Will watched bleakly over the choppy, violent waves, and felt the stirrings of unease in his nine-year old belly. A short, haggard-looking woman stood behind him as he leaned on the splintered balcony rail, her thin hand on his shoulder. William Turner looked up into his mother's face, and saw the years of heartache and hardship etched into her once pretty features, the result of raising a three-year old son alone when her husband left to be a merchant on the seas.

In a way, Will resembled his mother in many ways – the same wide, solemn forehead, that was still unlined even in her early thirties, long dark lashes, straight, un-arched brows that were more often inclined to furrow in difficulty than to rise in laughter, and a narrow nose that filled out slightly at the peak, that gave femininity to Will's masculine features, inherited from his distant father.

Will's mother's faded blue eyes glanced down at her son, and a soothing smile tugged up the edges of her downturned mouth, giving him some small comfort at least.

"Don't you worry, love." Mrs Turner murmured, stroking Will's thick, dark-brown hair. "That's just a passin' storm. Come inside, and I'll have you some molasses from the spoon before bedtime, aye?"

"Yes, Mum." Will replied, letting his mother pull him away from the small port lookout, where people were beginning to gather to watch the sudden disturbance tearing apart the seas in the distance.

As they walked, Will observed the late-afternoon sunlight dapple his worn mustard shirt with differing blotches of shade and light, and as he looked upwards to watch a brightly-coloured butterfly trace its path across the leaves, his large, naive eyes were illuminated, revealing pure hazel irises, like liquid bronze, with a slight tilt to the corners that made them appear childish and almost baby-like.

When they'd trudged up to their dingy, white-walled cottage hidden under the canopy of stoic oak trees, Will's mother caught sight of an old friend passing on a lane beneath them, and quickly hurried down to talk, leaving the serious looking boy with the too-short breeches stood where that lonely, dilapidated homestead was, high up from the rest of the harbour town and obscured by forest all around, with only wide, open hills and fields stretching into the distance behind.

Will pondered on this as he absently lifted the rusty door latch, and then gave a sharp hiss as his finger caught on the sharp notch, drawing blood. He watched the silky red liquid run down into his nail, and as it continued to well up in large bubbles around the cut (wiping it against his shirt gave no halt to the flow) he decided that this was probably one of those times that the clear, stream water was required. He'd use the full basin in the stone basement, but some sort of green algae had built up as scum on the rim and he doubted that the contents were particularly sanitary.

Sighing, he took the wet, squelchy path around the midden to the river, pinching his finger to stem the flow. As he neared the copse where the stream ran through, something heavy and acrid assaulted his sense of smell, and he narrowed his eyes and saw a twist of smoke curling from between the lush, thick branches. Fire.

But how could a fire build up in such damp weather, and humid conditions? Forgetting his wound, Will involuntarily touched the rope-bound hilt of his knife as another, more frightening thought entered his mind. Smugglers. They were camping out next to the stream, on the outcrop where there was only one rundown, solitary home, waiting for the chance to sneak down to the village and steal valuables from the unsuspecting folk.

There is a strange compulsion children have when faced with such situations. It reflects their true age, no matter how serious and mature they may be. It is the urge to look. This urge counters all instincts of danger, fear, and common sense. Many adults are guilty of this foolish curiosity, and William Turner, a young, simple, impressionable boy, was no exception.

Creeping forward stealthily, Will felt the floor of leaves under his feet crackle softly as he grew near, and a curtain of overhanging vines screening the entrance waved gently in the breeze, brushing velvety leaves over his skin as he passed through.

Taking a deep breath, Will felt a chill rise in his throat and sweat break out across his palms, nearly dropping his blade. He crouched low – and peeked at the stream haltingly from behind his sanctuary.

A young girl lay splayed out on the embankment, lying in the middle of a smoking crater.

Will blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Blinked again.

There was a girl in the middle of the forest. In a crater. It was obviously SHE who had hit the ground with such an impression, with such a violent impact she had streaked like a blazing comet and burned everything within a metre radius around her.

Will took another look, this time slower, tensed. From her apparel, she could've just come out of bed, with a frilled, decorative night frock on that looked out of place in a poor village's forest. Her golden-blonde hair obscured most of her face, but from the roundness of her cheeks and the childish proportions of her small body, she was perhaps six, maybe seven years of age.

Moments dragged by, and Will waited nervously for her to rise. After about five minutes, a thought occurred to him that worried him slightly. Was she actually ASLEEP? Or worse, unconscious? Was she hurt?

Thinking deeply, Will decided that a possibly-injured-maybe-asleep six year old girl in the middle of nowhere was not a threat, and stepped slowly forward.

He knelt beside her and brushed away her thick, lengthy hair. It felt rough and unusual, not soft at all. Her skin was fair, and she had long, dark lashes that fanned out on her ruddy cheeks. She had a pampered look about her, and she was slightly plumper than the under-fed children of middle-class society. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was bent into herself, curled in a ball. She breathed softly and steadily, and further inspection only brought forth dirty feet. Her pulse was normal. She really was asleep.

Settling down next to her, Will felt, for the first time in a while, excited. He felt restless and lively, and once even considered poking her to wake her up. Just as his patience was wearing thin, she stirred, shook her head, and her eyes flickered open, revealing a placid, muted shade of green under her lids.

It took her a few seconds to shake away the bleary mantle of wake, then she properly opened her eyes and stretched her neck and shoulders. Her hand dipped in the cradle of her arms, then again, and she gave a gasp, unfolding her limbs to search around her chest area. Snapping upwards, she cried at the sight of a damp forest floor beneath her, and the earth staining the white of her gown. Her head whipped wildly around and she grew slightly mad at seeing Will, backpedalling on her hands and beginning to whimper.

"It's OK! It's OK!" Will reassured her, reaching out a hand instinctively. This drove the girl to tears and she shook with shock and terror, sobbing immediately for her mother and father, and some other garbled mix of names that he managed to pick out 'Jack', 'monkey', and 'Aunt Su, Lu, Uncle Ed,' from.

"W-where am I?" she wailed, and she clung to the trunk behind her, her small finger scrabbling at the bark. "Where's Narnia? It was that horrible ice lady, wasn't it?"

Narnia?

Ice lady?

Oh.

Will understood, with a wave of pity. This poor, unwanted little girl had been abandoned by her parents in the woods, and from the look of her had been here hours. The loneliness and shock had driven her hysterical, and it was common around these parts that weak mothers and fathers to leave their children to fend for themselves in the forests, when times were hard.

Well, that was easily solved. He'd take care of her. Something warm and proud swelled inside his chest, and he felt assertive and calm. They were not rich, but there had been that recent windfall from his mother becoming a seamstress, and she'd often complained there had been no girls in the house to help her with her work. Plus, Will thought with a grin. I've always wanted a sister.

"Hey," he said softly, placing a hand on the girls shoulder. "It's alright. It's OK. You're lost, aren't you?"

The girl looked up with round, tearful eyes, and nodded.

"That's OK, then," he smiled. "Where do you live?"

Sniffing, the girl shook back her hair and looked a little imperious as she said "Castle Cair Paravel."

"Alright then," he said gently. "We'll get you back there, no worries. And find your 'Jack', and whoever else you want. In the meantime..."

Will stood, and held out a hand.

"Why don't you come with me? I'm sure you'll want something to eat, yes?"

"Do you have a Marshwiggle prepare it for you?"

"Um. Yes, I suppose so. Are you coming?"

The tears still glittered in her bright, green eyes, but a smile ghosted across her face, and she slowly placed her hand in his extended one.

"What's your name?"

"Will Turner."

"Mine's Lara. Lara Pevensie."

"Well," Will laughed, tugging her to her feet. "Hello there, Lara."

She giggled, and her fright faded away at his deep, soulful brown eyes. He was fun, and she liked him. He said he'd find Jack for her, didn't he? Mummy and Daddy wouldn't mind if she just spent a little bit of time with him, would they? Drawing her breath, Lara gave a huge, cheerful grin, like she'd seen her Uncle Ed do when he was pleased.

"Hallo, Will!"