Page 12 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)
Chapter Eleven
L ucius
The small-town cafe buzzes with morning conversation barely two hours after leaving the sanctuary. Raven insisted we stop for a proper breakfast instead of the protein bars Laura packed. We’ve got a long drive to New Orleans ahead of us, and she wanted to start with decent coffee.
Sunlight streams through wide windows, catching the silver chains on her jacket and drawing curious glances from the locals. I adjust my sunglasses, grateful for the protection they provide while allowing me to observe these modern social rituals.
“Try the pancakes,” Raven suggests, her fingers brushing mine as she passes me the menu. “Small-town diners always get those right.”
The casual touch sends a current of warmth up my arm. These moments of unguarded connection have become more frequent since the ritual we shared, each one creating a bridge between our vastly different worlds.
“What exactly are pan-cakes?” I ask, studying the pictures and foreign words.
Her laugh carries no mockery, only genuine amusement. “Like libum but sweeter and flatter. Trust me.”
Trust. Such a small word, yet it opens a door between us.
Our conversation flows naturally as we wait for our food, her excitement about New Orleans evident in her animated descriptions of the city’s unique approach to death and burial. I watch her hands as she speaks; they gesture with unconscious grace, her death’s-head rings catching the sunlight.
“You’re staring,” she notes with a slight smile.
“I’m observing,” I correct, but return her smile. “There’s a difference.”
Our food arrives. Eggs and toast for her, and for me, a towering stack of golden discs that bear no resemblance to the flat libum I expected.
The first bite surprises me completely—fluffy and light where Roman bread was dense, sweet where ours was savory.
But it’s the amber liquid she pours over them that transforms the experience entirely.
“This syrup,” I say, pausing mid-chew as the rich sweetness coats my tongue. “What is this?”
“Maple syrup,” she explains with obvious delight at my reaction. “From tree sap. Nothing like anything you had in Rome, I imagine.”
“Jupiter himself would have demanded this at every feast,” I admit, then take another bite.
“Oh my god, you’re Raven Vaughn!” A young woman with purple-streaked hair stands beside our table, phone already in hand. “From Beyond the Veil! I literally just listened to your episode about haunted sanatoriums.”
The transformation is immediate and startling. Raven’s casual demeanor vanishes, replaced by a polished public persona I’ve never seen before. Her posture straightens, chin lifting slightly as her lips curve into a practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“That’s me,” she confirms, her voice taking on a melodic quality completely different from her natural speech patterns. “Always nice to meet a fan.”
“Can I get a picture?” The girl is already positioning herself without waiting for permission, her phone raised for a selfie.
“Of course,” Raven shifts into what must be her standard pose—head tilted at a precise angle, smile calibrated to appear both mysterious and approachable. The way she moves reminds me of a seasoned performer, never breaking character.
The girl’s gaze darts to me with sudden interest. “Is he part of the show? Are you filming something new?”
“Just a research associate,” Raven answers smoothly, though I note how she neither confirms nor denies the filming question. “We’re exploring Southern death traditions.”
This half-truth opens the floodgates. Within minutes, three more people approach our table, phones appearing like modern talismans. Raven greets each with the same carefully crafted persona, answering questions with practiced responses that reveal nothing while seeming to share exclusive insights.
“What brings Beyond the Veil to our little town?” asks an older man wearing a shirt adorned with supernatural imagery.
“Just passing through on our way to New Orleans,” Raven says, though her eyes flick briefly to me with something like an apology. “The Crescent City has some fascinating burial practices we’re researching.”
“And who’s your mysterious friend?” A woman peers at me with undisguised curiosity. “He looks familiar.”
Tension builds between my shoulders as more eyes turn my way. The attention feels uncomfortably familiar—the same calculating assessment arena crowds once directed at The Ghost. I shift slightly, angling away from their curious stares.
“My historical consultant,” Raven explains, but her performance has already drawn more attention. Phones emerge from pockets, subtle camera angles being adjusted to capture me in their frames despite my obvious discomfort.
“What’s your area of expertise?” a man asks, eyeing my unusual appearance with poorly disguised curiosity.
“Ancient Roman religious practices,” I answer briefly in English, hoping the technical subject will discourage further questions.
Instead, it sparks more interest. A woman with elaborate tattoos leans closer. “That’s perfect for Beyond the Veil! Are you focusing on their death rituals? The Romans had fascinating burial customs.”
“We’re researching various cultural approaches to mortality,” Raven answers smoothly, shifting attention back to herself. “My consultant prefers to remain behind the scenes.”
Despite her attempt at deflection, I feel the weight of their stares—assessing my pale skin, the white hair, the sunglasses I haven’t removed. Their expressions carry that familiar mix of curiosity and discomfort that has followed me in every century.
“You look like you could be from another time,” a teenage girl comments, her phone still aimed in my direction. “That aesthetic is everything.”
Raven laughs—a sound completely different from her genuine amusement as we spoke earlier. This laugh is calculated, designed to maintain a connection with her audience while gently redirecting. “Right? I told him the same thing when we started working together. Talk about perfect casting.”
The word “casting” sends a chill through me. Is that how she sees me now? A perfect visual element for her brand? The careful boundaries we established seem to dissolve further with each passing moment, my personhood fading beneath the spectacle she’s creating.
Our server arrives to refill our coffee cups, momentarily distracting the growing crowd, but the damage is done.
The quiet breakfast Raven promised has turned into an impromptu media event.
Though she hasn’t explicitly broken our agreement about recording, the boundary between private collaboration and public exhibition blurs with each fan interaction.
I watch her perform for her audience—this Raven version of herself so different from the woman I’ve come to know.
The genuine curiosity that first drew me to her is replaced by practiced enthusiasm.
The thoughtful questions that indicated true interest in ritual meaning now transformed into sound bites clearly designed for maximum audience appeal.
“We should continue our journey,” I say quietly when there’s a brief lull in the attention. “New Orleans is still many hours away.”
Relief and guilt flash across her features as she nods, quickly requesting our check. As we prepare to leave, more phones appear, capturing our departure despite my turned back and lowered head.
Outside in the parking lot, the weight of disappointment sits heavy between us as we reach her car.
“I’m sorry,” she says once we’re inside, her performance persona dropping away. “I didn’t expect anyone to recognize me here.”
“You became someone else the moment they approached,” I observe, keeping my voice neutral despite the still-fresh betrayal. “Someone who saw me as part of your brand rather than a person.”
“That’s not fair,” she protests, though her voice lacks conviction. “I was just being professional. I didn’t break our agreement—I never recorded anything.”
“But you enjoyed it,” I counter softly. “The recognition. The attention. Even at my expense.”
Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. “Without this persona, I’m just Rosemary—the weird girl who died and came back with crazy stories. Nobody takes that girl seriously.”
The vulnerability in her admission disarms me. Perhaps this performance isn’t merely calculation but armor—protection against a world that dismissed her genuine experiences.
“Your persona served its purpose once,” I acknowledge, thinking of my own gladiator identity. “But masks worn too long become difficult to remove.”
Her eyes meet mine, conflict evident in her expression. “Professionally, that mask is me now. I don’t know how to separate the two.”
“Perhaps that’s what this journey is truly about,” I suggest, my anger softening despite myself. “It is not enough to study rites of death. One must know where the show ends… and the truth begins.”
She starts the car without responding, though the tightness around her mouth suggests my words found their mark. As we pull back onto the highway, the space between us feels charged with unspoken truths and unexpected understanding.
Just beyond the town limits, she breaks the silence. “I’m still sorry. That won’t happen again.”
“We shall see,” I reply, but reach across to briefly touch her hand on the gearshift, a peace offering of sorts. Her fingers turn, catching mine for a moment before returning to the wheel.
The road stretches ahead, carrying us toward New Orleans and whatever challenges await. But the true journey, I suspect, will happen in the space between performance and truth, between Raven and Rosemary, between the Ghost and Lucius.