Page 54 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“If I agree to this,” I say without turning, “it must be on specific terms. One interview, carefully controlled. No gladiatorial demonstrations. No temple reenactments. Just truth.”
I hear her sharp intake of breath—surprise, perhaps, that I’ve made up my mind and have come up with my own terms. Her chair scrapes against the tile as she joins me at the window.
“Absolutely,” she confirms. “Your story, your terms. We record it ourselves, maintain complete control over editing and release. One interview, maximum distribution.”
“With you as interviewer,” I add, meeting her gaze. “Not Norris, not his network representatives, not the big names on national TV you admire so much. You.”
Her brows lift, the surprise subtle but unmistakable. “Are you sure? After everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t blame you for preferring someone with less personal involvement.”
“I trust you,” I say simply, the admission surprising us both. “Despite recent events. Perhaps because of them.”
Something shifts in her expression: relief, gratitude, determination. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know.” My simple statement hits me hard because as the words escape my mouth, I know it’s purely the truth.
The decision crystallizes with unexpected clarity. If I must become visible to this modern world, let it be deliberate rather than stolen. Let me choose the terms of my revelation rather than have them forced upon me, as has happened so many times before.
“I’ll call Laura,” Raven says, already reaching for her secure phone. “We’ll need equipment, legal documents to maintain control—”
“Not yet.” I touch her wrist, stopping her movement. “First, I need to prepare properly.”
“Prepare how?”
“As I did in the arena, when facing my most significant battles.”
She understands immediately. “The ritual paint.”
“Yes.” I reach for my small bag, retrieving the leather pouch that has accompanied me since awakening in this century. “For protection. For clarity. For strength.”
The days that follow transform the safe house into a production studio. Equipment arrives through secure channels—cameras, lighting, sound recording devices that Raven assembles with practiced efficiency. Encrypted legal documents flow between the sanctuary’s attorneys and Raven’s computer. Norris is conspicuously absent from these arrangements, his frustrated messages ignored as we construct our own path forward.
On the morning of the interview, I wake before dawn. The house remains quiet, Raven still sleeping in the room next to mine. These days of preparation have repaired something between us—the breach of trust healing through shared purpose, through her fierce advocacy for my agency in this process.
I move silently to the bathroom, placing my leather pouch on the counter. The ritualistic preparation has always been private—first in the temple, later in theludusbefore matches. Yet something tells me this preparation should not be solitary.
When Raven wakes, she finds me sitting on the porch, watching the sunrise paint the scrub trees in shades of amber and gold.
“Today’s the day,” she says, settling beside me. “Are you ready?”
“Not yet.” I meet her gaze steadily. “There’s one element remaining. The ritual preparation.”
Recognition dawns on her expression. “Do you want me to give you privacy for that?”
“No.” The decision comes with certainty. “I want you to assist.”
“You’re sure?” Her surprise is evident. “It’s sacred to you, personal. And this is more important than protecting yourself for the drive to New Orleans.”
“Yes, it’s more important. That’s why you need to be a part of it.” I rise, extending my hand to her.
In the bathroom, I arrange the components while Raven watches with reverent attention. The mixture forms under my hands—chalk, herbs, oils combined with precise movements. When the mixture reaches proper consistency, I remove my shirt.
“Where do I begin?” she asks softly.
“Here.” I guide her fingers to the mixture, then to my shoulder. “Follow the natural lines. The body’s structure dictates the pattern’s flow.”
Her touch is tentative at first, but grows more confident as she works, fingers tracing patterns across my skin. Unlike the arena preparation, which always carried tension and fear beneath its ritual surface, this application brings unexpected peace. The cool mixture against my skin, the gentle pressure of her fingers, the shared silence—all create a sacred space between worlds.
“This symbol,” she asks, pausing at a spiral pattern, “what does it mean?”
