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Reanna Marshall was dreaming.

It's not unusual to dream and have the strong sensation of having dreamed it before, second-guessing how the dream will go, especially if it's vivid; but this time, Rea only had the sensation that she had dreamed this once. It was so distant as to be a childhood dream. She was walking towards a sparkling lake in rolling green hills a shade of green only Crayola could manage, an intense, vivid green -- everything was coloured intensely, better and more clear than in real life.

Real life never managed the golden hue of the stones of the bridge that she was walking across. Real life never managed to replicate the hue of the water gently lapping a shore that looked like crunchy sugar sand. Each flower was a painted flower, coloured by an artist who loved a hue better than reality of the thing. It was a little dizzying.

There was a pretty girl waiting on the other side of the bridge, standing in front of an equal confection of a building -- a graceful, pillared temple of a building, so delicate that it looked as though each arch have been put together piece by fragile piece, bracketed by the feathery spikes of ferns and wildflowers. The sky overhead was filled with scudding, cotton-candy clouds, an unbelievable summer blue. Some dreams tended to focus only on one sense, sight or scent or touch. But birdsong filled her ears, she felt the warm stone of the bridge underneath her feet, the tide whispered over the beach in soft watery voices.

The pretty girl had long hair and was difficult to look at -- the two careful knots of hair on top of her head were of an indeterminate colour, her smile was there but her eyes were hard to define. Her dress was long and simple; the tiara on her head a simple teardrop in a thong wrapped around her hairline. It seemed as though something was missing. There was meant to be another.

"I am a Maenad, the maiden of the shrine," she said. "Please follow me."

The girl lead with rustling skirts towards the building -- shrine -- mounting smooth ivory steps that had never seen dust, leading Rea upwards and onwards. Large crystal outcroppings decorated the steps, shaded in all the different hues of quartz. As she followed, the pristine perfection of the temple started to decay; she saw nicks on the pillars and then crumbling segments of the wall, potholes that the shrine maiden lightly stepped over without having to even look. Ashes.

"I'm sorry," the shrine maiden said. She spoke so quietly. "It's still unfinished."

What was unfinished?

Rea was lead through concentric circles of pillars, all of them showing signs of battle -- somehow she knew it was signs of battle -- the air fragrant with something, maybe incense. Or possibly it was just the flowers still nodding their pretty heads outside the edges of the temple; there was little excuse for a roof. It was open to the air and the sky and the lake, the heat almost somnolent, the murmurous haunt of bees reaching her ears.

The pillars opened to a large open courtyard shaded by plants, the floor an exquisite mosaic that was cracked and pitted. And in the center was a gilded cage with no door, only bars, and inside was a dead horse.

That kind of ruined things.

Not a dead horse, a dead pegasus -- the shrine maiden simply clasped her hands in front of her and stopped, as though she refused to go further, but the dead pegasus called to Rea. It must have died only a little while before, or was kept pristine and perfect through other means.

It was crumpled-up, legs and golden hooves tucked up underneath it, and it was one of the saddest things that she had ever seen.

(Charys would have called it a 'mega downer'.)

"Don't touch it."

The shrine maiden's voice rang out over the courtyard. And suddenly she was beside Rea, staring down at the folded form of the dead pegasus inside its confining golden cage, looking as sad as Rea felt. But she turned towards her and she was holding something out -- a glass bell, as bizarre and as fragile as the temple itself. The shrine maiden placed it in her hand and folded her own hands over it, looking at her still with those eyes with the impossible-to-determine irises and the hair with the impossible-to-determine shade.

"He wanted you to have this," she said. "Do you understand? He always knew that you would come. Do you understand? There was never anyone created with the potential but you -- just one. He was always ready to put his faith in just one."

She was taking her hands away from Rea's.

"He knew that someone would come who could watch over the Little Maiden. He knew of you before you were even born."

She was stepping away.

"Just you."

"Remember, her dreams are important," said the shrine maiden, not that this was at all helpful or made any sense. "I'll be here, praying for your safety. Your time of prayer is over. It's time to go out and ensure their safety yourself. The Prince must be reborn. His cavaliers will be searching him out as well -- but there will be a Little Maiden. And remember: the Little Maiden, the Prince and Elysion are always linked, are always connected."

And the shrine maiden took her skirts and sank in front of her in a curtsey, still looking up at her as though she were the answer to an old riddle.

"Please keep Elysion in your heart, Helios!"

The bell rang.



The bell rang; she was reborn.

If the shrine maiden's eyes had been a mirror, the Priest of Elysion's eyes would have reflected back in her own face.

"Elysion will always be open to you, Priestess," said the shrine maiden. "You only need to dream. But the Prince will have the Golden Crystal. He must be sought out."

It would be helpful if there had been a name to go along with that, so maybe she could look him up in the 'prince' section of the Yellow Pages, but there was nothing. And the bell was gone. The shrine maiden repeated, "I will be praying for your safety -- "

-- and then Elysion was gone.

Reanna Marshall was awake, in her own bed, in her own skin.