"Pearl all-pleasing, prince's treasure,
too chastely set in gold so pure..."
– The Pearl
Gawain Poet, 14th century
Winter, 537 AD
Icy winds howled across the Slovakian expanse, bringing with it the unforgiving, sharp sting in Merlin's wounds. An ominous, green light pulsated against his chest, wrapped in linen, as the snowflakes dressed his beard in a patch of frost. His brown eyes were wide, his breath shuddering. Blood had flecked across his pale cheeks. They were dead, all of them. Terror never left their all but vacant eyes. The knights that were accompanying him and Arthur back to Newgrange had fallen mercilessly at the hands of one of their own. A sharp-witted, twenty-year-old with a fierce twinkle in his eye.
His long, dark-brown waves cascaded down his armored back, gently flowing on the wintry breeze. "Go on, uncle," he jeered, "why do you hesitate? Bring your knights back from the dead."
Kneeling in blood tinted snow was a middle-aged man grasping the hilt of an incredible saber. Its opalescent body, with its many colors of the spectrum, shined brilliantly amidst the white landscape. Evanescence it was so called by its creator, an ancient being that towered over all of men, an Avalonian named Turunen. A being endowed with the ability of manifestation so granted by that which created him – Avalon itself.
Merlin had had a grand vision, one involving Arthur and himself. They would travel to Newgrange together and make an extraordinary discovery, the likes of which no man had made before them. No man except for the druids, but they were all gone now, vanished without a trace. Accompanying Merlin to Ireland was Arthur's sister, Morgan leFay, as well as his most loyal knights: Galahad, Bors, and Percival.
Avalon was unlike anything they had ever encountered before on their travels across all of Europe. The waters sparkled like diamonds on an emerald turf, streaming throughout that subterranean fantasy world, and off into the darkest corners of the earth, flowing god knows where. The only lightsource in that foreign land was an enormous, opalesque stone, glowing iridescent rays of rainbow. Similar to Evanescence's blade.
Avalon's only protector, Turunen, entrusted that because Arthur, Merlin, and Morgan were hamon users, they must have been likened to the druids – pure of heart – and so, he revealed the nature of Avalon to them, explaining to them the creation of Evanescence. The sword was more than a mere saber, it was manifested by the will of Avalon in order to bring back the fallen, Turunen's people, during the Fomorian War. Although Evanescence was fully capable of such a remarkable power, it had its drawbacks.
All within the radius of Evanescence's blinding shroud of rebirth would be as they once were. This included Turunen's Fomorian enemies. Faced with a tragic dilemma, Turunen could not risk reviving his people once more as well as the Fomorians. He instead continued to live on eternal in hopes to guard Avalon from any who would dare come spelunking below the surface.
Hearing of the sword's magnificent power, Merlin was tempted to steal it for himself. He could use it to bring back Nimue, his beloved wife who had passed away from disease. It was too perfect of an opportunity to pass up, how could he?
Unknown to him, Morgan leFay had stolen something else from the deepest confines of Avalon. The very reason he and Arthur were now faced with a new enemy, Morgan's bastard child.
Arthur's medium-length, golden hair fell away from his face as he looked up, wiping his bloody chin on his gauntlet.
"Mordred." he snarled. "Why do you betray me like this? Why do you betray your own people?"
Mordred smirked. "You humor me, Arthur. My people? What makes you think I am the product of man?"
Merlin's face blanched. This was coming from the same little boy he helped Morgan raise. This was coming from the same young man that always asked questions, always flashed an innocent smile, and always showed great respect to not only Arthur, but to his fellow knights.
Fear panged rapidly in Merlin's chest, beating against the relic in his arms. This damned thing. It was the cause of this. Mordred's existence was solely because of this, and it was all Morgan's fault. He leaned his head out from behind the tree, watching as Mordred approached Arthur.
"Always making matters harder for yourself. All you need do is hand me Evanescence and I will graciously return it to Newgrange in your place." Mordred bowed elegantly, holding a hand out for Arthur to place the sword in.
Arthur spat blood on the snow at Mordred's feet. "I'd sooner hand you my own head."
His gauntlet pressed onto the snow with fingers splayed. A calm breath flowed into his nose and sealed Mordred's fate. Yellow sparks shot up long, icy javelins from the snow, skewering Mordred. His body leaned over the pikes, still in that same bow as before, cringing from the shock. Merlin gasped.
"I am sorry, nephew," Arthur said, "but I cannot let you take the sword, nor that Fomorian abomination. Your life ends here."
The cold, whipping of the wind blew Arthur's hair as he resheathed Evanescence. It was over. Now he could find Merlin and they could carry on in returning the accursed relics to Ireland. Merlin breathed a sigh of relief, but then he heard low chuckling.
"Oh, but it is your life that ends here, Arthur." Mordred claimed. "Just look at what you've done to yourself."
Arthur's body burned with immense pain. Ice had somehow impaled him, though the act itself never took place. "No…this isn't what happened!" His javelins were no longer protruding from out of Mordred's back, as if the ice spikes never struck him in any way. Mordred stood proudly with each hand on his hips, shooting a spiteful grin at Arthur.
Blood trickled down Arthur's chin, dripping over the ice. Merlin trembled both due to the intense cold and the overwhelming fear that refused to let go of him.
Arthur spat up more blood. "But…! You were slain by my…!"
"No, I was not," Mordred argued in amusement, "I'm afraid you're mistaken."
"No, I did! I…!"
"Uncle, that couldn't possibly be true."
Drifting away from Mordred's body came a pitch black, smokey, humanoid figure. Its eyes burned a hot red, as did the ridges along its large horns. Arthur didn't see it, nor did Merlin, though they both were familiar with the nature of such things.
"If you had slain me, I'd be dead. Yet I stand before you unharmed."
Arthur's eyes went wide in disbelief. "You've consumed Avalonian water…"
Mordred's laugh rumbled in his chest. "I must thank you and Merlin both for instilling your knowledge into me. It has been a pleasure playing the innocent role of a dear, sweet, trustful relative. Were it not for you, I never would've obtained Primal Fear."
Clasping the ominous relic tightly, Merlin realized that power; Mordred was undoubtedly with-spirit. It was all making perfect sense now. He'd explained to him the nature of Avalonian water, and how it enlightened the drinker if much of it was consumed. Merlin had suffered greatly alongside his comrades, Arthur's loyal knights. Primal Fear must've been the reason he was beginning to lose his sense of reality. His sense of truth. Mordred didn't intend to kill him. Not yet. This was all a game. A cruel, wicked game.
"You look so cold, uncle. Why don't I build you a fire?"
Primal Fear awoke the heat beneath Arthur's feet, gradually baking his armor. Even Merlin felt the warmth coming from the ground. But that didn't make sense to him. Merlin narrowed his eyes at the snow, reaching down and grabbing a handful.
"Snow that burns…?" he mused.
Within seconds, the heat grew more intense until it was like holding hot coals in the palm of his hand. Merlin yelped, dropping it instantly. Steam rose from his singed flesh, hissing. Breathing deeply into his nose, a flicker of yellow-orange light surged around Merlin's hand, regenerating his skin back to its original state. His heart froze upon hearing screams of agony. It was Arthur. His armor cooked his skin, melted it. The ice pikes dissolved into mere water, evaporating away from gaping wounds in his abdomen. Mordred's feet remained untouched by the searing heat. In his panicking, Arthur flung the gauntlets from his arms, shrieking as steam rose from his peeling skin.
But no matter how much he tried to remove his armor, the pain was far too agonizing. Merlin tightly shut his eyes, knowing that all he could do was listen. Listen to his king suffer. And it was all because of him. Mordred, the bastard son of Morgan le Fay and the very object Merlin clutched so tightly in his own hands. Arthur's death was not only Mordred's fault, but Merlin's most of all. If only he'd known that Mordred couldn't be trusted. If only he'd known what sort of monster he truly was, he never would have exposed the mystery of Avalon. He never would have spoken so often of Evanescence, the Fomorians, and he especially would have never turned a blind eye to Morgan's crimes.
She stole the relic from Avalon, claiming it could speak. Claiming that it could perform miracles. How wrong she was. Granting Mordred as a son was no miracle, it was the beginning of a dark, perpetual cycle – a curse that would leave Arthur's family for generations to come forever tied to its influence.
The screaming – oh, god, the screaming – Merlin wanted to help, but couldn't. With his feet burning from the hot snow, Merlin fled with the relic in tow, the crunching of snow beneath his feet alerting Mordred.
Forgive me, Arthur. I dare not face him, not with this monstrous thing in my possession.
🔸️ 🔸️
"Just as I thought." Mordred said, smirking at Merlin. He glanced back at Arthur's charred, unrecognizable face. Stepping closer, he squatted down, scrutinizing him. "Well, it seems you can't move, can you? That's alright, uncle. I'll do the honors myself."
Mordred removed the sheathe he believed held Evanescence from Arthur's side and stood above him, staring down with an apathetic look in his eye. A light breeze stung Arthur's flesh, the snow below him moreso. Primal Fear's altering of the snow's nature had been negated. No doubt Mordred already had his fill of watching him burn.
Arthur's eyes managed to shoot a glare at him. "Damn you…" he spoke hoarsely.
"Come now, Arthur, it was only a matter of time. Not that you were aware, of course. No matter. You know, if you'd actually drank more of that Avalonian elixir, you just might have gained a spirit likened to mine."
"I'd sooner die a thousand deaths than bear the likeness to a demon like you."
Mordred cocked his head, seeming intrigued that he'd been referred to as a demon. "Now that I have the power to raise the dead," he said, holding up the sheathed sword, "I must leave you and chase that idiot Merlin. He has what I truly want, after all. Though I don't expect him to get very far."
Arthur narrowed his gaze, internally cursing Mordred to all hell. "Your complacency and arrogance blinds you."
"Hmph. It has been quite the experience serving you, Arthur. Quite the amusing and predictable experience." Mordred's laugh grew distant as he trudged away through the snow, leaving Arthur alone to freeze to death.
It'd been nearly an hour, and the light from the sky faded into a deep shade of steel blue. Arthur noted the stars becoming visible in the evening sky. Soon, the wildlife will have found and devoured him. A hoarse laugh escaped him. Oh, how it pained the corners of his mouth to form a smile.
It seems even still I have the upper hand.
On Arthur's right side was another sheathe, similar in appearance to the one Mordred made off with. In the sheathe he still owned was none other than Evanescence in all its glory.
Damn you, Mordred...
Using hamon for the final time, Arthur inhaled deeply and sent a shockwave through the earth under him.
May mankind never seek the sword. May the blood of my kin bring you to ruin. May you rot in hell.
Tectonic plates rumbled, shifted, and broke apart. A wide crevice formed under Arthur and eventually swallowed him, and Evanescence with him. Rocks and debris clustered together, some falling in, and others closing it up. The earth shifted more, warping the face of the land into an unrecognized hill of jutting structures and rubble. The quakes ended. Howling, winter wind replaced silence. No one would ever know of his sacrifice. No one would ever know that Evanescence existed. It wasn't Newgrange, but the saber was at last out of reach of man. As it was meant to be.
🔸️ 🔸️
"Fool thinks he can hide forever." Mordred laughed at the thought. Merlin was always ever so predictable to him. Such a coward. Where else would he go other than back to Normandy? On foot, no less. Idiot.
He'd get his hands on that relic. If there's one thing Mordred could count on, it was that. More to his satisfaction, he'd finally managed to rip Evanescence from his uncle. That fool. He made it far too easy. Or rather, Primal Fear did. Without his fighting spirit, he wouldn't know how to handle Arthur and Merlin both on his own, what with their annoying hamon ability.
Mordred gloated to himself, holding up the sheathed sword like a trophy. "Now that I have this, bringing back the Fomorian race will mark the end – no – the beginning of a new era. And when I get Stigmata, I will ascend with them as gods."
He wanted to get a good look at his success. He earned it. Mordred took the hilt in hand and steadily pulled the sword from its sheathe, anticipating that iridescent sheen. Here it came. As the blade slowly slid out, Mordred's anticipation waned into full-on outrage.
"What!? What is the meaning of this!?"
An ordinary, smithed iron blade graced his vision. Mordred's eyes burned with fury. His grip around the hilt tightened and rattled. The sword briefly sang, being slung through the air and into a pile of snow. Evanescence was still in Arthur's possession after so many hours and having trekked so many miles after Merlin. Mordred didn't have any knowledge of where he was, let alone where Merlin ran off to. Was he truly this stupid?
Collapsing to his knees, Mordred seethed, failing to hold back the urge to yell out his frustrations for all the world to hear.
"Merlin!" he roared. His voice echoed through the snowy, barren woodland. "Hide if you want, wherever you want, but know this: I know your secrets! I know all about your discoveries. You can't hide from me forever! I swear on my very soul, one day I will find you. Mark my words, I will have Stigmata and Evanescence. Even if it takes centuries. You, and all that seek to aid you, will meet their fitting deaths."
And he meant every word. Mordred would never rest, never hold back, and certainly never give up. This was only the beginning.
🔸️ 🔸️
Present day France, circa 2006
Silence. Ghosts of their past selves roamed the halls of the Polnareff residence. Over time, the innocent voice of a little girl playing tea party, with her stuffed animals, had long been replaced by a haunting vacancy. Her room was still. All of Sherry's belongings had been packed away into her closet with the promise of never being seen again.
A spider spun a web in the kitchen window that desperately needed cleaning. Near it was a half-filled jar of sugar glinting in the sunlight. Chairs should've been squeaking across the tile, leaving marks on it. Polnareff and Sherry should've been sitting there peeling potatoes and enjoying each other's conversation. The aroma of tomatoes, onions, and garlic should've been drifting from the kitchen. The sound of her brother calling her name echoed back from the memories of long ago as a painful reminder.
They were gone.
Polnareff departed on his quest for revenge, leaving behind a disastrous mess. Dirty dishes, creosote build-up in the chimney, and trash taking up counter space. But to anyone's surprise, the bathroom was the cleanest room in the house by far. When he returned home in 1989, the shock of his house mysteriously being clean overwhelmed his thoughts.
The creosote was swept. The windows had been washed, floors mopped, and rooms tidied. Trash was taken out and counters cleaned. Someone refilled his jar of sugar in the kitchen, and the question as to who rattled his brain.
This mystery never gave him a moment's peace, even long after he left home again in the 90's. He'd never know who to thank properly for taking such great care of his family home during his absence. He asked around town with hopes that someone would come forward. No luck. No one bothered to visit even when he was there, why would they worry about cleaning his house while he was gone? Weird.
The years dragged by. Autumn arrived and with it came an old friend who, once again, dropped by for a visit. A pointless one at that. Five years passed since Polnareff's death, leaving behind a hollow memory of what his home used to be.
Again, the mantle over the hearth was dusted. The windows were streakless. Lightbulbs were replaced. Rooms were organized. All was in its proper place with the exception for one thing.
A rat scampered through the pantry and no one was screaming at it. For the rodent, his freedom to run about as he pleased brought liberation. Polnareff wasn't there, climbing up onto a seat of a chair while Sherry tried to get rid of it herself. Much to Polnareff's relief, their childhood friend, Gaelstrom, wasn't there to capture it and use it for a prank.
SQUEAK
He was there to capture it and put it outside.
The midday sun glistened on his flaming red curls as he strolled barefoot through the front yard with a shoebox in tow. He was of fairly average height, standing approximately 180 cm tall.
"Now look, I don't like killin' your kind, alright? Way I see it, you're just trying to get by only way you know how. Who am I to judge? But you know, your place is out here. Best stick to that. Other people won't be so forgiving next time."
He kneeled down on one knee and slowly pulled the lid off the box. Beady eyes peeked over, whiskers twitching. For a minute, it acted uncertain about leaping out of the shoebox. Look at this guy. He figured he would make an immediate escape. The corner of his mouth quirked at the sight of it. Silly rat. Gaelstrom tilted it over, giving it a gentle shake.
"Ahh, go on with ya."
It slid out and without a second thought, scurried up the road and through the grass. Out of sight, out of mind; like the rat was never there. Gaelstrom pressed a palm to his knee, grunting as he stood up. Emerald green eyes with tainted sclera looked off down the road. A shade of red colored the skin around them, blending into jaundice.
Time's way of conveying: I'm not with you, I'm against you.
In as little as a month or two, he'd be six feet under. So much for this visit. It was the last time he'd be returning to France, unbeknownst to his parents. Well, to anyone. Seemed like only yesterday, he and Polnareff were standing around talking in the morning sun. Hearing him go on about the comic book he was making, and how he had gotten the bright idea to shape his hair into a cylinder.
He played through that moment in his mind like a movie, watching it unfold scene by scene. Then, a particular thought triggered him. Reminding him of the time he came to spend another summer with Polnareff and returned to Ireland with a laceration from temple to chin. He remembered the stand that made it. Feared it. It all happened so abruptly.
None of it would've happened if that numbskull would have listened to him. Polnareff's Aunt Adel was the real monster plundering through his mother's things, not him. It wasn't fair. Because of her lies, his view of him became a twisted mass of ill-deserved animosity. Indignation boiled in his stomach. Gaelstrom scowled, clenching his jaw.
Accompanying his anger came grief. Images flashed through his mind, painting the past in a shade of turmoil.
Sherry thinks the world of you. You don't know how much that means to me!
Gaelstrom, I don't want us to ever stop being friends. I don't care if we disagree sometimes, you're my best friend and that's the way it's going to stay.
I hope I never see your face again as long as I live!
Gaelstrom winced, hunching forward with a hand over his chest. Fingers gripped his dark-blue button-down shirt. Here we fucking go again. Careful breathing. Pain shooting through his lungs. Another fit of coughing.
He dropped to his knees, digging his nails into the dirt. It'll be over soon, he thought repetitively. Hoping it held true.
Blood dripped from his mouth, each cough spraying crimson splatters onto the sand. He panted, a red string of saliva hanging to the ground as his frown quivered. Taking his body in his own embrace, his head sank. Shuddering breaths became hushed weeping.
"What do I keep coming back here for...you're never here. You'll never be here."
Autumn leaves rustled in the quiet breeze carrying past him.
"I only wanted…" He swallowed between words. "...I wanted to tell you...I've always thought the world of you. Both of you. Please come home. I don't got a whole lot of time left."
The wind died. Gaelstrom's vision swam in tears as each fallen bead dripped from his eyes. "Guess that's just the way things go." he said. "Well, no use in cryin', is there. Maybe in the next life it'll all work out, huh? Yeah, well...I'm sorry. For everything."
Sand particles tumbled around his hand. Dust from the road blew behind him, taking dead leaves with it. Gaelstrom blinked away tears, slowly lifting his head as wind in the trees grew louder.
A sudden gust hit his face and he winced, shielding his eyes from the dust with his hand. An incomprehensible feeling seized him, halting his thoughts altogether momentarily. It gravitated his attention back to the house, where an eerie moan carried on the harsh wind.
Leaves danced in a whirwind right in front of him. Only one person came to mind as he stood and watched it. Unlike his thoughts, this was something much deeper. More complex. He thought of the wind in that moment and the chill it sent up his spine. But this other strange feeling - the person it reminded him of - felt separate from his mind.
It couldn't be who he thought. What did it even mean? Gaelstrom was only certain of one thing: he knew who the unseen presence belonged to.
"Jean?"
The wind roared around him, pushing him forward with unrelenting force. Trees swayed violently. The moaning deafened him. He didn't think a storm was brewing, not with how sparse the clouds were. And then, as if it never happened, the atmospheric moans reduced to silence. In an instant, roaring winds ceased. Leaves descended from above, abandoned by the current that scooped them up.
Residing somewhere inside of Gaelstrom were remnants of that bizarre storm - words that didn't belong to him. Words his mind never conjured on its own.
Don't give up on me .
"What the hell…"
All he could do was stare dumbfounded at Polnareff's house. Was he just imagining things? No. He couldn't have been. It felt wrong to dismiss it. Wrong to disbelieve anything his gut was telling him. Those words faded, but left behind an unexplainable motivation…
"I've gotta find him."
Sitting on the steps in the front yard, he rolled his pants down. Trying to shake that feeling off was like waving a blanket with bramble spurs all over it. Useless. Under his breath, he mumbled to himself as he fixed his pants.
"God, what am I thinking. This is ridiculous."
Gaelstrom jolted at the sudden ringing coming from his back pocket. "Jaysus. Bout had a canary."
The screen read: Mom. Oh, no.
"Hello?"
A lilty, sweet voice cooed from the other end. "Sweetheart, I know you're busy but I need to ask a favor of you."
Gaelstrom leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This favor doesn't involve dad, does it?"
"He's bein' a stubborn ole goat again. I told him if he's going to the dig site, someone's got to go with him. I'm scared he's gonna hurt himself."
From the background roared a deeper, grouchy tenor voice. "Now look here. I'm fully capable of gettin' around on my own just fine. Wha…! Are you on the phone again ?!"
Gaelstrom sighed, wiping his hand down his face.
"I told you. I don't care how young you think you are," she chided, "you're as infirm as a house made of sand!"
"Mum…" Gaelstrom chimed in, slipping his dress shoe on his foot.
"Aw, dry up already!" the dad barked. "We can't all be like Jean-Luc Polnareff, and look like a movie star at 70!"
Nope. They were still bickering.
"Mum!"
"Yes, darling?"
"D-Darling?!" the dad shrieked.
"Up the yard!" she screeched. "Can'tcha see I'm trying to talk to Gael!?"
His voice came through the phone. Gaelstrom assumed he took it from his mother, as her voice was harping at him in the background.
"Gael! Tell your mum to mind her bees wax."
Gaelstrom exasperated. "Will someone please explain what the hell is going on!?"
"Speedwagon's found something, boyo. I'm headin' out to Slovakia in the morning. Alone !" He made doubly certain to hammer that into his wife's head.
"The hell you are!" she griped.
"They need your aul man to do some research on an artifact, nothing spectacular. So nothing to worry about, alright? You just take it easy and go fishing in the bay awhile."
Not this shit again. As much as he really didn't want to head off to another country, they weren't leaving him much choice. The old man would undoubtedly have another nasty fall. He could hear his mother's distressed voice already, crying and squabbling about how careless and stupid he is for going it alone. Gaelstrom rolled his eyes, listening to their incessant arguing.
"Alright, alright! Fine. I'll go."
"What'd he say?" his mom asked.
Gaelstrom's dad stammered and groaned into the phone, mumbling a response back. "He says he's going with me."
SQUEEEE
Gaelstrom pulled the phone away from his ear.
"That's my sweet boy!"
"Come on, Eileen. The man's 42 years old! When are ya gonna quit talking to him like a baby?"
"He'll always be my baby," she said, "no matter how old he gets."
Despite the fact that no one was around, Gaelstrom's hand slipped over his face to mask his embarrassment. God, what was he getting himself into…
"Alright, mo chroi, " she cooed, "you come home safe now."
Gaelstrom chuckled. "Bye, mum."
Before they hung up, he could hear his dad in the background. "Wait, where is he at?"
BEEP
Thank god that was over. His head slumped, relieved not to hear anymore of that conversation. Though he was sure it was waiting for him back in Galway. Which made going home seem more dreadful by the second. To make matters worse, he was leaving Ireland yet again. God, all he really wanted to do was just go home, lock his bedroom door, and write poetry for days on end.
He thought about querying a traditional publisher, but what was the use? They'd just turn him down again. And again. And again.
What's more, his pig-headed father refused to stay home and just find someone else - someone younger - to research the supernatural in his place. Damned old git, Gaelstrom thought.
Wind howling against the house severed him from his thoughts. There was that gut feeling again, spurring him to keep faith.
"I have no idea what the hell that wind was." he mused. "It's like Jean really was here. Have I gone off my nut?"
He gathered his things and made way up the road on foot. Something seized him mid-walk, urging him to look back. Gaelstrom aimed his focus to the road and nowhere else, hoping to shake it off. There was nothing there. He knew that. But if that was true, then why in the hell wasn't it leaving him be?
If looking back would chase it away, he'd do so. His weary eyes glanced back as he stopped walking. Just a house. As he thought, there was nothing there. What happened there that day would haunt him forever. None of it made sense. The wind, the feeling that Polnareff was there, and this sudden desire to seek him out wherever he may be.
Not like he knew where to look, he hadn't been home in over a decade. Nobody else seemed bothered to look for him, either, sad as that may be. Word had gotten out that the house was haunted. Teenagers would trek out there in the middle of the night hoping to provoke some ghoulish beings. Only to find themselves jumping at every little sound that could be explained.
The rat for instance.
One of the kids were dared to explore the basement. When they came out, the kids quit coming back. Claiming that there was something chanting down there, warbling sweet nothings in their heads.
Nobody believed them. Nobody but Gaelstrom. It was the source of the family curse. The very thing that would lead Polnareff to ruin if he had any knowledge about it, and what his father had tried to do in order to protect him.
It was still there, he wagered. Still radiating that bone-chilling, green aura like before. Still mocking the Polnareff family.
"I can't believe I'm going through with this…" Gaelstrom said, "...after everything I've been through. Well, it's a sign I reckon. Can't argue with that."