Chapter Text
The ship hums with quiet activity. The Lord Captain departed an hour or more ago; the Seneschal and the Vox-Master murmur with their heads close, gesturing at the holograph of the tropical world she explores. Argenta finds herself in a state of blessed reprieve.
There are many areas of the ship open only to the highest ranks of officer. Shrine spaces; workspaces; vox channels. A private mess, so one doesn't have to jostle elbows with petty voidsmen and technomats over bowls of corpsestarch. An officers' bath, separate from the shared showers those of lower rank and file utilize. It is the latter that Argenta makes for now. With the majority of her peers accompanying Lavinia to the jungle below and the rest of them occupied on the bridge, she has high hopes of having the bath to herself for once.
She does not mind the communal nature, of course. The God-Emperor giveth such boons and Argenta receiveth not to hoard or prize, but to spread amongst all His children. But it is nice sometimes to cleanse one's hair without Jae's exclamations, or to soak without sharing the water with a xenos.
She's fortunate. Only a single attendant stands amidst the sweet-scented steam of the bath. He brightens as Argenta enters.
"Sister! May I fetch you a warm towel to change into? Some amasec? I have here a selection of oils–"
"A towel by the bath, and that will be all. You may retire."
"Very good!" He bows, and in moments she's left with a stack of clean linen towels and the warmth of solitude.
It's nearly as fine a space as the Rogue Trader's bath: perhaps a little larger, though with not so many fountains. Walls adorned with His holy skulls and iconography overlook smooth tile floors. There are no harsh lumens, only scattered candles offering low warm light. The water is hot and clean.
She's already left her armor in her chambers. Her chasuble and gambeson she peels off now, folds, places reverently upon one of the low marble benches that edge the chamber. The air is heavy with steam, warm as breath against her skin. She shivers: not with cold, but with delight.
Her bolter she does bring with her. Surely humidity is not beneficial to it, it would be better off with her armor in her room; but she feels too naked without it. It's placed instead by the lip of the pool, within easy reach. She'll take time later to appease its machine spirit with cloth and gun oil.
Argenta wades down slick marble steps into the heat and ripple of the water. She allows herself a single moment of thoughtless luxury, closing her eyes as her muscles relax.
Then she opens them again and, lifting her sponge, begins her holy ministrations. Her voice echoes off of the high-vaulted ceilings, radiant as she sings the hymns for rejuvenation. Dirt and skin cells are sloughed away with strong bright soap and His grace. So too Argenta cleans away the taint of heresy, the tarnish of mutants and xenos, all the grime that attempts to sully her spirit.
A movement draws her attention. Not from the entryway, not the attendant or any officer joining her, but from the edge of her vision. Someone is behind her, in the corner of the bath. Argenta is about to go for her bolter until she realizes who it is.
Did she just arrive, slipping through the entrance and past Argenta? Or has she been there the whole time, shrouded in her shadows and secrecy?
Kibellah scrubs herself quickly, harshly, white suds barely visible against her void-pale skin. She does not sing hymns. She doesn't even seem to be praying. Argenta's mildly appalled. Kibellah concerns her, even as she intrigues her; her sudden appearance and incorrect bathing habits do nothing to calm that conflict.
Her own hymnals ceased moments ago. Only the rippling waters of the bath can be heard, falling gently from the spout on the wall. Perhaps it's the sudden silence that causes Kibellah to straighten and look over.
"Can I help you, Sister?"
Kibellah's taller than Argenta by several inches: she has to hunch or kneel or, possibly, sit, in order to be entirely under the water. Standing as she is now, it comes only to her stomach. Water runs from her body, half-rinsing the lather and so half-revealing lines of cross hatching scars, bruise-colored areolas.
Argenta realizes that she's begun to stare. She snaps her eyes back to Kibellah's.
"Does the Bloodspun Web not adhere to His tenets of spiritual cleanliness?"
"I am bathing," Kibellah says slowly. She enunciates each word carefully, as if Argenta may struggle to understand the obvious. Argenta shakes her head.
"But do you not know His orison of immaculate hygienicism? You attend to your body without the accompanying rites?" Her gaze flickers once more over Kibellah's body. She tells herself the glance is in judgement, and it is. It's also – slightly, slightly – because she wants to see where Kibellah's navel disappears into the water once more. She wants to see the dark shadow of nipples on the swell of Kibellah's breasts. No; it is in friendly spiritual judgement, nothing more.
Kibellah watches Argenta quietly, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly. She looks like a feline, Argenta thinks, undecided on whether to trust or to dart back into the shadows.
"I do not know this orison," she finally says.
"I will show you." Argenta splashes through the warm water, not waiting for further answer. She doesn't miss that Kibellah's gaze drops as she does so. It is only a moment, a flicker more than anything – but it's followed by a second glance. Not only her eyes drawn by the water's motion, then. She's pleased.
She pushes this pleasure quickly away. She is not here to be gratified by Kibellah's appraising looks. She is here to cleanse her body and spirit, and to seize this opportunity to impress His rites upon those fortunate enough to be nearby.
She plucks Kibellah's soapy sponge from her grasp, letting her own drift off into the water. It's harsh, made for scouring. Good. Argenta re-wets it, then works it in her hands until she has a rich lather.
"It is a weakness near to heresy," she declares, "to ignore the spirit while indulging the body."
"Is not drawing out an experience a similar indulgence?" Kibellah challenges. "Is it not preferable to perform only the necessary actions, and be free to return sooner to one's duty?"
"All actions are necessary when done in service to Him." She runs the sponge over Kibellah's shoulders. She keeps her voice even, now, less a hymnal and more an intonation, in the hopes that it will better stick. She's never heard Kibellah sing. "Create in us clean hearts, O Emperor. Let Your pure waters purge our souls and renew right spirits within us…"
It's a good thing that Argenta knows each word by heart, has whispered or sung them every soak and shower and hasty rag-bath since she became a novitiate, for her attention is repeatedly pulled by the woman before her. Silver piercings dot Kibellah's skin, bright as stars in the flickering candlelight. Argenta finds herself wondering how they would feel under her fingertips or against her own skin; mentally lashes herself for entertaining the distraction; carries on the prayer more forcefully. "Cleanse from us all stains left by the heretical and unrighteous. Fill us with Your purifying presence from the inside out."
Argenta moves from shoulders to collar, collars to breasts, to the shadow and ridge of ribs and sternum. "Scour us with hyssop, and we shall be clean. Wash us, and we shall be left…"
Kibellah shifts under her touch, and the movement of her muscles is mesmerizing. Her intonation stutters. The spinner raises one dark eyebrow.
"We shall be left bright as Terra's sun." Argenta says hurriedly. She finds herself longing to discard the sponge entirely, to place hands fully against skin. For now, she simply allows her fingertips to skim the raised lines of old scars and new as she runs soap and water down Kibellah's form.
"We shall be left bright," Kibellah repeats, "as Terra's sun."
Kibellah's voice is low, as heavy and fascinating as void-honey. Argenta shivers.
"Cleanse us," she continues, "and leave us thus fit to cleanse the Materium of Your unclean enemies."
Kibellah is a woman of faith; but her soul has not once been purified by the divine orasis. She is worth, therefore, Argenta's particular attentions.
"You need not be so gentle," Kibellah murmurs. Argenta cannot help the hitch in her breath.
Yes, it is to both of their advantage that she allow her hands to linger. It is practically a holy requirement to draw out these last few lines. It's for the good of Kibellah's soul that Argenta moves a step closer. It's a testament to her own divine preaching that Kibellah's lips part slowly, that her dark eyes are growing bright as Argenta's hands move to her hips –
"Attention!" Static hisses forth. Argenta's head whips to the vox on the wall. One hand still clutches the sponge beneath the water; her other is splayed fully against Kibellah's hip, and she can feel the jump of muscle as the spinner tenses.
"The Lord Captain is returning to the ship," Vigdis' voice rattles through the speaker. "All hands to stations. Officers, prepare for post-mission update on the bridge." A tinny whine, and the vox falls silent once more.
"You had better finish yourself." Kibellah's eyes glance over the suds still scattered across Argenta's shoulders. "It seems we may be needed."
A moment of hesitation – and then she reaches up to touch Argenta's cheek, gently. Her nails are pinpricks of bath-warm heat, sharp on her skin.
"Thank you, Sister," Kibellah says. "I learned much today."
"I as well," Argenta echoes. "Go with His grace, Second Spinner."
Kibellah blinks, slow and languid. It seems a meaningful gesture – some secret language, an expression expected to be understood – and though it's unfamiliar to Argenta, it's endearing nonetheless.
Argenta submerges herself, rinsing the last of the soap from her skin and hair. For a single second, the world is only liquid heat, dark and purifying.
When she emerges to blink water from her eyes, Kibellah is already gone.