Page 44 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“For those who walked death’s path and returned,” the girl translates. “A mark for the almost-taken.”
Raven’s eyes shine with sudden tears. “Gracias,” she whispers.
The old woman pats her cheek and turns away. Her granddaughter tells us the main celebration begins at sundown, when families will walk to the cemetery with their offerings.
“Would you like to come with us?” she offers. “My brother Alejandro died last year. This is his firstDía de los Muertoson the other side. We’d be honored to have your company.”
Raven looks to me. I see no trace of the podcaster now, only a woman moved by what she’s witnessed.
“We would be honored,” I reply.
Throughout the afternoon, we help Elena, our guide, and her family prepare theirofrenda, a tiered altar laden with Alejandro’s favorite foods, his photo, small pieces of his life. They speak of him in the present tense, as though he’s merely abroad.
“The Romans kept the worlds apart,” I say quietly to Raven as we arrange marigold petals. “The living and the dead were separated by law, ritual, fear. Here… the boundary is thinner.”
“That’s why I wanted you to see this,” she says, earnestness grounding her words. “This isn’t Halloween. It’s not for show. It’s real.”
As the sun dips low, Elena presents us with traditional clothing. A white shirt wide enough for my shoulders, embroidered with skulls for me. A marigold-patterned dress for Raven.
The transformation feels right. We arrived as strangers. We walk now as kin.
Night falls, and San Miguel glows. Candles fill every window, every doorway. The procession to the cemetery begins as rivers of light flow through the streets. Children carry toys. Elders bear flasks and framed portraits. Music drifts like incense, celebration and mourning mingled.
At the cemetery gates, I pause.
Graves bloom with marigolds and light. Families gather around them, laughing, eating, pouring drinks for the dead.
“It’s not what you expected,” Raven says, watching me.
“In Rome, cemeteries were places of silence. Ritual. Fear. We did what was necessary, then left quickly.” My fingers close around hers. “This is…”
“Beautiful,” she finishes.
Elena leads us to Alejandro’s grave. Candles flicker beside plates of tamales, chocolate, and tequila. Her family welcomes us without hesitation, offering cups. Her father raises his voice.
As the family shares stories, I notice how the candlelight transforms everyone into silhouettes against the decorated tomb. With Elena’s subtle nod of permission, Raven captures a few shots from behind the group—shadows and light painting their grief and celebration in equal measure, faces hidden but the profound intimacy of the moment preserved.
“To Alejandro, who joins us tonight. And to the friends who came to honor him.”
We toast. And as the tequila burns its warmth through me, I feel something shift.
This is what the priests hinted at but never fully believed: death as not a severing, but a continuation.
As music rises and the stories flow, we allow our faces to be painted incalaveradesigns. The brush is cool. The hands gentle.
Raven hands her camera to Elena, gesturing for her to take shots of our hands as the brushes move across our skin. The transformation is captured in close-ups that preserve the sacred nature of the ritual without showing our faces.
“She’s given you marigold eyes,” Raven says, admiring the result. Her own face is transformed—death and beauty mingling without contradiction.
Beneath the paint, something unspoken dissolves. The distance between us, held in place since New Orleans, falls away in the candlelight.
When Raven’s hand finds mine again, there is no hesitation.
Later, as the families begin to drift home, Elena’s grandmother presses something into my palm. It’s a sugar skull with our names intertwined.
“Para recordar,” she says. To remember.
But how could we forget?
