Haunted Wood to fear death is a choice

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The fog is disorienting. It throws off his senses. It creates illusions: dances of shadows that the gladiator is unsure of. Were they real? Or just the fog as it clung heavily to the coniferous forest, writhing as if it were alive? He does not know. The gnarled oaks offer little in the way of direction or familiarity. They are neither guide nor familiar. He looks at the nearest tree, brushing his body against it in a last ditch effort to create a temporary marker so that he knows he has already been here. Why he did not think to do it before escapes him. Perhaps it is the heady suspicion that he has merely been going in circles. That he has seen that particular tree numerous times now. If they ever had fog in Thracians Edge he does not remember it. Thracians Edge — the edge of the world. Where Gladiators spar and spill blood, where they fight to the death to appease gods, visiting diplomats, their superiors. An oasis in the middle of sands and rocks: with lush green forests, a waterfall even. A lie. It’s beauty is deceptive. He finds more honesty in this gnarled and disorienting forest.

A familiar scent teases him and though it is brief, it is enough to halt the gladiator in his tracks, abruptly, as if he is a roman soldier called to halt by his leader. A trick of the wood. It has to be, doesn’t it? It is only a memory, he tells himself, despite the shot of adrenaline to his heart. No matter how hard Thrax tries he cannot help but hope that blooms in his chest unbidden. He knows that with time he will forget how she smells, how she looks, how she sounds. He knows he will forget all the small reasons he loves her, remembering only that he does because that was how time was. It was not kind to memories. It eroded. It corrupted.

He smells it again and tries to find a location, this time. The gladiator may be able to navigate by stars but the fog is not something he can navigate and is easily disoriented once more. Is she south of him? Is she north? Is she somewhere east or west? Or is she just an illusion? “Saturnina?” He calls out, like a drowning man desperate for air as his normally deep albeit soft voice rises in volume in the hopes that if she is out there she will hear him. “Saturnina!” He calls again, disrupting two crows that let out unhappy squawks at him for disrupting them as they take flight.

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