you feel their eyes on you as you fight.

your sword clangs against your opponents', once, twice, three times before you dance backwards, narrowly avoiding a stab aimed at your stomach.

the two of you retreat from one another, circling and assessing each other in turn. he takes his paces with a slight limp, its source a thin cut across the meat of his calf. he's an older fighter, one with a few victories - and a few more losses - under his belt. he's a good entertainer, though, and so the crowd has called for mercy each time he's fallen to his knees.

mercy, granted each time by the gods that watch you now.

you, a new fighter in these games. not the newest, of course, but new enough to have skin yet unmarred with scar tissue, able to fight without phantom pains crowding your mind and making you slow. you're experienced enough in combat, though, to know your advantages.

your opponent is wounded; you are not. he fights like a soldier; you do not. however, your greatest advantage is thus:

your opponent is known, and you are not.

your name, your voice, your strategies - all have been carefully guarded. your anonymity makes you interesting, to the crowd and emperors alike, and interesting gladiators are the ones who survive.

you keep yourself low to the ground as you break the circle and charge towards him. your opponent braces, his eyes on your sword, his blade raised in defense.

with a sharp inhale, you part your lips - the sound that leaves them is not one that could ever be considered human. it’s the guttural scream of a wounded animal, and the soldier in front of you flinches but for a moment.

it’s all you need. the distance closed, your sword flashes through the air. the heavy thud of metal on dirt is followed by slow, soft drops of fresh crimson; you kick your opponents’ sword away as he clutches at his hand. the collective around you holds their breath, and it's only now that you dare to meet their gazes.

emperor gojo’s eyes are bright, blue as the endless sky above you and wide with excitement that you’d almost call boyish.

emperor getou’s eyes, on the other hand, smolder like volcanic ash, dark and narrow and curious.