Page 7 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“At least take a translator.” The device is in Laura’s outstretched hand. Good, this will make our discussion easier. I won’t have to use my poor English to explain things like I did last night.
The walk to the main gate provides time to consider my approach. Raven clearly lacks patience, yet managed towait several hours without attempting to breach security. Determination without recklessness. Interesting combination.
The red SUV sits exactly where Quintus described, parked just outside the sanctuary’s main entrance. Raven is standing, leaning against the driver’s side door, thumbs moving rapidly over her phone’s screen. She wears the same black attire as last night, though her jacket has been exchanged for a sleeveless top that reveals pale arms covered in symbolic tattoos. A sugar skull on one shoulder. Three coins on the inside of her wrist. A bident silhouette on her shoulder—Pluto’s two-pronged spear, unlike Neptune’s three-pronged trident. Images that speak of death’s domain in multiple cultures.
The morning sunlight catches her profile, illuminating features too striking to be conventionally beautiful yet compelling in their intensity. Something about the contrast between her dark attire and the vibrant hints of red at her roots draws attention in ways that feel… unexpected.
She doesn’t notice my approach until I’m nearly at the gate. When she looks up, surprise and excitement flash across her features before being carefully schooled into professional composure. “You’re here.” She tucks her phone away, a smile transforming her face. “I wasn’t sure I would see you again.”
I mime slipping the translator into my ear, then hand it to her. Once it’s in and she can understand me, I say, “Loitering on private property tends to eventually draw attention.”
“I prefer to think of it as persistent networking.” A smile touches her lips. “Besides, your security is impressive. I figured someone would eventually invite me in or chase me off.”
“Which were you hoping for?”
“The invitation, obviously.” She gestures toward her vehicle. “I brought coffee and those pastries from the bakery on Main Street as peace offerings. The cheese ones, not the sweet ones. You struck me as someone who prefers savory over sweet.”
She’s right, though I don’t know how she knew. Most modern people assume all Romans craved honeyed wine and sugared delicacies, ignorant of the sophistication of actual Roman cuisine.
“A gesture of goodwill,” she continues when I don’t immediately respond, “and an apology for trespassing last night. I got carried away when I found the cemetery. Professional hazard.”
Her directness is refreshing, even if caution suggests it may be calculated. “Why are you here, Raven? Beyond pastries and coffee.”
“Honestly?” She meets my gaze directly. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our conversation. About what you said regarding death marking those it touches.”
The Ouroboros tattoo winding around her left forearm catches the morning light as she pushes away from the SUV. “Most people either dismiss my experience as a hallucination or treat it like some morbid party trick.” Her voice shifts into a mockingtone. “‘Hey Raven, tell everyone about that time you died!’” She softens again. “But you… you just acknowledged it. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
“Because it is.” The response comes without calculation. “Death’s touch is neither blessing nor curse. Merely reality.”
Something shifts in her expression—relief, perhaps. Or recognition. “Exactly. That’s exactly it.” She takes a step closer. “Look, I won’t pretend I don’t want to interview you for my podcast. I do. Your perspective on ancient death rituals would be invaluable. But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
“No?”
“No.” Her fingers tap a nervous rhythm against her thigh. “I want to understand what I experienced. What I saw. For five years, I’ve been researching death traditions across cultures, trying to make sense of those three minutes. But you’ve actually been there—on the other side of the veil. Not just clinically dead, but serving in Pluto’s temple, professionally communing with those who have crossed over.”
She seems sincere, though experience warns me to be careful. Even in the short time I’ve walked this modern world, I’ve seen how easily people fake the truth. But there’s something in her urgency that feels different. The need to understand what lies beyond ordinary explanation, that part, at least, feels real.
“You said your podcast explores validation,” I observe neutrally. “Yours, or your audience’s?”
“Both, I hope.” She gestures toward a three-winged pendant hanging around her neck. “This contains a lock of my grandmother’s hair. Victorian mourning jewelry reproduction. She was the only one who believed me after the accident.” A wistful smile touches her lips. “Said some people get glimpses behind the veil. That it didn’t make me crazy—it made me a bridge.”
“A bridge.” The concept aligns with certain temple teachings. “Between living and dead.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes light with something like hope. “That’s my goal with the podcast. A bridge. Not just entertainment for the morbidly curious, but genuine exploration of how different cultures understand the boundary between life and death.”
The passion in her voice carries conviction. Yet the carefully constructed aesthetic—the dyed hair, the symbolic tattoos, the chosen name that matches her podcast logo—speaks of intentional branding as much as genuine spiritual exploration. I’ve been awake in this century long enough to be able to identify these things.
“Please,” she continues when I remain silent. “Just one conversation. Doesn’t have to be recorded. Just… talk to me. Then, if you never want to see me again, I’ll respect that.”
Decision forms, not from her words, but from something deeper. The memorial pendant. The desperate sincerity in her eyes. The three-coin tattoo on the inside of her wrist—the exact payment required by Charon for passage across the Styx. Not a detail many would know to incorporate into modern body art.
“One hour,” I concede finally. “Not here. Not recorded.”
Relief softens her features as she steps closer, placing her hand flat against my chest, as if to anchor herself to the rhythm of my heart. The touch is simple, but it sends a warmth through me—quiet, steady, and potent. Her nearness steadies me even as it stirs something deeper.
“Name the place. I’m free anytime.”
“The Ironwood Cemetery. Not the one we were at last night; it’s in town. I’ll answer some of your questions… but I expect you to speak about your own experiences. I’ll see you tonight. Midnight.”
