Page 29 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Epilogue

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The cool autumn breeze carries the scent of fallen leaves as I step through the cemetery gates.

Two years have passed since that night when a pale figure emerged from the shadows to correct me about the local miners’ screams. Two years since my world shifted on its axis and I discovered that some boundaries are meant to be crossed.

The weathered headstones stand like old friends welcoming me back, their familiar shapes comforting against the darkening sky.

I clutch a basket filled with marigolds, candles, and sugar skulls, my heart racing with anticipation rather than the nervousness that once drove me here hunting paranormal content.

“This is where everything changed,” Lucius says beside me, his fingers intertwined with mine.

The moonlight catches his white hair, creating that ethereal glow that first made me think I’d encountered an actual ghost. Now I know better—he’s flesh and blood…

and mine, impossibly and completely mine.

He wears modern clothes with ease now—dark jeans and a light sweater that complement his pale coloring.

He doesn’t need his translator anymore, his English is deliciously accented but perfect and effortless.

“It feels like another lifetime,” I reply. “Back when I was still just Raven, chasing validation through views and subscribers instead of chasing you through cemeteries and across continents.”

His smile holds a depth of understanding that still catches my breath. “And I was still hiding at the sanctuary’s edges, uncertain of my place in this century.”

We make our way to a quiet corner of the cemetery, a spot I’d chosen for tonight’s ritual.

The small altar we establish combines traditions that span millennia and cultures—marigolds from our Mexican journey arranged in the pattern of Roman offering vessels, sugar skulls with intricate designs placed alongside coins for Charon, candles that blend Catholic tradition with ancient temple protocols.

The mingling of our worlds creates something entirely new.

“My grandmother would have adored you,” I tell him as we arrange each element. “She was the only one who believed me after my accident. She always said some people see deeper than others. That death wasn’t an ending, but a threshold.”

“A wise woman.” Lucius places the final candle, his movements carrying the precise grace that years of temple service instilled. “In Rome, we would have called her one who walks between worlds.”

Tonight we honor her memory—the woman whose pendant I wore for years, whose belief in my near-death experience gave me permission to trust my own truth. The ritual feels fitting, a way to connect the journey that began with her understanding and led, through unexpected paths, to Lucius.

As we complete the arrangement, I can’t help but reflect on our journey—how skepticism transformed to trust, professional interest to genuine connection, and finally to love.

The documentary that began everything eventually aired, but not as Norris had envisioned.

Our controlled interview sparked academic interest and emphasized the humanity of the gladiators.

More importantly, it gave us back our story.

Norris never forgave me for refusing his million-dollar follow-up deal, but some things aren’t for sale. Some connections transcend commerce.

The pharmaceutical companies still occasionally make overtures, but Dara’s legal team ensures those attempts remain merely annoying rather than threatening.

The last time Hammond tried his “revised collaborative opportunities” routine, Lucius didn’t even need ritual preparation to face him down in a quick Zoom call—an impressive change for the man who once required protective paint just to leave the sanctuary.

The sanctuary has expanded, eventually welcoming carefully vetted visitors and researchers while maintaining strict protections.

Lucius found unexpected purpose as a liaison between ancient wisdom and modern knowledge, teaching historians and anthropologists what textbooks could never capture.

The pale priest who once existed at the margins of two different worlds, now serves as a bridge between them.

“Remember what you asked me that first night?” Lucius says as he lights the candles with practiced hands. “About communicating with the dead?”

I smile at the memory. “You said they speak through stillness and patterns, not dramatic apparitions.”

The ritual Lucius performs combines elements from his temple days with Mexican traditions we learned during Día de los Muertos.

He sprinkles herbs around the altar’s perimeter, murmuring Latin phrases that no longer need translation—I’ve learned enough to understand their meaning. Protection. Invitation. Acknowledgment.

I join him, adding my own words—modern English mingling with ancient Latin in a prayer that transcends time.

The breeze stirs the marigold petals, sending their spicy scent swirling around us.

For a moment, I feel the same expansion I experienced when my heart stopped beating—the sense of connection beyond physical boundaries.

Grandmother’s presence seems to envelop us, approving this unlikely union.

When the ritual concludes, we sit together on the small blanket we’ve brought, sharing cookies and spiced wine as families do in Mexico—celebrating continuation rather than ending, connection rather than loss.

“Do you ever regret it?” I ask, leaning against his shoulder as moonlight bathes the cemetery in silvery light. “Agreeing to leave the sanctuary that day? Everything that followed?”

His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer against the October chill. “Never.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “Though the path proved more complicated than either of us anticipated.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I laugh softly. “From cemetery meetings to viral videos to pharmaceutical companies hunting us across international borders.”

His touch draws the same symbols onto my arm that once adorned his body before battle—ritual lines of protection and purpose.

Now, they’ve become a language between us, comfort offered through touch.

The touch sends warmth spiraling through me, the way it always does.

Two years together, and he still makes my pulse race with the simplest contact.

“Fortuna’s wheel turns in unexpected ways,” he says thoughtfully. “I think we were always meant to find each other,” he says simply, his hand rising to touch my cheek. “Two souls marked by death’s touch, learning to live fully for the first time.”

The sentiment warms me more than the wine.

My work has transformed this past year—no longer chasing paranormal evidence for views, but documenting death traditions across cultures with genuine respect.

The Beyond the Veil brand still exists, but now as an educational platform rather than entertainment.

Each episode features experts from various cultural backgrounds explaining their practices in their own words, with Lucius occasionally providing historical context from off-camera.

“I still can’t believe you turned down Norris’s million-dollar offer,” Lucius says, his voice tinged with admiration. “For an exclusive series featuring ‘The Ghost and the Goth.’”

I groan at the memory. “That title alone deserved rejection. Besides, some things aren’t for sale.”

“A concept my original time understood poorly,” he observes wryly.

“We should probably head back soon,” I say eventually, though reluctance colors my voice.

“Our bed is calling me, too, but it can wait a moment longer,” Lucius murmurs, turning to face me fully.

His hand reaches into his pocket, withdrawing something small that reflects the moonlight.

My heart stops. Actually stops, the way it did that night on the icy road when everything changed.

But this time, the pause feels like anticipation rather than an ending.

My breath catches as he opens his palm to reveal a delicate ring—a band that appears ancient, with intricate symbols etched into a metal that gleams with age and care.

“Thrax crafted this,” he explains, voice quieter than usual. “From a Roman denarius carried on the Fortuna. The symbols represent eternal connection—the kind that transcends time, death, and every impossible boundary we’ve already crossed together.”

Tears fill my eyes as understanding dawns. “Lucius…”

“In my time, formal declarations were often made with practical arrangements—dowries, contracts, family negotiations.” His smile turns self-deprecating. “I understand modern tradition requires more romantic gestures.”

A laugh escapes me despite the emotion tightening my throat. “I think proposing in a cemetery at midnight with a ring made from ancient Roman currency qualifies as romantic by my standard.”

His expression grows serious. “Rosemary Anne Vaughn, who sometimes calls herself Raven, who walks between worlds as I do—would you join your life with mine, creating something that exists between our times, between our traditions?”

The question steals my breath. Two years of dancing around forever, and he’s finally asking. In a cemetery at midnight, surrounded by the dead who brought us together.

“But what about our bonding ceremony?” I ask, remembering that night in the Texas safe house when we tied our souls together with forces older than time. “Aren’t we already bound in ways deeper than marriage?”

“In every way that matters to the gods,” he agrees, his thumb tracing my lower lip.

“But this world recognizes different bonds. Our private ceremony joined our souls, but marriage will announce our choice to everyone who matters to us. The sanctuary, our friends, the world that’s watched our journey.

They deserve to witness the lasting import of our sacred commitment. ”

“Yes,” I whisper, offering my hand. “Yes, you impossible, beautiful ghost of a man. Yes to everything.”

The ring settles into place as if it has always belonged there, warm metal against cool skin. When Lucius pulls me into his arms, I taste salt from our mingled tears—joy crystallized into something tangible.

“Mrs. Valerius,” he murmurs against my lips, testing out the sound.

“Not yet,” I laugh, though the title sends butterflies spiraling through my chest. “But soon.”

“Soon,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like wine and forever.

Above us, stars wheel in familiar patterns, the same constellations that witnessed Rome’s glory and fall, that oversaw our separate journeys through death’s territory, that now illuminate this impossible connection.

Behind us, the altar’s candles flicker in celebration, honoring those who have passed while marking new beginnings.

“Come,” Lucius says finally, helping me gather our ritual items. “Let’s return home.”

As we walk arm in arm through the cemetery where everything began, I realize we’ve achieved the balance neither of us thought possible.

He no longer exists solely as a relic of the past, and I’ve shed the artificial persona created to validate my experiences.

Together, we walk the boundary between worlds—his ancient wisdom complementing my modern perspective, creating something neither Rome nor the twenty-first century could have imagined.

The cemetery gate creaks softly as we pass through, heading toward the future we’ve chosen together—one foot in each world, fully belonging to both and neither. Perfect symmetry found in the most unexpected crossing of paths.

Behind us, the candles continue their vigil among the stones. Ahead, the sanctuary glows with warm light, filled with friends who’ve become family, gladiators who’ve become brothers, and a life we’ve built from impossible circumstances.

“What are you thinking?” Lucius asks, noticing my backward glance.

“That some boundaries aren’t meant to divide,” I say, squeezing his hand. “They’re meant to be crossed by the right people at the right time.”

His smile catches the moonlight. “Before I met you, I thought I was trapped between worlds—belonging fully to neither ancient Rome nor modern times.”

“And now?”

“Now I know I was wrong.” He stops walking, turning to face me fully. “I wasn’t trapped between worlds. I was waiting for the right person to help me build a new one.” He lifts my ringed hand to his lips. “Against all odds, across every impossible divide.”

As we continue toward home—toward the sanctuary, toward our people, toward the life we’ve chosen—I realize this isn’t an ending at all. It’s a beginning. The first page of forever, written in starlight and sealed with promises that death itself couldn’t break.

Some love stories span lifetimes. Ours spans millennia.

And we’re just getting started.