pauses at the entrance, gesturing Anne to do the same. "May we enter, Eoth? My friend is a newcomer to Pern. She would like to see your clutch."
The Weyrwoman of Abri is welcome, Eoth murmurs, opening a sleepy eye, which focuses on Anne. She returns the dragon's gaze steadily, unafraid. Pern seems so natural to her; Angeoria is right.
And you, Creator, are also welcome here, the queen adds, after a long moment.
"Thank you, Eoth," she replies, bowing slightly. It feels right, and apparently Eoth is pleased.
Do you come for the hatching?
She turns to Angeoria to answer, but the queenrider has departed, and so she answers herself. "Yes; with your permission, I would like to see your children Impress."
You are welcome to stay. I will tell Teah, when she wakes, and she will give you a place to stay. Visitors are very welcome at Darkling Dawn. The gold looks skyward, where a glow has begun to fill the sky. Look, Creator, the dawn of the day of the hatching. The candidates are gathered, and they will enter soon.
"Then I bid you farewell," she replies, bowing once more. The gold nods, and points a wingtip toward the stands.
Stay, if you are not too weary. The other spectators will come soon. As she complies, Eoth adds, half to herself: Watch, Creator. And, perhaps... find something more.
*****
Although she does not hear Eoth's final words, the gold dragoness's bugle only minutes later is quite audible, to everyone in the Weyr. Slowly, people begin to fill the stands around her; the Weyrwoman enters with the candidates, brushing sleep from her eyes. The quiet observer in the stands does not feel sleepy, though; she is still marveling that she has been given this chance to watch the hatching of a dragon's clutch...
She does not wait long; a deep blue, seeming almost black in the faint light, emerges from an egg, meeting his bond among the hopeful boys, a young man who assures him that no one will part them... And then another, pale blue, follows; then brown, and a pair of greens, and bronze, and blue, and by the time that Eoth's golden egg cracks, there are tears in the old writer's eyes, and she wonders, silently, whether her readers ever felt this way...
A large egg shatters, releasing - twin! - greens, one of whom chooses the last female on the sands. Her sister moves slowly towards the last remaining candidate, a young man, and he blinks, puzzled, as she hurries past him, towards the stands...
Young observers try to stop her, now, as anxious as the old creator that she find her bond, but the green passes them by, searching. And then a quiet thought reaches Anne's mind: I'll bet you never thought of me when you wrote of our world, Anne.
She shakes her head, smiling slowly, and walks down to meet the lovely young green. "No, I didn't, Asherath."
Asherath smiles into her mind as they come together. Wait; the best is yet to come.
What do you mean, Asherath?
But the little green only laughs, tossing her head, and changes the subject. I'm hungry, Anne...
The rider smiles, and lets it go. Of course you are. Come; that's something we can easily fix.
As she feeds meat to the young Asherath, she wonders, careful to shield her mind from her green, how she ever could have agreed to deny anyone the miracle of Impression, of having a lifemate who was all-knowing, understanding, forgiving...
Perceptive, Asherath looks up, blue-swirling eyes meeting her rider's rather disturbed green gaze. You didn't understand, then. It is forgiveable, and I do not hold it against you.
She smiles, eyes wet for the second time that day, and holds the warm green head against her chest. I love you, Asherath.
*****
No firestone.
But, dear heart, it's our duty to the Weyr!
No firestone, Asherath repeated adamantly.
Ashera-love, it's your heritage to fight... Anne protested weakly.
It is also in my heritage to fly, the green argued. We will fight - for I think you can use a flamethrower - and I shall fly.
That's what I was afraid of... her rider sighed, staring at her bond in temporary defeat.
*****
*****
Darkling Dawn Weyr
The background image comes from FreeStockPhotos, and is used with permission.
