PART I : HOLY GRAIL

AN: This story includes photos with each chapter. If you want to read the story with the art, you will have to read parts 1-3 on AO3.

_PROLOGUE_

Light enveloped the room of Mr. President as voices echoed back into a void; none of which were apprehensible to Polnareff. A wave of nausea reigned over his body, twisting his stomach in knots. What felt like ants crawling on his skin induced fear, no way in hell was he supposed to be feeling bodily sensations.

Hearing his heartbeat throb in his head, he winced, pressing a hand against his temple in a futile attempt to ease the pain. Warmth wafted back into his face with every breath that he took against the cold, hard floor. Cold? Solid?

Panic clambered from his chest and into his raspy voice. "What the hell is this?!"

Light dispersed around him as he mustered up the strength to move. He opened his eyes and saw his hands holding him up from the floor.

Ten fingers. That couldn't be right. Tangibility; the smooth texture under his palms and how it felt sliding his hand across it. The vision of his hand held up in front of his face blurred by his right eye. That wasn't right, either. The light waned, bringing into view the rest of him as he looked down at himself.

Legs. Machinations that were in their place seemed to be nothing more than a bad dream. The contraption on his arm was the same. Gone. His entire body was just as it always had been before meeting the Joestars.

"No," came his breathy voice, "it's not possible!"

There was a mirror a few feet away, though those mere feet felt like miles as he dragged himself over, his legs giving out under him as he tried to stand. Pulling himself up onto a nearby table, he strained. The desperation to see what had become of him urged him to fight against the weakness that had taken over his body. But what body was that? Surely not his. His knees quaked, ready to give way again, but in all his tenacity he fought.

Leaning all his weight onto his arms to keep from falling, he managed to lift his head and catch a glimpse of the man he'd somehow become. The right eye - the one Diavolo took from him - looked back at him behind a hazy blur gradually coming into focus.

Polnareff's breath shuddered. Something in his stomach moved up and he placed a hand over it, leaning forward to gain control of his breathing. That god-awful ringing noise in his ears, his heart beating against his chest, a sense of heaviness instead of an ethereal figure, and then he remembered the fight.

Up there through the tortoise's shell was his answer. Polnareff's legs gave in as he tried to walk to the center of the room, the cold floor against his bones sending a shock through him. Pain. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Alone he lied shivering, wracking his mind of what to do next.

He could leave the turtle, though the thought of unwillingly abandoning his comrades to the danger evoked worry. Maybe having his body back was all an illusion and his soul would depart if he dared to leave Mr. President. But what if he didn't? Then again he could stay there until the battle was over. Perhaps things would make better sense then.

And then, he recalled the enemy. He knew what Testament was capable of. Given the user's speed and having already managed to take a victim's life - a victim leaving behind his deaf daughter, no less - it was clear; nobody was winning. Determination burned in his heart as he clenched his fist. He had to walk, stand, something. But moving his body hurt too much to do anything. That poor woman, how would she hear the enemy? Polnareff wondered: could he bring himself to kill the man that attacked? Did he stand a chance? No way was he going to sit and observe like always, enough was enough.

For over thirteen years he hid in the shadows letting survivor's guilt eat him alive. For five years he wondered why death rejected him, and what that purpose could be. For the past twenty minutes, guilt flooded his mind with its cacophonous voice telling him: It's your fault they're all going to die; it's your fault you can't intervene and turn the tables in their favor. Look at your childhood friend and how his stress is clouding his focus; look at the deaf girl crying over the ashes of her father. Look at them all. It should be you. For a brief moment, he believed it. And he'd keep believing it were it not for one thing: that voice was a liar; it was always a liar, and he was sick of believing the lies. Polnareff silenced his guilt, driving it out like a demon that had come face-to-face with a benevolent force. Dead or alive, people needed him. After all, making himself useful on this adventure was what he had in mind, wasn't it?

So what if it was too risky to leave the key? So what if his body was weak? The hell with lying around dealing with it. The hell with possibly ascending to heaven. It was time to take that risk.

"There's no choice!" he grunted, straining to sit up. That same nauseating knot moved up into his abdomen, but there was no time to fret about that. "Whatever happens," he said unto himself, "whether my soul leaves for good, or even if I don't...I'm going to see that murderer dead !"

Without hesitation, his arm outstretched to the exterior, feeling the smooth, metallic surface of the tortoise's key. Then came the other arm, then his upper half. And with the very little strength he had, he dragged himself out. This was it. He feared the consequences, yet persisted wanting to believe his body had returned to him; that he was useful. But in case it didn't: Aurevoir, Giorno. Goodbye, Gael. See you on the other side.

Thud

In that moment, he was met with a high-pitched scream, then a chesty lilt of a distressed Irishman shouting profanity. Amidst that came an eloquent, yet frightened tone carried from a much older individual, who questioned Polnareff's sudden appearance. Who were they again? Where did that bastard run to?

"I'll end you..." his hoarse voice spoke. The hilt of the sword rattled in the woman's trembling hands where just beneath it lied the enemy: Testament's slain user. The sword fell from her hands with a loud clang as she dropped to her knees and sobbed loudly. Once again, she failed to protect someone she loved dearly and now had to move on without her father, the only person she had in her life.

Consciousness wavered; though Polnareff's eyes were open, the darkness swallowed his vision and all he knew was that he felt separate from his body and yet, somehow, still felt everything happening to him. The sound of men's dress shoes on a wood floor rushed over to him and within seconds, someone had him in their embrace. There came that Irish lilt again, leaving no doubt in his mind he knew the person who had come for him.

"Gael…? Did we win?" Gael heard him through the woman's nearly-screaming cries, stroking his cheek with his thumb. Gael couldn't suppress his smile. Seeing that Polnareff was indeed alive filled his heart with joy, but confusion overshadowed it in no time. That fight with Testament was far too overwhelming and long feared. To his relief, as well as the lives that suffered at Testament's sadistic ways over the course of many years, they could all finally rest calm. And then, it happened. Polnareff felt that nauseating lump in his abdomen push into his throat.

Bleghhh!

Finally, there came relief. But the crying and shouting - oh, god, the woman's incessant shouting - how it ricocheted off every wall in that empty room.

"Eva..." her father spoke softly to her, grunting in pain as he knelt beside her. Damn knees weren't as young as he foolishly thought them to be. His cane clacked against the floor and he gently tilted her chin up. Teary, purple eyes looked up at that same familiar smile, laugh lines and all. It's me. he signed to her.

It didn't matter to her how he came back to life, they were together again as though Testament never took his life to begin with. Overcome with joy, she cried, burying her face into Merlin's shoulder.

Gael stared at Polnareff, holding his seemingly unconscious body close to him. It made no sense. How is he a ghost one minute, then the next fully alive? He may as well have never been dead. Same could be said for the old man. Wait a minute. His eyes found the sword, unable to pull his gaze away as he grew lost in speculation.

The man at the dig had mentioned something about it taking someone's life, but reviving others. Eva used it in self-defense, but she couldn't have known what its capabilities were. The sword moved out of his vision, making a metallic scraping sound.

"Nearly fifteen hundred years." Merlin said. He held it up and examined it with bated breath. "To think my immortality still bore a purpose."

Gael tore his gaze away from the spot where the sword lay. Fifteen hundred years? Meaning he'd been alive that long? How? What the hell was going on? Funny how he spoke like he knew about the sword, when it had obviously been buried for god knows how long. There was more to it, wasn't there?

"Aul man," he said to him, getting his attention, "ye know wha' happened here tonight, don'tcha?"

Gael's glare had Merlin in his grasp, demanding a full, honest explanation. If he tried to weasel his way out of one, Gael would have to do what he was ironically good at and persist to pry an answer out of him. Merlin stared back, a fearful look in his eyes. There was no choice, and Gael wasn't going to leave him alone. Taking his cane in hand and sword in the other, Eva helped him to his feet, dusting off his worn coat.

"I had hoped this day would never come. But here you are, and here in your friend a heart beats again."

In that brief moment of silence, Gael looked at him, waiting to hear the rest of what he had to say. At least there better be more than that. Merlin took a breath and waited to gather his thoughts.

"Well, let's not waste time," he said as he started to leave the room, "his fever will be setting in, no doubt about that."

"Quit dodgin' the question an' answer me!"

Merlin looked over his shoulder. If he didn't know any better, Gael's red curls could match the fire in his eyes. And he wasn't about to let him walk out, not without spilling his guts to him.

"If anything happens to Jean," Gael told him, patience breaking under the weight of anger, "I'll do more than reduce ye to a pile o' dirt. And next time, tha' sword won' save ya. Nah' even god himself will, but you'll be prayin', I guarantee it."

Merlin's face paled. Knowing it was no use to mask his greatest fears, revealing his past to those two men - victims as well as souls blessed by fate - was inevitable. And he at least owed them that much.

"Come with me," he said, "I'll tell you everything."

Their voices fleeted from Polnareff and his fight to remain conscious more so. That same out-of-body experience allowed him to feel his friend lift him up and walk with him. Where were they going? Probably didn't matter. What truly mattered was that Testament was defeated and miraculously enough, everyone was fine. For a moment, the feeling of detachment to his physical self lingered until the group traversed up the darkened halls.

"Yer gonna be okay," he faintly heard Gael tell him, but he wasn't sure that was real, "I've gah' ya. Tha' facker better pray ye make it through the night."

The warmth of Gael's embrace fled and he found himself drifting deeply into a dark and foreboding dream.

.

.

Polnareff stared into a black pit, where lay the body of a man he'd never met. Gunmetal gray hair fell over his brow and draped over his armor. Beside him, piercing through the hopeless shadow, was the iridescent saber used to slay Testament's user. Polnareff felt the need to reach out and take it.

After all, he was supposed to be assisting the Speedwagon Foundation in uncovering its secrets, leaving it in a bottomless pit was out of the question. Touching the blade, it shattered into dust sprinkling down into nowhere. The body of the man dissolved and an eerie, howling wind blew around him, never touching him. For some reason, and he didn't understand why, it begat a heavy sorrow that brought him to his knees.

"Why," his airy voice trembled, nearly weeping, "why is this happening to me?"

In his loneliness, not knowing why the urge was there, he cried out for his dear friends, an unusual hope that someone would reply to him from god knows where. He called for Jotaro, no answer. Kakyoin, nothing. He dared not to call for Avdol, not when his gut already told him the inevitable. He clamored in desperation, "Is anyone out there?!"

The distant sound of Eva's scream reverberated through the dark and faded into the nullifying gloom around him. The nonexistent wind rumbled, going nowhere and leaving him to his solitude. He wanted to feel it against his skin. Something, anything. Alone he sat, a vacant gaze into nothingness; emotions numbed, hoping the darkness would eventually give its answer to his question, but there was nothing to give.

Where he'd found himself in that horror was the embodiment of nothing and everything, and no soul but his own resided there. He sighed, surrendering to the gloom and closing his eyes as he lay curled into a ball, returning himself to the deepest slumber he'd ever come to know.

Amidst the silence, he could faintly hear Avdol speaking to him. Excitement took the place of despair. Though he couldn't see him in all the darkness, nor his own body, he waited hoping to hear something lucid. And then, he perceived an answer he didn't expect; words that shook him to his very core.

Not out there, but in here.

"Avdol!" he rose to his feet, discerning the same stern face of the man standing before him. Nearly in tears, he reached over to hug him, wanting so badly to tell him he missed him, and that he was sorry for his past mistakes. Avdol took ahold of both of his wrists and with a cold stare, looked him dead in the eye. The excitement fell away, sinking fast into Polnareff's stomach.

"Try to understand." Avdol told him, a disembodied voice layered over the real one. Avdol's grip on Polnareff's wrists warped into a thick, entangled mess of thorny vines. He wanted to scream. Unbelievable how that same pain was coming back to haunt him. How dare these horrible apparitions toy with his mind!

Anger boiled inside of him, pushing to the surface. Using his loved ones against him…but of course his nightmares would do that. He looked up, at first feeling resentment, but the anger subsided almost in an instant when a soft, orange light emitted from his hands.

It was coming from the thorns in his wrists, he thought. How perplexing. The vines trailed off into the pitch black, leading him deeper down into the depths of nowhere, and yet, somewhere. Polnareff wondered why he was following them at all, nothing was making any sense and it was about to annoy him. Just how far was he going to go before he realized there was nothing waiting at the end? There was no end. It was all a stupid illusion, and he knew it.

But as he came to fall into despair, he caught a glimpse of Avdol yet again, leading the way. "Avdol!" he cried out. No answer, not even so much as returning a glance behind him to see the childish glow of Polnareff's countenance. The soft orange light finally came to its end, a single point glowing in the middle of nothing but a vast darkness.

Avdol stood before Polnareff, slowly turning to face eyes met and before he could say a single word, six roses withered from the vines and bore duplicates of Avdol, each one glowing with that same orange light as before. Thorny vines rose up around their bodies as they began to speak to Polnareff in unison.

"Seven," they said, "your seven will inherit the sun."

Polnareff looked down at his hands. The vines slipped away, spreading out and wrapping themselves around the seven Avdols. All he could do was stare at the orange orbs of light pulsing in the palms of his hands where the vines sprouted. Of all the thoughts that raced through his mind then, the only thing he could think to say was, "My seven what?"

As the word what left his mouth, the seven Avdols encircled him, almost as if they had teleported. The orange light from their bodies radiated, and the dark void around him changed from black to white. He held up his hands in front of him and saw nothing, realizing there were no hands to hold up in the first place; he had become the void itself.

Any emotions he could feel at all, wouldn't come. Any thoughts he could dwell on wouldn't come. Avdol's voice spoke to him one last time, and even that had no effect before the deepest sleep consumed him.

Escaping death AGAIN? Hahaha! Lucky bastard.

.

.

Fading in from the silence, Polnareff swore he could hear birds chirping. The consciousness that was so willing to elude him before settled in and he could attempt to finally make sense of the world. Rubbing his eyes with his palms felt unreal, hell, he couldn't remember the last time he did that.

Thoughts of what happened to him seeped into his mind and he gasped, holding his hands out in front of his face. Sure enough, there were ten fingers and both arms fully functional. Shooting up from a lying position, he placed a hand to his forehead and groaned.

"Sacre merde, I feel terrible ." Staring at two feet, he wiggled his toes to make sure this wasn't part of some fever dream he was having. Wait. Dreams? How could he do that, he was...no! He felt the warmth of his skin, the sense of touch working perfectly as it used to. If that was the case, he wondered what else he could do.

This wasn't real anyway, so he may as well indulge himself in some humor while he was at it. Polnareff brought his foot to his face and sniffed his toes, catching a hint of some weird fragrance where someone had cleaned his feet.

He scratched his head. Odd, he felt that, too. What about his eye? Holding his hands up in front of his face, he winked one eye shut, to see out of the other one, then switched it up as many times as he felt he needed, not realizing how strange his facial expressions would look to another person. Even his right eye was there, capable of seeing as well as the other. And what about pain receptors?

Polnareff slapped himself across the face. As expected, it hurt. No way was any of that real, though. He was dead, he knew that. It had to be the work of a stand or something. Glancing over to the nightstand, he caught a glimpse of Coco Jumbo eating carrots casually as if nothing happened to either of them.

"Oh, it's Giorno's turtle." Polnareff looked away, weary-eyed and yawned. He reached up to rub the spot on his cheek where he slapped himself. Probably shouldn't have done that, but…wait…Giorno's turtle? Slowly turning his head, he looked again at the reptilian creature, realizing that he was no longer bound to Mr. President.

His spirit never departed for heaven upon detachment. Sitting there outside of that oval room was real. Having every limb he'd ever lost was real. Doubting anything at this point was just asinine. Polnareff tried to recall what happened, thinking to one particular moment before that light blinded him out of nowhere. Let's see: Gael was saying something to Testament's user. Something about detecting fast attacks, or blindspots, hell he couldn't remember. Wait. The woman had the sword for some reason. Okay, so that's one accurate recollection. Testament did something to Gael...but what? He growled in frustration, cursing his mind for not cooperating as it should. He figured he could chalk that up to the current state he was in.

Alright, then that leaves only one important detail: what was the very last thing he remembered? The light. Okay, but that alone was not enough to go on. Testament's death. Well, not really, no. He only gathered as much after the fact. The sword...went through its user. Then that light...but that would mean...? It was somewhat coming together. That sword had to be the only explanation. What else was there? Dr. Callaghan...if he only knew what happened, he'd be spitting theories left and right.

From the window blew a soft breeze; what he yearned for in his dream finally caressed his skin, bringing a sense of peace. But his mind brought about a sense of bewilderment to disrupt it. He was truly alive. That meant he could finally return to France after being away for so many years. He was free to do as he pleased, speak to whomever he wished to speak to, stand user or non-stand user alike. He didn't have to rely on someone lugging him around to see something or go somewhere. He could do more than offer knowledge and be an onlooker. Just knowing that alone made him want to cry tears of joy. It was amazing...a little too amazing.

Going home. How tempting the idea presented itself to be, and boy was it ever. Like a siren of the Atlantic beckoning him. Even though his mind grabbed ahold tightly to the concept, something else interjected, standing between that dream and himself...reality. He hardly recalled where he was. Up and abandoning Gael to his dad's research so that he could pursue his desires, especially after agreeing to help, felt shitty. Were it someone else treating him that way, he'd be furious. There's no honor in it. With that fresh in his mind, it was evident that he wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. He spoke softly unto himself, watching the birds out the window.

"Now what?"