Page 9 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
A shiver runs through her despite the relatively mild night.
“The paramedics said my heart stopped for three minutes before they revived me.” Her eyes lift to meet mine, searching for judgment or disbelief but finding neither. “Those three minutes felt like… much longer.”
“Time moves differently beyond the veil,” I offer quietly.
“Yes! Exactly.” Excitement colors her voice at being understood. “No one ever gets that part right. It wasn’t like sleeping. It was… expansive. Like years compressed into moments.”
My attention sharpens at this detail that few would know to fabricate. “What did you see there?”
She hesitates, fingers curling around the memorial pendant at her throat. “At first, darkness. Then a path appeared, leading toward a river shrouded in mist. There was a…” Her brow furrows with concentration. “A guardian. Massive. Multiple heads, though I couldn’t see them clearly through the fog. I just sensed its presence, watching.”
The image she describes twists something deep in my gut. Cerberus. Guardian of the underworld’s gates. Not a detail commonly included in modern depictions of near-death experiences, yet precisely what one would encounter at the threshold of Pluto’s realm.
“The river itself seemed to be made of something thicker than water,” she continues, unaware of how her words confirm ancient truths. “The whole time I felt like I was being weighed, measured somehow. Like the very air was judging whether I belonged there yet.”
“The weighing of the soul,” I murmur, recognizing the process that determined one’s destination in the afterlife.
She sits up straighter, lit with sudden recognition. “Yes! That’s exactly how it felt.” She leans forward, the practiced composure of her podcast persona slipping away. “I’ve read every near-death account I could find. Most talk about white lights and tunnels and beloved relatives. But what I experienced was… different. Older somehow.”
“You stood at the threshold of Pluto’s realm,” I tell her, the words emerging with the certainty of temple teaching. “What you saw was real.”
Something breaks open in her expression—a vulnerability so raw it almost hurts to witness. Her carefully applied makeup doesn’t hide the tears that suddenly well in her eyes.
“Do you have any idea,” she whispers, voice catching, “how long I’ve waited for someone to say that? To not look at me like I’m crazy or attention-seeking or traumatized?”
Without thinking, my hand moves to cover hers where it rests on the cold stone between us. Her skin feels impossibly warm against mine, that same surprising heat I noticed when our fingers first touched.
The contact is like a lightning strike in my veins. I haven’t felt like this in centuries—not since I was young enough to believe I was blessed rather than cursed.
“Death marks those it touches,” I say softly. “I recognized its shadow on you the moment we met.”
She doesn’t pull her hand away. Instead, her fingers intertwine with mine in a gesture that feels both innocent and strangely intimate.
“Tell me about Pluto’s temple,” she asks after a moment of silence. “What was it like to serve there?”
The question opens memories I’ve kept carefully contained since awakening in this century. “The temple complex stood on the outskirts of Rome, near enough to serve the city but removed enough that the constant presence of death wouldn’t disruptdaily life. White marble steps led to black interior chambers. Altars for offerings. Sacred pools for purification rituals.”
As I speak, the memories crystalize with unexpected clarity. “I was left there as an infant. My condition…” I gesture to my pale skin, “was considered a mark of Pluto’s favor. The white hair and skin, reminiscent of those who had spent time in the underworld.”
“So they raised you from birth to serve him?” Her question carries no judgment, only genuine curiosity.
“Yes. My earliest memories are of temple life—the rituals, the sacred texts, learning to interpret signs and communicate with those who had crossed beyond the veil.”
“And you actually could? Communicate with the dead?”
A smile touches my lips at her eagerness. “Not in the way your ghost-hunting shows portray. No dramatic phantoms or voices without bodies. The dead speak more subtly—through stillness, through patterns, through dreams. One must learn to listen differently to hear them.”
“But you could sense them? Know what they needed?”
“Often. Part of a priest’s duty was helping restless spirits find peace. Families would come seeking help when they believed a departed loved one lingered unhappily.”
She absorbs this with remarkable openness. “Is that why you were in the cemetery that night? Working with the dead?”
“In a sense. Modern cemeteries aren’t built with the proper rituals, but they still hold power as consecrated ground. I find… comfort there.” It reminds me who I was before the arena changed me.
“I understand that,” she says, surprising me. “After the accident, I spent hours in cemeteries. Everyone thought I was being morbid, but there was a peace there I couldn’t find anywhere else.”
Our gazes lock in silent understanding. Whatever performance her podcast persona might include, this connection to death’s realm feels authentically earned.
