Cool, running water, blessed by a goddess's hand, poured from a vessel blessed by another's. Touched by khesbedj, stone of the sacred sky and the life-giving River, stone of Ma'at and Nut, radiant hair of the gods. She'd had the right idea with the shower, she just hadn't had the tools for it, or the strength. Now, with Hecate's help, she could see it through.
"I live by sssaying what— ahhh—"
The first pour steamed as it touched her blighted skin and the screech that tore from her was nothing close to human. Her fingernails dug into the floorboards, pulling up splinters.
"By sssssaying. What is in my heart. And it ssshall not be taken away."
At the second pour, her flesh crawled, pushing out sharp feathers and deformed scales and talon-like ridges in a vicious final onslaught. Her left eye blazed starlight, and a second crack edged toward her cheekbone.
No— not a crack at all. Something else, something far more deliberate.
"My. Heart. Is. MINE. And none sh-shall be aggressive against it. No terror shall subdue me."
At the third pour, the blackened wound at her shoulder opened up again, and something oily and viscous came gushing out in a thick, stinking stream.
Silver ringed her left eye now, traced her eyebrow, extended straight from the outer corner towards her ear, the original cracks forming tear-line and tail. A wedjat eye, a Horus eye, left eye of the moon that regenerated and restored. Her iris shone the rich blue of lapis lazuli.
"And I. I may be in the body of my father Geb... and of my mother Nut... for I have committed no sin against the gods, and nothing shall be deducted in that respect from my vindication."
With the final pour, the wound ran clean, untainted blood streaming down her shoulder. Qebhet felt it leave her then, felt the claws release their hold, and she slumped.
Fragrant incense filled her lungs, driving out the stench of rot.
"It... it's alright," she ventured, after a few slow breaths. Her voice was rasping, but it was undeniably hers. "It's done. Thank you." She lifted her chin to gaze up at Hecate, the glow of the wedjat eye sinking back into her skin.
She was acutely aware that she didn't look alright. Her skin still bore every mark of the battle, the horrific protrusions of scale and feather and horn. They were trapped there now, hardening into a dying outer layer, ready to be safely sloughed, but Qebhet didn't need a mirror to know she must appear monstrous. She ducked her head. "The moult will take a few days. I-it will purge the last of it."