His calf stung him.

"Damn!" breathed the football captain viciously. "Those bloody bastards! And we've got to call the half short as well! Since the timetables changed—"

"When are we done, Mullroy?" asked Will softly, looking over the captain at the motley collection of red or burgundy shirts huddled on the other end of the football pitch.

Will knew his calf was bleeding.

The afternoon sky was dead-white blue and light rain drizzled softly on the footballers. The field was an open space on Oxford grounds, with lush, slick green grass that was combed down by the wind and which tore at their ankles and spikes.

Mullroy was a student in his last year, elected captain of the team by a vote at a pub one night. He had a pug-like, determined face and messy sandy brown hair, with a build on the shorter and stockier side.

"We've only got ten minutes, Parry."

"Ten minutes?" echoed another boy incredulously, tall and lean with wavy brown hair and a sharp nose.

Will's stocking clung to the sticky blood on his leg. He'd need to sew up the stocking when he got home.

"That's right, Enever," answered Mullroy in a very surly way. "Otherwise the entire Merton group is going to be late for their Foreign Lit class. It's not their business--it's the professor's—so we can't blame them. We'll just need to end early. '

Will gritted his teeth and stomped his leg viciously.

This was an informal match between some of the students from the different Oxford colleges. Rag-tag college bands would get together and get a football game going. The only rules were that the whole team had to show up wearing more or less the same color and that if someone made a truly despicable display of himself, he was kicked out. That was is. Will's team was grey today, and the fellows from Merton College happened to be red. Due to the odd circumstances, both teams had warily agreed on a rare huddle and time out. The score was a meager one to one.

Will didn't go out for the uni team because he didn't really want another distraction from his classes and he didn't want to play for England. Football was just a competitive way to fight without fighting, to battle without battling. This time, it seemed like Will would even have a real enemy.

Feeling every scratch on his leg, Will eyed the tallest figure in a wine-colored shirt across the grass. He was the captain of the Merton team and his name was Bailey. Will almost hated him. He was a dirty cheat and a bully, and because he was used to being taller than everyone he swaggered wherever he went

While another Merton student had raced to the field, huffing and puffing and waving around the new timetable, Will and Bailey had been locked in a scuffle over the ball. The play hadn't mattered once the news of the schedule conflict had arrived, but Bailey had deliberately aimed a kick at Will's leg after the whistle call. Had Will not moved reflexively, Bailey might have buckled his knee.

Then Bailey nonchalantly shoved him on his way to the Merton huddle. No one had seen and Will hadn't mentioned it. He had just turned slowly, and seen that sort of smile spread over Bailey's wide face.

Ten to one the bruise on his calf would be the stinging sort.

"All right, Parry?" Bailey had said. They hadn't spoken before or since. Bailey was taller and tougher-looking, but Will was tougher, and now the simmering fire of vindication bled in his veins. Bailey was going to lose and it was going to hurt him worse than he had hurt Will, or would hurt anyone on Will's team.

"…return the ball after a few seconds," Mullroy was saying. Will liked Mullroy. He liked him as a captain and as a friend. When the huddle had been called, Mullroy had summed up everything admirably.

"They've got to leave early to get to class. Let's make sure the lot of them have sore, losing arses to show for it."

Will knew his team wouldn't lose this time. A small part of him chuckled at how his world had such few uses for warriors, except for sports circumstances and miracles.

"So, Parry," Mullroy said, looking up to meet Will's eyes. "You'll take the ball with Enever and Hawkins and move it upfield."

Will was naturally very athletic, with a broad and thick shape and height. He was fast but not the fastest, yet the same element that had commended him to Lord Faa was the sort of element that made him seem totally in control on the pitch. Which he was. Unsurprisingly, Will could be highly competitive and he was flat-out dangerous if the other team wasn't playing fair.

"What about me?" demanded a pale boy with a straight nose and prominent cheekbones. "Do I go up as well?"

"Since you were on the piss last night, Elmore, and you can hardly run in a proper line, I'd think no," answered Mullroy severely. Several people laughed. Brian Elmore shook his head, but smiled anyway. Will didn't. He was too busy dealing with the adrenaline that made him want to run and kick and run again.

Kirjava hissed loudly from her spot under the tree on the side of the field. She felt his anger. Anyone who bullied and lied just because he was stronger aroused a certain reminiscent distaste in Will. Bailey hardly held a candle to the Authority, but Will would beat him just the same.

Mullroy was asking him a question. Will blinked.

"Huh?"

"Parry, I asked can you do this?"

"Yes."

"Good. And America's coming up with you three just for laughs."

"Bloody hell," quipped America, which was the nickname of a short, dark student named Rick Kovatz who had moved to Oxford from the United States. Will did laugh at that because he liked the wiry fellow with a strangely intense stare.

"That's enough, America," grinned Mullroy. All of the boys got a kick out of America's tries at British slang. "Let's just finish with them and go to the pub after."

Everyone cheered at that.

The teams spread out. Will led the formation, not looking right nor left nor behind. Only forwards, focusing on Bailey. The enemy.

The ball came alive. Left, right, left, Will quickly sped upfield with it.. A lesser member of the Merton team blocked him half way, but Will wasn't interested in him. Will passed to Hawkins and brushed past the offending obstacle.

Hawkins was fast, and his feet wove the slender grass heads delicately when he flew by the other players. A Merton player managed to trip him. America intercepted.

Most football matches contain passionate periods like this one, and the minutes steadily ticked down. Bailey's smug smirk had twisted into a look of concentration. Whenever Will wasn't with the ball, he was shadowing Bailey like a lost dæmon. When Bailey's boot kicked, it tapped Will's shoe. When he charged over the field, their elbows bashed together. Several times, Bailey swore and tried to turn around him. Will's face was hard, his head blaring for that crucial final moment.

It came. America had the ball and Will was a few minutes in catching up. America neared the Merton goal. He would score. Bailey ran close, very close. Straight on, in fact. His brutal form dwarfed Will's teammate's. Will heard Mullroy shouting, but the blood sang in his ears and prevented him from distinguishing the words. Bailey would bulldoze America, crushing him with his weight, just because he could.

Will's feet pounded the grass while he ran. A hazy image of a war-scarred battlefield and a grove full of Spectres settled haphazardly over Will's vision of the cool afternoon.

Bailey's leer of self-justification hung over America. The smaller player realized his danger, but there was nowhere to go unless he gave up the ball. Bailey was inches from a punishing tackle.

Ba-BAM! The tackle was Will's. Will propelled himself into Bailey with all his speed. The force Will carried crashed Bailey from the side, throwing them both in a fearsome collision. They fell, writhing furiously, to the ground. The body of the bigger boy crunched treacherously onto the earth under Will's hard muscle.

Will was up in a second, wiping his face finally with his shirt sleeve. He surveyed the field satisfyingly. The players had hardly noticed his tackle because America had scored and the match was over. Merton had lost.

Dazed, Bailey lay in a sickening arrangement of limbs. Will grabbed his arm and roughly hauled him to his feet. Bailey's eyes were still fuzzy, but a dull flush of anger was reassembling his features.

"If I find out about you cheating some more, I'll come after you," whispered Will seriously, "even if it's just a dirty kick in the leg. I know what you would have done to him, and don't you dare try it again."

He let go of Bailey with somewhat of a toss. The bruiser picked himself up and stared down at Will. The eyes beneath the straight black brows were unyielding. Bailey blinked first. When the Merton crowd left, Mullroy told them that the only permissible way to celebrate this victory was a trip to the pub.

That night, at a fairly well-to-do place called Briner's, America sat next to Will with a classic serious expression.

"Parry, I've got to thank you."

Will looked at him thoughtfully.

"For what?"

"For tackling Bailey. I know you didn't trip over him, and I know what he would have done to me. Thanks."

Will nodded.

"You're welcome."

America watched Will with a keen eye, noting his scarred left hand toying with his chips. There was something about Will Parry that just wasn't what one expected to find. All the boys said it. Somehow, Will Parry wasn't the person America had expected to find here, but there was a passion in him that was strong and true. Very few people their age had as much dignity as Will.

Startled, America glanced around his legs. He looked back at Will, who simply sipped his glass with a bland expression. America could have sworn that for just a minute, the tip of his knee had tingled with the brush of a fire-colored cat's tail. Now what could that have been?

Hey, readers, thank you for having been so good to me. I've taken awhile—as I know—but I'm a senior now and it's hard work in the Republic of Heaven :) You should feel happy at least because my Harry Potter story still hasn't been updated.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!