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Beauty itself does not simply make a Knight of Beauty; there are many tenets to the Knighthood that the faithful must follow, until walking upon Idrila’s path becomes as second-nature as breathing, as organic and natural as the blood in one’s veins, or unshed tears in a lover’s eyes. Devotion, courage, and sacrifice are all paramount to a Knight of Idrila, without any room for failure or waywardness.
Argenti tries his very hardest to embody all of Idrila’s tenets to perfection. He has honed his body, bent and broken it against steel only to reforge himself into a stronger man; he has used his flesh and bone as a living shield to protect the weak and downtrodden, even on the verge of death. He has praised Idrila with song and dance, verse and prose, with music and poetry and sermon abound. There is no one more faithful to Their teachings, to Their image.
So why must he push himself to his breaking point just for a glimpse of Their radiance? Is he still lacking in his servitude? Or were his infrequent moments of weakness finally catching up to him?
The awful noise in his head quietened just enough for him to briefly come back to his senses: he was lying on his back, ramrod straight, with most of his upper armour gone. His chest plate, shoulder guards, and gauntlets were all missing, leaving him feeling exposed in just his tunic and greaves. Harsh, piercing light flooded his vision, burning his retinas, forcing his tired eyes shut. Above the terrible ringing in his ears, a muddle of voices surrounded him, all speaking in harsh but hushed tones, indistinct and unfocused.
Through it all: silver hair and golden eyes. Idrila.
It had been three long years since he’d last seen Them. Three long and arduous years, full of bloodshed and gore and struggle. He had persevered through it all, desperate to cling to his Oath as a Knight: the only thing that could cut through the pain of his injuries, or the terrible depths of his despair on cold, lonely nights. Even now, lying paralysed in a foreign environment, with his body on the verge of giving up, Their radiance penetrated through it all, like an arrow swift and true to his heart. Their beautiful silver hair hung above him, unkempt and windswept, paired with cold fingers pressing against the weak pulse in his neck.
“Argenti? Can you hear me?” They asked, with a voice so soft that tears sprung to his eyes. Their tone was gentle and warm, yet still the only one that had managed to rise above the dull ache in his head: divine intervention in the purest of forms.
“M-My Idrila,” he rasped, calloused hands reaching for Their merciful wrist, still pressed against his pulse, “how I’ve longed to bask in Your audience! I’ve waited years for just a second in your gaze!”
Their fingers faltered against his skin, retracting with a jerk as his grip found Their wrist. Subconsciously, he sought Their pulse, pressing a thumb against the inside of Their wrist: nothing. Truly divine, living without being alive.
The light still hurt his eyes, but he had to see. He squinted against the bright glare haloing his beloved Aeon, but his vision was too blurred and distorted for him to make sense of anything.
“You need to rest.” Idrila commanded. Who was Argenti to argue with his liege?
“My guiding light, my radiance,” he gasped, fighting against the migraine that ricocheted around his battered head, made worse by the tightness in his chest, “what should I do? How can I find you?” He pleaded, holding Their wrist tighter than he had any right to; perhaps his greatest act of blasphemy, to covet his God so boldly.
“Rest, you need time to heal.” Idrila bestowed Their repeated wisdom upon him once more, as another bitingly cold hand brushed against the curve of his jaw. He leaned into it, desperate for a mere scrap of Their attention. “I was so worried about you.”
Such a sickeningly sweet sentiment, for a being with the holy grace of Idrila to hold concern for someone as lowly as him. His fading consciousness was snuffed out, adhering to his Aeon’s commands. He let go, still leaning into Their touch as he passed into a calm sleep.
His faith would remain unwavering, as unbreakable as his spirit.
Argenti slept in short, infrequent bursts, plagued by nightmares of his past: a mother with his kind eyes, a father with blood red hair, their faces too hazy to properly recall in his own adult reflection. A home so broken he couldn’t even begin to scavenge for pieces, rendered into ash and smoke. Hellfire, in great columns that streaked against the black sky. So little could he recall. Was the white streak in his hair a product of his childhood trauma, a lingering reminder of the horrors he endured, or was his hair white to begin with, dyed red by blood?
Idrila’s presence gifted him with a peaceful sleep, with a wondrous dream. He walked among the empty dark, empty cars of the Astral Express, gifted with an incredible view of the stars from the tall viewing screens in the main hall. He was still missing his armor and trusted polearm, but he wasn’t afraid. Standing at the top of the stairs, a tall figure that could rival his own, with eyes like two glittering jewels, ethereal in the starlit hall.
“I don’t want to fight this time.” She smiled, weary and tired, but a smile all the same. “We always end up fighting.”
“My lady,” he impulsively dropped down to one knee, head bowed, “to what do I owe the pleasure, if not to a duel?”
Stelle scoffed, shaking her head. “Don’t ask me. You’re on my train.”
“And you’re in my dreams.” He confessed, a furrow marring his brow. “Is this an omen?”
“We don’t always have to fight, you know.” She took the stairs two at a time, skipping steps on her descent, until she stood in front of his kneeling form and offered a gloved hand. “You don’t have to find a reason to keep seeing me, in your dreams or otherwise.”
He hesitantly took her hand, though her skin burned his even through the fabric of her glove. A shiver wracked up his arm and down his spine; a bolt of lightning that struck him down to the marrow. He dared to look up, seeking her gaze, and found only fondness in her eyes. Sincerity.
“Do you wanna stargaze with me?” She asked, pulling him to his feet with an ease that still jarred him, despite their numerous sparring sessions.
“I-” He faltered, so unaccustomed to the idea of simply existing alongside another person. “I would love to.”
As she led him to plush seats lining the sides of the hall, he held tighter onto her hand. They sat beside one another, shoulder to shoulder, watching the universe pass them by without anything else between them. No polearms, no bats, no armour, no Aeons.
Just Argenti and Stelle.
He woke with a gasp, startled and reaching as he jerked forwards, hands outstretched for something he couldn’t quite recall. Not Idrila, but something else, despite his recent commune with his Aeon.
“Thank the stars, you’re alive.” Stelle breathed a sigh of relief from her perch at his bedside, sitting in an uncomfortable waiting room chair, with her long legs curled underneath her. She’d wrapped her arms around them and made herself small, rigid and cramped but keeping sentry at his side. Her phone was nowhere to be seen, despite her tendencies to use it as a crutch whenever she felt anxious or uncomfortable.
“Where am I?” Argenti pressed a hand to his thundering heart, just to feel it racketing against his chest. “Where’s my armor? Why are you here?”
Stelle huffed, but unfurled herself, stretching her legs out in an alarmingly distracting manner. Argenti trained his gaze, refusing to let it dip to the hem of her skirt - how improper. “We found you on Sedna-X, on the brink of death from a concussive head injury and hypothermia. Care to explain yourself?”
“I saw Idrila.” Argenti blurted, uncharacteristically ineloquent as his throbbing headache threatened to return. He clutched at the back of his skull, but flinched away, finding it tender and sore. “They always come to me, on the edge between worlds.”
“Between life and death?” Stelle narrowed her eyes, leaning forwards. “That’s what you were doing?”
“There is beauty in my madness, I assure you.” He insisted, dropping her gaze, his cheeks suddenly aflame. He wasn’t one to get embarrassed or self-conscious, especially not when concerning his faith, but Stelle’s scrutiny cut through him like a knife through butter, right to his core.
To his surprise, she merely sighed once more before leaning back in her chair, head tipped back. She rubbed at her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose; only now did he notice the shadows under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. “You’re on the Astral Express, the medical bay to be exact.” She revealed, still hiding her eyes. Then, in a sudden energetic burst, she sprung from her chair and moved to the other side of his bed, heading for the door. “Himeko is seeing to The One and Only. Get some more rest, you’re not leaving anytime soon.” She demanded, turning on her heel to leave.
In a spontaneous, impulsive action, he reached for her wrist. “Stay.” He insisted, before he could stop himself. A wave of fatigue washed over him; imprints of silver hair and golden eyes haunted his tired and confused mind. Stargazing with Stelle, or his homeworld’s ruination–he couldn’t face the latter tonight, not by himself–her presence had to mean something, especially if she’d taken guard by his bedside. “Stay with me. I don’t want to be alone right now.” He pleaded, though he made no request. She wouldn’t turn him away, not when he asked her for so little.
Stelle’s mouth thinned into a grave line. She nodded, silent, though her red-rimmed eyes spoke volumes. The thought of someone sitting at his bedside, tired but unresting to watch over him in his sleep filled his chest with dread and an unconditional fondness in equal parts.
As he slipped into another peaceful dream, he found himself pressing his bare fingers to the inside of her wrist, in an open and scandalous display of physicality. Silver hair and golden eyes. No pulse.