Page 24 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Each stroke brands me. Not with the mixture, but with the memory of contact. I’m keenly aware of every point of contact: the firm, measured pressure as she traces along my shoulderblades; the breath that grazes my skin when she leans in to study her work; her heady scent mingling with the herbs.
My body betrays me—muscles tightening beneath her touch, breath catching before I stop it. The mixture cools, but her fingers leave trails of heat, as if drawing fire into flesh.
“What next?” she asks, her finger pausing on the back of my neck.
“Memento mori,” I say softly. “Remember you must die. Central to Pluto’s teachings, embraced by Stoics too. One of my comrades tattooed it there two nights before he died in the arena at Pompeii. Before battle, this symbol reminded me that each moment could be my last.”
Her finger traces the small skull flanked by wings at the nape of my neck.
“The skull for death’s certainty, the wings for the soul’s liberation.”
“That sounds… intense to carry into a fight,” Raven murmurs, her voice close to my ear.
“On the contrary—it brought clarity. When you accept life’s impermanence, you fight from purpose, not fear.” My eyes meet hers as I half-turn. “The irony isn’t lost on me that I carried this reminder into battles, only to wake two thousand years later.”
Her smile holds a hint of sadness. “Life has a dark sense of humor.”
Her finger pauses at a small tattooed symbol beneath my left shoulder blade.
“What about this one?” she asks. “It’s different—almost where your heart would be from behind.”
“Intentional,” I explain. “Protection against darkness, not physical harm, but the shadow that enters the heart during battle. Taking life changes a man. This preserves what’s essential within.”
She sets down the bowl, then surprises me by pulling aside her shirt collar to reveal a tattoo just below her collarbone. A symbol strikingly like the one she traced on my skin.
“After the accident,” she whispers, “I researched protection symbols. This one felt right, even before I understood why.”
The coincidence—or fate—leaves me momentarily speechless. The symbol dates to pre-Roman times, yet here it is, inked over her heart.
“May I?” I ask, hand rising without thought, fingers hovering near but not touching.
She nods, holding perfectly still as my fingertips gently trace the outline of the symbol. The connection deepens—her warm skin beneath my chalk-dusted fingers, pulse visible at her throat’s base.
“Each mark tells a story,” I say softly, echoing earlier words. “Protection. Strength. Passage between worlds.” My fingerslinger, aware of her quickened breath. “What story does yours tell?”
“That I walked through death’s door and returned,” she whispers. “That something of that journey stays with me, even now.”
Our faces draw closer, unnoticed. The ritual’s intimacy wraps around us like a physical presence. Her eyes flick briefly to my lips, then rise with a silent question.
The moment stretches, suspended between impulse and restraint. I lean forward, drawn by something beyond reason.
A sharp knock at the door shatters the tension. We spring apart as Thrax’s voice booms from the hallway.
“Lucius! Laura sent these for your journey.” The door opens without waiting for a response, a gladiator’s habit from communal living that persists despite modern concepts of privacy.
Thrax steps inside, massive frame filling the doorway. He pauses, taking in the scene—me shirtless, marked with ritual symbols; Raven too close, both startled.
“Ah,” he says, a knowing smile touching his scarred face. “Interrupted a ritual.” He sets down a bag with surprising delicacy. “Travel documents, emergency contacts, and supplies Laura thought might help.”
His gaze flicks between us, amusement clear. “The car’s ready in twenty minutes. Perhaps enough time to finish your… preparations.”
After he leaves, the charged space between Raven and me hums with unspoken possibility. She clears her throat, nodding at my half-finished markings.
“We should finish,” she says. “If the ritual’s incomplete—”
“Yes,” I agree, offering my back again. “The protection would falter.”
Her touch returns, businesslike now, finishing symbols efficiently. The moment—whatever it might have become—fades, reality reasserted by Thrax’s interruption.
