Entering the temple

It wasn’t until they passed through the gates she really felt the Saint’s Mark pulse in response; she cried out in surprise at the intensity of the feeling; it grew stronger steadily for miles, but crossing the threshold felt like a punch, stealing Olena’s breath and overwhelming all other senses. She stumbled out from the carriage, dizzy and lightheaded, and fell to the ground. Distantly, she noted it was wet, the mud staining her hands and dress. Was she going to stand before the goddess’ wonder in dirty clothes? It didn’t seem proper, but in the presence of the light such mortal sensibilities didn’t seem to matter.   Her scars pulsed, an irregular rhythm in time with nothing but the shifting of colours in the sky. Before, outside the temple city, it had felt like peace, like belonging. Inside the temple, something was trying to claw it’s way out from under her skin, at the same time as the light itself tried to enter. The world was growing brighter around her; Olena had to close her eyes against it or be blinded, even though looking away felt like a sacrilege. The light felt like a thousand tiny pricking needles, the colourful zorza dancing on her skin -- she was aware of it even with her eyes closed.   Something not of the goddess touched her shoulder; it was wrong of it, it was unworthy of the light, and she thought it should stay away or be destroyed; distantly, she heard someone cry out and stumble away.   “Olena?” someone else asked. the voices sounded like they were coming to her through a long, compressed distance, a wall of water or thin mountain air at the same time. have they always been this grating, like sliding gravel? A distant whine reached her when they said her name again, and it took Olena a long moment of confusion to realise it was her. With her eyes shut against the blinding light, her other senses started to wake up and scream at her. Every pulsing of the scars brought a deep, dull pain. Every flicker of the sparks was a shard of broken glass, there and gone the next moment, pain lingering for only a second, leaving Olena to wonder if it was really there.   “Stay back,” a new voice said. It was closer, and smoother than the others, lined with red and green hints of light. “Drink this, girl.”   Something cold touched her lips. This voice was good -- it matched the feeling in her scar, not being painful itself but complementing, completing, it and the light at the same time. The light faded a little, though when she tried opening her eyes it still stung -- a normal, mundane sort of pain that didn’t belong in the goddess’ grace, so she shut them closed again and reached for the cup blindly. Someone -- the owner of the goddess-graced voice, no doubt -- held her shoulders and carefully tipped the cup so she could drink. The liquid was cold, and felt like the absence of light. It tasted of nothing, except maybe dark. The light started to fade almost immediately, and Olena felt herself slipping away into a comfortable, dark silence.   “Get her to her rooms,” the voice said, faded and distant. Someone touched her hand and then there was nothing.