"...you think you're awake while you're trying to run, like in a nightmare; time loves your ego to death."

–Ghostlights, Avantasia

December 13, 1970; the day of Rhiannon Polnareff's funeral. For Jean-Luc, it was emotionally taxing to see all the locals who knew his wife approach him that night - each one sharing the same sentiments over and over. Though their words were well-meaning, to him they were like hell's teeth gnashing down on his soul a little at a time. Jean-Luc, however, refrained from showing any hint of bereavment; he'd smile and thank them in spite of it grating on his nerves. And just when he thought he couldn't take any more, yet another friend of Rhiannon's expressed their condolences.

Peeking through the rungs of the bannister sat Polnareff of age five. The sound of his father's voice was drowned out by the murmuring of the guests that showed up, leaving him uninterested in watching any longer. He couldn't keep count of how many people started a small conversation with him that day, speaking to him in an overly kind manner. Many of their faces he hardly recognized, though he sensed sympathy in most of them. Sitting there alone, it felt as though his mother would sit beside him at any given second. She'd be carrying Sherry over on her hip like always. But Sherry was asleep and his mother wasn't there.

He thought back to all the times he'd acted out when he didn't get his way, stomping his feet and throwing a tantrum. His mother never resorted to shouting; she managed to distract him long enough with silly side ventures, like searching around the large oak in the woods for the fae-folk. But she'd warn him: if he kept throwing a fit, they'd leave and he'd never find them. Was she just like the fairies?

Did maman leave because I was bad?

The chatter of his father's guests fell gradually into silence; a dark void swallowed the surroundings leaving Polnareff sitting on what was the stairs, gazing at the freshwater pearls in his palm. Across from him was Jean-Luc seated on that same darkness where a chair would have been, his hands resting over his cane. Alone the two grieved silently. Reverberating through the dark came Jean-Luc's voice as he, too, gradually faded into the abyssal gloom, leaving Polnareff alone in a vast nothingness.

"This ends with me; I'll see to it you never bear the weight of this curse. I'll end it even if it costs my life."

A non-existent wind howled around him, going nowhere. He wanted to feel it against his skin. Something, anything. A vacant gaze stared into nothingness; his emotions numbed, hoping that something out in the darkness would give its answer to his question. He had to know if his mother left because of him, but there was no answer to be given. 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 lied curled in a ball. He'd discovered himself having mysteriously grown to the age of twenty-three when his eyes opened again. "What?!" he hissed. Growing weary of the inconsistencies taking place, Polnareff stormed through the dark failing to suppress the anger as he scoured nowhere for answers. One minute he's eight, then the next he's four...now twenty-three? What was the significance to all of this? Was there any significance at all?

"First a bunch of ghosts show up and repeat each other," he back-tracked, "then my father - I don't want to get started on that bastard - My mother and sister were just here...! I had them right here!" An enraged roar erupted from his stomach and echoed into the void around him; odd as there were no walls in sight for the sound to ricochet off of. "This is bullshit! Where am I, anyway? Nowhere? Somewhere? I...gaaahhh!"

Amidst the howling wind, he could faintly hear Avdol speaking to him. Excitement as well as perplexity drowned out his frustration. Though he couldn't see him in all the darkness, 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 nowhere, but not someplace."

"Avdol?!" he looked over his shoulder, discerning the same stern face he remembered. After concluding that he in fact was real, the only thing Polnareff could do was stare at him. Part of him wanted to believe he was really there; he just had to be real. But the other part of him... "Let me guess: you came to tell me Carry on, my wayward son, too? Ha. You're late to that party, whoever you are."

Avdol took ahold of both of his wrists and with a cold stare, looked him dead in the eye. The doubt crumbled away into fear. A feeling churning in Polnareff's gut felt like he was facing off with himself, but then what was Avdol? Wasn't he just another phantom sent to annoy him?

"Try to understand." Avdol told him in a disembodied voice. Avdol's grip on Polnareff's wrists warped into a thick, entangled mass of chrome thorns. He panicked, trying to pull the vines out of his wrists. Pulling. Twisting. Snapping. Useless. An orange light emitted from the palms of his hands where even more vines sprouted. There had to be an end to this somehow. How dare these horrible apparitions toy with his mind!

Anger boiled inside of him the more he realized that Avdol fell more along the lines of a phantom impostor using his loved ones against him…but of course his nightmares would do that. At least he hoped this was a nightmare. The spirit of who he thought to be Avdol disappeared before he could look up and express his resentment. Chrome-colored thorns slipped out of his hands and down to his feet, melding into the dark to form a pulsing, orange light. From it those same vines coiled outward.

They changed from chrome to fire. Fluorescent roses pierced through the gloom with their radiant glow, gradually blooming within a matter of seconds. Polnareff watched the thorn bush both in awe and confusion. A lucid whisper echoed from seemingly somewhere - he suspected it was the glow at his feet - sending a chill down his spine: Seven.

"Huh?"

There are only seven left. a woman's voice spoke.

Polnareff scratched his head. "Oh, look at that. A rosebush is talking to me. Mon dieu, nothing surprises me about this place anymore..."

The voice of a younger man spoke out amidst the whispers, partially unclear, yet coherent enough for Polnareff to comprehend over all the other voices he was hearing. After today, I'll never see the light of the sun again; but as long as you guys can, then...

"Never see the...what? What's happening to the sun?"

Do you really want to live forever? came a sinister, tenor voice.

Polnareff blinked. "Okay, I give up."

The orange light in front of him glowed brighter; withering roses lost their brilliance, falling as gray husks into nothing. Polnareff gasped as he began to suspect his words had a magic to them that affected everything he was witnessing. Given the nature of his dreams thus far, he wouldn't shun the possibility if it stared him in the face. "Wait, I didn't mean that!"

The vines wilted away and the darkness around him changed from black to white. Polnareff shielded his face with his arms, overcome by another opaque haze that didn't change despite opening or closing his eyes. He tried to hold 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, but was it really him? Or just another deceptive phantom playing master of disguise?

We call it the Aether. The sound of his voice ebbed before trailing off into incoherence, only to leave a deafening ringing noise in its wake to pierce Polnareff's ears. But even that didn't last long as he had finally arrived at the end of his terrifyingly realistic nightmares.

🔸️ 🔸️

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. Opening his weary eyes, his first sight after a long sleep struck him bewildered. What room was this?

There was a window to his right where he could feel just a hint of a soft breeze coming into the room. Wait...that didn't make sense. Recollections of what happened to Gaelstrom seeped into his mind as a vague reminder, but it was there. He gasped, shooting up from a lying position. Gaelstrom's name was stuck on the tip of his tongue due to a throbbing headache. Polnareff pressed his hand against his temple and let out a tired groan.

"Merde, I feel terrible ." The way he brought his knee upward broke his attention from the pain and to something he hadn't seen in over a decade - feet. He ran his hand over his knee and down to his ankles just to get a feel for what was actually real. At this point, he considered hallucinations to be more prevalent. That, or maybe he was still dreaming. 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. "That's odd," he remarked, "spectres can't smell."

He scratched his head. Weird, he felt that, too. What about his blinded 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? He hated to do it, but...

Polnareff brought up his hand and mustered up whatever courage he had and slapped himself across the face. Unexpectedly, 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 down into the floor across the room, he caught a glimpse of Coco Jumbo eating carrots casually as if nothing happened to either of them.

"Oh, it's just my shelled companion." 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…why was Coco Jumbo way over there? Slowly turning his head, he took a double-take at the tortoise. Was he no longer bound to Mr. President?

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: Gaelstrom was . The woman had the sword for some reason. Okay, so that's one accurate recollection. Testament did something to Gaelstrom...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 of disorientation 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 stabbed Coco Jumbo. No, that wasn't enough either. Eva had the sword...she stabbed him...and it 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 another soft breeze; what he yearned for in his dream finally caressed his skin, bringing a sense of peace. 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 advice 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 to him. Even though his mind grabbed ahold tightly to the concept, something else interjected, standing between that dream and himself...reality. He hardly recalled what country he was in. Up and abandoning Gaelstrom 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?"

Across the yard and towards the woodline, he spotted a wolf though he wasn't sure he'd seen it at all. He narrowed his eyes to see further and gasped. It was a wolf and it was staring in his general direction with its ears perked up. His heart may as well have stopped in that moment. The wolf's tail swished and it let out a forlorn howl into the air before trailing into the thick brush. Rays of sunlight beamed down through the canopy over the woods, occasionally revealing to Polnareff where the wolf was heading off to as it passed under them.

"Never seen one that close before." he said.

Returning his eyes to the room, he noted how the light from outside would make them ache. Maybe a little more than he remembered from his childhood, a time when he would stare at the sun in spite of his father telling him not to. After seeing purple and green spots splotched over his vision, his father always had a comment to make to him: Why is it that you always ignore what I tell you and just do what you want anyway?

Because I feel like it.

That response was always met with a frustrated sigh. He smiled at the memory until he heard his door open. Walking in with a bowl of water and a sponge was Eva. Taking a few steps into the room, her eyes left the floor and found Polnareff, miraculously sitting up. He watched her with a look of surprise on his face; she was much shorter than he remembered. Oh, yeah. He wasn't in the stand anymore, duh. Well, that was going to take some getting used to. The tray carrying the bowl of water was slipping from her hands as she stared back, apparent anxiety crippling her from walking any further.

Polnareff swallowed. "Umm..." he reluctantly lifted his foot and gave her a shit-eating grin. She took a step back, grimacing at the way he held his foot so proudly, "...just curious, but which soap did you use on my feet? The scent is so pleasant."

In mid-sentence, she hurriedly sat the tray down on the dresser by the doorway; Eva turned on her heel and fled the room. Polnareff blinked and scratched his head, immediately thinking that he'd done something to disgust her. "Was it something I said?"