Page 12 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Lucius releases my hand—I feel the loss immediately—and moves toward the ruined passage with deliberate steps. He crouches beside the debris, his fingers hovering just above the surface without touching.
“What do you feel?” I ask, my voice barely audible. I’m grateful for the translation device that lets us have such a personal conversation in the mine’s depths.
“Fear,” he says softly. “Confusion. The shock of sudden darkness.” His eyes close, face going perfectly still in concentration. “They didn’t die immediately. Not all of them.”
My chest tightens at his words. I’ve researched this disaster extensively—read the newspaper accounts, the survivor testimonies, the rescue attempts. But hearing him speak makes it immediate in a way no historical document ever could.
“Most of what lingers is… imprinted emotion.” His brow furrows. “The strongest remain—fear, desperation, resignation. Like echoes caught in stone.”
“Are they still here?” I ask. “The miners themselves?”
He shakes his head slightly. “Not as conscious entities. Just impressions. Moments frozen in time.”
“Can you… help them move on?” I’m not even sure what I’m asking, but it feels important.
Lucius reaches into his pocket and removes a small cloth pouch. Opening it carefully, he extracts what looks like herbs and a small vial of oil.
“What are you doing?”
“A simplified version of what we would have done in the temple.” He sprinkles the herbs over the rubble, then uncorks the vial. “Helping these impressions find their proper rest.”
His voice shifts, taking on a deeper, more formal cadence as he speaks in Latin. Through my translator, I hear references to Pluto and peace, his words carrying a rhythmic quality like an ancient prayer. The oil he drips onto the collapsed timbers carries a scent I can’t identify—something earthy yet sweet.
It’s nothing like the dramatic séances portrayed in movies. No flickering candles or theatrical gestures. Just a man speaking with quiet authority to something beyond ordinary perception. Yet there’s an undeniable power to the simplicity of his ritual—a sense of rightness that makes the hairs on my arms rise.
The air in the chamber seems to lighten somehow, though I couldn’t explain exactly how. A subtle shift, like pressure equalizing after a change in altitude.
“Did it work?” I whisper when he falls silent.
“It’s not about success or failure.” He rises, pocketing the empty vial. “Just acknowledgment. Recognition that what happened here mattered.”
Something about his approach touches me deeply. In all my investigations, I’ve been focused on capturing evidence, on proving the existence of something beyond physical death. His perspective is entirely different—not about proof, but about respect.
“There’s something else I’d like to explore with you,” I say, surprising myself with the impulse. “It’s farther in. I didn’t have the courage to get this far alone, but… would you be willing to go with me?”
He follows without question as I lead us through another series of tunnels, deeper into the mine’s labyrinth. The path slopes downward, the walls closing in until we have to turn sideways to squeeze through a particularly narrow section.
“Just ahead,” I promise, hearing the strain in my own voice. The passage suddenly opens into a small chamber unlike the others. Our flashlights reveal crude carvings on the walls—initials, dates, simple crosses, and other symbols etched by miners’ tools.
“They called this the prayer room,” I explain. “When blasting or conditions became too dangerous, miners would come here to pray before continuing their work.”
Lucius moves to the nearest wall, his fingers tracing a simple cross etched beside the date 1832. “A sanctuary within darkness.”
“I thought… given your background…” I hesitate, suddenly unsure why I felt so compelled to bring him here. “This place has a different kind of energy than the collapse site. Almost peaceful, despite being so deep underground.”
He nods, continuing to examine the carvings with gentle fingertips. “Sacred spaces can form anywhere people bring genuine devotion. The specific deity matters less than the sincerity of the connection.”
“That’s what I’ve always believed,” I admit. “That’s why I’ve explored so many different traditions on my podcast—trying to find the common threads in how we all approach death and what might come after.”
His eyes find mine in the confined space, searching. “Yet you wrap this genuine quest in drama and entertainment.”
The observation stings, but I can’t deny its accuracy. “The packaging matters if I want people to listen. Nobody tunes in to watch some ordinary redhead talk about death philosophies. They want the whole goth experience—the look, the atmosphere, the intrigue.”
“And you? What do you want, beneath your… trappings?”
The question is piercingly direct. Something in his steady gaze demands honesty.
“Validation,” I answer finally. “Understanding. To make sense of what I experienced when my heart stopped.” I gesture to my Gothic appearance. “This started as armor—a way to own my connection to death before others could use it against me.”
