Page 40 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

I nod. Was I just thinking that I trust her completely? The way she acts like this is a secret, along with her statement that there’s no pressure, make me think the opposite might be true. I’m growing more nervous every moment.

Skye takes a deep breath, then launches into what can only be described as a presentation. “We’ve talked about your scars before,” she begins, her voice carefully neutral. “I want to show you some options you have regarding them. But first… I have a request.” She slips out of her formal personality and spears me with a serious, worried look. “Please, Thrax, please don’t hate me for this. Don’t run from the room. I mean this with such… affection. Just breathe and… trust me?”

She clicks a button, and an image fills the screen. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at. It’s a back—myback. I know this because the picture was taken in the bed I woke up in this morning. It’s covered in a web of scars. Some raised and angry, others faded to silvery lines. Some form words in Latin, others create unknown patterns of pain etched into my skin.

A gasp escapes me. In all my years, I’ve never truly seen the extent of the damage done to me. Mirrors in my time were poor reflections at best, and I’ve avoided looking too closely since waking in this new era.

“Thrax,” Skye’s voice is soft now, filled with warmth. “You’re beautiful to me. Every mark, every scar—they’re part of your story. I was deeply affected by the way you spoke about how they got there, the pain those… assholes inflicted not only on your body but on the beautiful person within. How they made you feel you deserved the pain and degradation.”

Her face is so serious, itself a mask of grief as though my pain was hers.

“I began to wonder what you’d want to do if you knew the scars could be transformed, altered into something of your choosing rather than what your abusers imposed. I asked myself if you would want to know there are options. Then last night, when you said our server’s tattoos were attractive, I came up with this idea.”

She clicks the button again, and the image shows many complicated tattoos. “These are examples of how people in our time use their bodies as canvases for art,” she explains. Most are much more intricate than the ones I saw on the server’s arms. “Some choose to cover scars, others to enhance them or incorporate them into larger designs.”

As she speaks, she shows me images of my back with different tattoo designs laid over the scars. It transforms them. The marks of cruelty and pain become something else entirely—something powerful, meaningful… beautiful.

“This one,” Skye says, pointing to an image of a majestic bird rising from flames, “is a phoenix. In mythology, it’s a creature that is reborn from its own ashes. Many people see it as a symbol of renewal and triumph over adversity.”

The symbolism isn’t lost on me. To rise from the ashes of my past, to be reborn in this new time… it resonates deeply.

Skye continues, showing me more options. A broken chain transforming into a flock of birds—freedom taking flight. Waves and mountains, representing the journey through time that brought me here. A compass, symbolizing finding my way in a new world. Each design speaks to different aspects of my experience, my journey—and each covers the tracks of my pain.

One design in particular catches my eye—a mosaic incorporating symbols from both my past and present. I see elements of Rome—columns, laurel wreaths—seamlessly blending with modern imagery with an airplane looming over it all. It shows the bridge I’m trying to build between my two lives.

“And this one,” Skye says, her voice softening, “is the Goddess Fortuna with her wheel of fate.”

There is a beautiful woman, her eyes blindfolded, one hand on a great wheel. Around her, the wheel tells the story of a life—my life—from slavery to freedom, from ancient Rome to the modern world.

“Skye,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the possibilities before me. “This is… I don’t know what to say.” I rub my mouth, hoping it hides all the emotions tiding through me.

She moves closer, taking my hand in hers. “You don’t have to say anything, Thrax. And you don’t have to decide anything right now. I just wanted you to see the possibilities. Your body is your own, and whatever you choose to do—or not do—with it is entirely up to you. I’ll support you either way.”

Her words, her touch, the care she’s put into all of this—it’s almost too much. Emotions well up inside me, threatening to spill over. This woman, in such a short time, has given me something I’ve never had before: choice. The power to decide how my story is told, how the marks of my past are carried into my future.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice thick with emotion. “For showing me this. For… everything.” This woman took a risk. For all she knew, I could have gotten angry at her for mentioning what I’ve always considered to be my shame. But she trusted me enough to trust her. The idea makes my guts vibrate. The depth of my feelings is overwhelming.

Skye allows me all the time I need to examine my thoughts, all the while smiling that warm, radiant smile that never fails to make my heart skip a beat. “You’re welcome, Thrax. Whatever you decide, just know that to me, you’re perfect just as you are.”

As we sit here, hands clasped on the table in front of me, looking at the images of possibility on the screen, I’m struck by how far I’ve come. From a slave with no control over his own body to a man thinking about how to reclaim and redefine the very marks of his slavery. It’s a journey I never could have imagined, one made possible by the remarkable woman beside me.

Whatever I decide about the tattoos, one thing is certain: the greatest transformation isn’t happening on my skin, but in my heart. And for that, I have Skye to thank.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Thrax

The buzz of the tattoo machine fills my room in the hospital. It’s a constant hum that vibrates through my body. Clenching my jaw, I force myself to relax, focusing on the pulsing beat of the techno music Skye chose for me.

The artist, Elodie, agreed to come to the hospital. I know we offered to pay her extra, but it was still nice of her to agree. Varro and Laura said she wouldn’t have to sign the secrecy paperwork if we convinced her I’m simply a patient here.

She’s a petite woman with crimson hair and more metal in her face than I’ve ever seen on anyone, yet she works diligently on my back.

“You doing okay, big guy?” she asks, pausing to wipe away blood and excess ink.

Nodding, I manage a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

But the truth is, every touch of the needle sends me spiraling back in time. Memories of cruel hands and sharp blades threaten to overwhelm me. The scent of the liquid she wipes me with, so similar to the pungent herbs used to clean wounds in theludus, makes my stomach churn.

---