Dragonriders of Pern is the intellectual property of Anne McCaffrey.
I suppose in late life, people tend to turn serenely contemplative, content to sit for hours at a time while staring at the sea and dreaming. At any rate, it happens to be the case for me, which says a lot—I suppose. While doing so, I always wonder about two things: what the people around me think I'm dreaming of, and what I plan on dreaming of. Naturally, thinking about what other people are thinking about isn't particularly interesting and what I plan on never comes up, so instead, I dream elsewhere, mostly of the sea and what it brings to mind.
So I dream about love.
At this time of year, all of Ista Hold is the faint yellow of a fellis' bloom; the sun is that bright. They've put me on a ledge with a view, and from here, the people appear as dark spots against an otherwise perfectly smooth expanse. It stretches from one horizon to the next with brief tautening wrinkles lining the edges like the skin that forms on the surface of warm milk. They're busy preparing for the Turnover Gather, not that I've ever puzzled out the significance of celebrating an end. They seem to know, at the very least, and that says a lot—I suppose. As for me, it is perhaps that with each Turn that passes, it brings me a Turn closer, a Turn closer to a reunion that I can't begin to understand the significance of.
A green dragon lands on my ledge. They're arriving already; perhaps the time has already come? She is old, but buoyant, and irritatingly so. She nudges my hand, and the scent of her is uncanny, as is the sound of whining in her throat. The feel of her graying ridge, the rumbling, the glow of her whirling blue eye—they suffuse my person, filling it with comforting warmth that stings like ocean waves, pestering old wounds, and making me remember.
"Will he be here today, Amaranth?"
She nuzzles my hand for more scratching.