AN: Not really sure why I wanted to rewrite this, but I was thirteen when I did the first version, and I guess at fifteen I thought I could do a better job of it. And it seemed right that after "Lyra and the Birds" there should be a short story about Will from the same time period. Plus, there really don't seem to be that many stories about Will only, and he's my favorite character (well, okay, after Lee and Balthamos, but still).

Anyway...it's about five or six times as long now, so I split it into a few short chapters. I think it's much better. More description. More dialogue. More detail. More believable. The original reads more like an outline than like an actual story; I stuck it in at the end, in case anyone wants to take a look.

Disclaimer: Yeah, it's not mine. Applies to following chapters also.

THE KNIFE


John Burns sat behind the counter of the metalworks shop on East Street. The small room was, as usual, empty of patrons; not because it was an unsuccessful business, but because most of the orders were placed specially and sightseers in Southampton were not often interested. But the occasional customer did appear, and so the cash register was kept manned.

A shimmery-sounding bell rang as the door swung open and a boy stepped in. He seemed tense and nervous as he glanced around at the metal figurines, sculptures, and carvings on display, and he hesitated before entering fully. The boy examined several objects near him, and watching him John had the feeling that their craftsmanship was being judged. The boy was of average height, sturdy, dark-haired, about fourteen.

"Were you looking for anything in particular?" asked John.

"No," said the boy awkwardly, looking up. He paused. "Are you one of the Burns'? A—a smith?"

"Yes. John Burns. We call ourselves metalworkers, 'smith' is a bit old- fashioned."

The boy approached the counter and spoke hastily. "My name's Will Parry. I have something that I wondered if you could fix." He pulled up the bottom of his shirt and unbuckled a heavy leather sheath from his belt. John started in surprise as the boy, Will, very carefully poured several dull silvery shards and a wood-and-metal hilt onto the countertop.

"Knife..." murmured John to himself, and he leaned forward to finger the pieces.

"Be careful," said Will quickly, and then added, more reserved: "They're sharp."

John pushed the pieces around carefully into their knife shape. He began speaking softly, scrutinizing the metal. "It's very strange...the edges...but what is this?" He looked up at Will and asked, indicating the subtle silver edge, "What sort of metal is this? I've never seen it before."

"Some kind of alloy I think," said Will.

The man nodded and peered at it again. "Yes, that could be...titanium, I think, and something else...strange design on the hilt..." His fingers traced the yellow wiring. "Is it gold? Yes, remarkable...and burned... This knife has been broken before?"

"Yes," said Will.

"And it was mended then?"

"Yes."

"Very well," said John, straightening. "We should be able to fix it, if it has been done before. But I must warn you, the more times it is re-melded the weaker it will be. You see it has broken again on the same lines as before." His forefinger traced the silver rivers marking the places where the knife had been rejoined the first time. "But I don't understand...how did it break? Knives don't break like this, all these pieces..."

"It broke," said Will evenly.

John raised his eyebrows and studied Will more closely. The boy's jaw jutted resolutely; his dark eyes stared out from beneath very straight, very black brows. He looked fierce and old and strong, and there hung about him an air of savage wistfulness. John was curious now. Who was this boy, who looked so much older than anyone of his age had a right to? Who was this boy, who crackled so with knowledge and power and mystery?

Suddenly the man blinked, and stared again. Strange. How had he thought the boy powerful? This boy was ordinary, commonplace. John dismissed him immediately and cared only about the knife, and how to mend it.

"Well," he said, business-like, "we shall fix it if it can be done. We're at a busy time and you shan't be able to pick it up for three weeks at least. And it won't be cheap. You can pay, I suppose?" He looked sternly at the boy, this child taking up his time.

"You have to fix it now," Will said. "I'm leaving town later today, and I can't come back. And I—I'd like to be there when you do it. I can pay whatever you like."

The man frowned, but his spark of interest flared down almost as soon as it was kindled. "Well," he said again, doubtfully, "we could, I suppose, at highest priority. At significant extra cost, to bypass the order queue, but... Hold on a moment." He stepped through a door behind the counter, and Will could just see him picking up a phone, dialing, and speaking quietly to someone on the other end for a few moments before returning. "Can you come back at three? I can drive you up to the forge, and the process shouldn't take long."

Will nodded. "I'm taking the knife with me now," he said, sliding the pieces carefully back into the sheath, "and I'll bring it back then."

He left the shop, and the shimmering bells followed him out.

Will hadn't known how tense he was until he was halfway down the street, and his shoulders sagged down from where he had held them several centimeters higher than normal. He had no reason to be so anxious, really, how could anyone tell that the knife was anything but what it seemed? But still, in over two years he had shown it to no one, and he didn't even know John Burns, or his family...

It doesn't matter, he told himself, I'm not hiding from anyone anymore. I don't have anything to be afraid of, not from this, not from fixing the knife...

He shuddered involuntarily. When the knife was fixed, if it could indeed be fixed, what then? He was spending most of a two years' savings on that, and still he tread carefully around the edges of afterwards, sniffing and prodding at it like a hyena not quite sure that its prey was dead. It was a foolish thing to do, repairing the knife, and quite possibly dangerous; and he didn't want to think about what it would mean. Or the consequences. He especially didn't want to think about those.

"But it's what you wanted to do all along," said Kirjava abruptly from the pavement, looking up at him with disconcertingly wide eyes. "Even from when you picked up the pieces at the Garden, you were thinking about it...you knew it could be done."

"I didn't know it," he said. "Maybe Iorek was the only one who could do it, and there aren't any armored bears here."

"But you wondered. It's like the angel said. She said if you thought any windows between the worlds were left, you'd spend your life looking. Now you wonder if the knife can be fixed, and you'll spend your whole life trying. We should have thrown it away long ago."

"I know," he said quietly, and they both were silent.