Page 4 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Four

L ucius

Midnight hangs like a curtain over the cemetery.

Moonlight catches the weathered headstones, transforming ordinary marble into silver sentinels standing guard over Potosi’s dead.

The night breathes cold against my skin, enough that my exhale ghosts into the air—faint, but real.

A whisper of warmth in the stillness as I wait, wondering if she will come.

Raven’s red SUV appears at exactly midnight, headlights cutting through the darkness before blinking out.

She emerges like a shadow, moving with surprising grace between the graves.

Despite my request for her to come as herself, she still wears black from head to toe—though I notice subtle differences.

Less dramatic makeup. Simpler clothing. Small concessions that suggest she’s at least considered my words.

“You came,” she says, a hint of surprise in her voice as she approaches. “Part of me thought you might change your mind.”

“I keep my word,” I reply in careful English. Though months of study have improved my grasp of this modern language, complex expressions still escape me. This time, I came prepared and hand her a translator so she can understand me for the rest of our conversation.

My gaze takes in her appearance—the silver jewelry, the layered black clothing. “Though it seems you struggled with the condition I placed on you.”

Her hand rises self-consciously to her hair. “This isn’t just a costume I put on for work, Lucius. It’s who I’ve been for years.” Her fingers tug at her sleeve, revealing more of the tattoos that line her arms. “These are permanent, you know. Not exactly something I can leave behind at the motel.”

That strikes me more deeply than I expected.

Perhaps the boundary between Raven and Rosemary is less defined than I had assumed.

“An identity built from trauma can become as real as the one given at birth,” I concede, recalling how quickly “The Ghost” became inseparable from my sense of self in the arena. “I appreciate the effort you made.”

Relief flashes across her features as she gestures to a stone bench nearby. “Shall we?”

The bench sits beneath a massive oak, its roots pushing through the soil around nearby graves.

We settle onto the cool stone, close enough for conversation but maintaining a careful distance.

Above us, stars pierce the velvet sky—familiar constellations although shifted from positions I once knew by heart.

“You said you’d tell me about your experience,” I remind her, turning slightly to study her profile in the moonlight.

Her fingers trace the outline of a skull tattooed on her wrist as she gathers her thoughts.

“It was January. Ice storm. The car hit black ice on a curve and rolled three times before wrapping around a tree.” Her voice drops to nearly a whisper.

“I remember the sound of metal crunching. The taste of blood. The cold seeping in as my body temperature dropped.”

A shiver runs through her despite the relatively mild night.

“The paramedics said my heart stopped for three minutes before they revived me.” Her eyes lift to meet mine, searching for judgment or disbelief but finding neither. “Those three minutes felt like… much longer.”

“Time moves differently beyond the veil,” I offer quietly.

“Yes! Exactly.” Excitement colors her voice at being understood. “No one ever gets that part right. It wasn’t like sleeping. It was… expansive. Like years compressed into moments.”

My attention sharpens at this detail that few would know to fabricate. “What did you see there?”

She hesitates, fingers curling around the memorial pendant at her throat.

“At first, darkness. Then a path appeared, leading toward a river shrouded in mist. There was a…” Her brow furrows with concentration.

“A guardian. Massive. Multiple heads, though I couldn’t see them clearly through the fog. I just sensed its presence, watching.”

The image she describes twists something deep in my gut. Cerberus. Guardian of the underworld’s gates. Not a detail commonly included in modern depictions of near-death experiences, yet precisely what one would encounter at the threshold of Pluto’s realm.

“The river itself seemed to be made of something thicker than water,” she continues, unaware of how her words confirm ancient truths. “The whole time I felt like I was being weighed, measured somehow. Like the very air was judging whether I belonged there yet.”

“The weighing of the soul,” I murmur, recognizing the process that determined one’s destination in the afterlife.

She sits up straighter, lit with sudden recognition.

“Yes! That’s exactly how it felt.” She leans forward, the practiced composure of her podcast persona slipping away.

“I’ve read every near-death account I could find.

Most talk about white lights and tunnels and beloved relatives.

But what I experienced was… different. Older somehow. ”

“You stood at the threshold of Pluto’s realm,” I tell her, the words emerging with the certainty of temple teaching. “What you saw was real.”

Something breaks open in her expression—a vulnerability so raw it almost hurts to witness. Her carefully applied makeup doesn’t hide the tears that suddenly well in her eyes.

“Do you have any idea,” she whispers, voice catching, “how long I’ve waited for someone to say that? To not look at me like I’m crazy or attention-seeking or traumatized?”

Without thinking, my hand moves to cover hers where it rests on the cold stone between us. Her skin feels impossibly warm against mine, that same surprising heat I noticed when our fingers first touched.

The contact is like a lightning strike in my veins. I haven’t felt like this in centuries—not since I was young enough to believe I was blessed rather than cursed.

“Death marks those it touches,” I say softly. “I recognized its shadow on you the moment we met.”

She doesn’t pull her hand away. Instead, her fingers intertwine with mine in a gesture that feels both innocent and strangely intimate.

“Tell me about Pluto’s temple,” she asks after a moment of silence. “What was it like to serve there?”

The question opens memories I’ve kept carefully contained since awakening in this century.

“The temple complex stood on the outskirts of Rome, near enough to serve the city but removed enough that the constant presence of death wouldn’t disrupt daily life.

White marble steps led to black interior chambers.

Altars for offerings. Sacred pools for purification rituals. ”

As I speak, the memories crystalize with unexpected clarity. “I was left there as an infant. My condition…” I gesture to my pale skin, “was considered a mark of Pluto’s favor. The white hair and skin, reminiscent of those who had spent time in the underworld.”

“So they raised you from birth to serve him?” Her question carries no judgment, only genuine curiosity.

“Yes. My earliest memories are of temple life—the rituals, the sacred texts, learning to interpret signs and communicate with those who had crossed beyond the veil.”

“And you actually could? Communicate with the dead?”

A smile touches my lips at her eagerness. “Not in the way your ghost-hunting shows portray. No dramatic phantoms or voices without bodies. The dead speak more subtly—through stillness, through patterns, through dreams. One must learn to listen differently to hear them.”

“But you could sense them? Know what they needed?”

“Often. Part of a priest’s duty was helping restless spirits find peace. Families would come seeking help when they believed a departed loved one lingered unhappily.”

She absorbs this with remarkable openness. “Is that why you were in the cemetery that night? Working with the dead?”

“In a sense. Modern cemeteries aren’t built with the proper rituals, but they still hold power as consecrated ground. I find… comfort there.” It reminds me who I was before the arena changed me.

“I understand that,” she says, surprising me. “After the accident, I spent hours in cemeteries. Everyone thought I was being morbid, but there was a peace there I couldn’t find anywhere else.”

Our gazes lock in silent understanding. Whatever performance her podcast persona might include, this connection to death’s realm feels authentically earned.

“What about the gladiatorial part?” she asks after a moment. “How does one go from priest to arena fighter?”

The question touches old wounds. “Not willingly.” My voice hardens slightly. “Temple politics. False accusations. When the choice came between execution that would desecrate sacred ground or being sold to a lanista …”

A memory slams into my mind, stealing my attention. I’m standing in chains in the slave market at Capua, my pale skin gleaming under the harsh sun as potential buyers examine me like livestock.

“Turn around, boy,” the lanista Batiatus commanded, his meaty hand gripping my shoulder. “Show them the markings.”

The crowd murmured as they saw the ritual scars from my temple service, the white lines against white skin creating patterns they found both fascinating and unnerving.

“Touched by the gods,” one buyer whispered.

“Or cursed,” muttered another.

Batiatus laughed, mentally counting coins already. “Either way, he’ll draw crowds. Look at that coloring—like death itself walks among us.”

I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, trying to preserve some shred of dignity as hands poked and prodded, testing muscle, examining teeth like I was a horse for purchase.

The final humiliation came when they forced me to demonstrate my sword work, half-starved and shackled, while wealthy Romans placed bets on how long I might survive in actual combat.

That night, chained in the ludus with forty other condemned men, I understood that I was no longer Lucius the priest—I was property, a curiosity to be displayed until the sand claimed me.

I return to the moment and incline my head. “In the arena, my appearance became an asset rather than a curiosity.”

“The Ghost,” she says softly. “I did some research. The pale gladiator who fought covered in white chalk and sacred symbols.”

“You’ve been studying me.” The observation carries no accusation, merely acknowledgment.

“Occupational hazard.” Her lips quirk into a half-smile. “I always research subjects thoroughly before interviews.”

“Is that what this is? An interview?”

“No. This is…” She hesitates, fingers tightening slightly around mine. “This is just us. Two people marked by death in different ways.”

The truth in her tone unsettles me more than I’d like to admit. I’ve encountered many in this century seeking to use my unique perspective for their own purposes. Yet something about her honesty—and her genuine brush with death’s realm—resonates differently.

“I’d like to propose something,” she says suddenly. “The historic Potosi mines. There’s been reports of miners’ voices still heard in the depths. It was what I was searching for when you came upon me last night. I’d like to know what you sense there.”

“You want me to accompany you on an investigation.” The statement comes without judgment. Her enthusiasm doesn’t feel entirely calculated.

“Not for recording,” she clarifies quickly.

“No equipment. Just… exploration. The mines have a tragic history—cave-ins, explosions. Dozens of miners lost their lives there.” She leans closer, her scent—something spicy beneath the sweetness of crushed blossoms—briefly filling my senses.

“I’ve been there before and felt… something.

But with your training and sensitivity—”

“You think I might perceive what you cannot.”

“Exactly.” Her excitement is palpable. “These weren’t proper burials with appropriate rituals. If anyone could sense whether these spirits need help to find peace…”

The request touches something deeper than she likely intends. In Rome, tending to those who died violently or without proper rites was among a priest’s most sacred duties. Such souls often lingered, confused and restless.

“Tomorrow,” I say finally. “After sunset.”

Her smile transforms her face, genuine joy breaking through the carefully constructed goth armor-—a young woman who brushed against death’s realm and has been trying to understand it ever since.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing my hand once more before releasing it. “I promise, no recording equipment. Just exploration.”

As she rises to leave, moonlight catches her profile, illuminating the sincerity in her expression. Perhaps there’s more authenticity to this modern death priestess than I initially assumed.

“Until tomorrow,” I tell her, watching as she moves between the headstones back toward her vehicle.

Something stirs within me as her taillights disappear into the darkness—an unexpected eagerness to explore these mines with her.

Not merely to sense what might linger there, but to witness how she responds to whatever we discover.

In that moment, I realize my interest has shifted from merely assessing her motives to genuine curiosity about the woman herself.

The dead, after all, have been my constant companions for centuries. But connections with the living? Those have become far rarer treasures.