He is a gladiator on the field, owned by whoever paid the price to watch in cruel satisfaction how his blood leaks out. Just a pagan form of entertainment, valuable only if it survives more than one season. The adrenaline rush can hardly reach the balcony, for it needs an intimate transfusion of sweat and hormones. We can only look from afar, cheer for our champion, prepare his last supper. Tomorrow another shall take the place.
Or perhaps his mistress is also his lover and shivers run down her spine with every blow of the spear as she feels his moans in the air molecules. The heart is torn between the vision of his breathless body and the remnants of her honor. Protection comes only in flesh and in coins. Her power is weakness, strengthened by beauty. As the blood drops scatter around, helplessness is born at noon with the dying of the light.
There are no champions left, save the few on our screens. You either fight your own battles or perish, without trying, in the mundanity of the new century. Fortunately, our strength is shaped in our image, restricted only by the thoughts of our dark halves. There is no need for champions, there is a call for fighters.