‘Blessed are the eyes that see His works,’ she says.
I open my eyes and hold out my hands, palm up. Wyllo draws her hands over mine, leaving ash-prints behind.
‘Blessed are the hands that do His work,’ she says.
They clad me first in the flexible bodysuit that will sit under my armour. This, too, is blessed with smoke and ashes. Then they clad me in my vestments before beginning with my armour proper, piece by intricate piece, from my toes to my throat. Sabatons. Greaves. Poleyns. Cuisse and tassets. My armoured chestplate, shoulder guards and vambraces. My gauntlets. As Wyllo and Dallia work, I turn my left arm to let the vambrace catch the candlelight. A pattern plays across the black lacquer – one of coils and ripples, like oil cast into water.
‘We did our best with the marks, my lady,’ Wyllo says, as she secures the vambrace on my other arm with her slender augmetic fingers. ‘To remove them entirely would necessitate stripping the outer layers completely. Going right back to the bone, as it were. The marks do not affect integrity. Just the aesthetic.’
I very nearly smile at that.
‘It can still be done, of course,’ Dallia says, in her vox-rig rasp. ‘Should you demand it.’
As they continue working I turn my arm again and watch that pattern play across the surface. It matches exactly to the scarring on my skin. Ashava’s words come back to me.
We cannot go back. Only onwards.
‘It can remain as it is,’ I tell them.
‘Very good, my lady,’ Wyllo says.
‘Yes,’ says Dallia. ‘Very good.’
The pair of them utter the last words together: ‘Blessed is the heart that knows His protection.’
And then they light my armour’s reactor. My suit sets to humming that rises slowly to a steady, familiar growl, and I realise how much I have missed it. With my armour complete, Wyllo and Dallia are left only with the cloak to affix. It is new, a weighted fall of black and crimson cloth that they secure under my shoulder guards as a sign of my rank. Though it is impossible given my power armour’s boons, I fancy I can feel the extra weight when they hang it. Wyllo offers up my helm, which I lock to my belt. Dallia follows suit with my bolter. Even though she is strong from augmentation and service, it still takes all of her effort to lift the weapon. I take it from her easily with one armoured hand.
My bolter has been rebuilt, too. Reconsecrated. Dallia has wrapped lengths of prayer-parchments around the stock with care. The script is delicate, and tiny. Perfect.
‘Thank you,’ I say to them both. ‘This is fine work. All of it.’
They both flush crimson and bow to me.
‘You needn’t bow,’ I say, like I always do.
‘Apologies, my lady,’ they say, together. It is as much a rite as the armouring is. I have been asking them not to bow for almost a decade.