“You have quite the dilemma, boy. What do you think needs done?”

I sigh, looking up at the swaying trees, their boughs white with the snow covering the ground and city in a white blanket. “He’s young. Dragons are not the place for him to understand fighting and the chaos of battle, even for a scouting trip.”

“But you promised not to leave him. Why not let us go? We can take Heather; as a Shifter, she can also speak and command the beasts.”

The Cynic says a few words I don’t know in that musical language of his. Somehow, I don’t think the common tongue has enough swear words for my internal tag along.

Don’t you dare let them take Heather. If you do, so help me…

I ignore that—but neither am I keen on allowing Heather to go in my stead.

“Two promises. I’m loath to break either. And David would kill me if I didn’t bring back his daughter.”

The Imperial raises those haughty eyebrows. I stare at him until he smiles. “You would indeed be right. Sir David is not one to be taken lightly. But with me there, I could ensure her safety.”

“You're going for sure?”

He looks to the mountains higher still than us and cloaked in white, shimmering in the sunlight. “I will not send more of my men to perish. I will do what needs done.”

I nod my head in acceptance.

The snow crunches under my boots as I leave him under the boughs of the trees to return to the city with no clear picture as to what I’m supposed to do.

~~~

For once, on that evening, three weeks after returning with Barry, I feel the balm of nothing to do. The Werecats leave in two days to go after the dragons, and I am no closer to knowing what I should do.

I choose to watch as Barry spends time with Essie, the two growing closer by the day. She’s teaching him how to command the berserk, and he’s teaching her how to draw. Barry might not be the scholarly brother, Jed holds that position, but he is an artist at heart. Some paintings he’s done… they were masterpieces. But I am biased.

Indeed, they were good. I am not biased.

I sigh, turning my thoughts inward, knowing it is finally time to face The Cynic.

Who are you? Are you the one… ? I leave the question unasked in my mind, instances and flashes of red all that I can see of certain memories when I was Commanded to do more than I could bear.

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Am I the one who took over when it became too much? Am I why you’ve forgotten most of your childhood? The answer is not so simple as that, idiot. There were times I took things from you, took your pain to help you, took your memories. It was too much for any one person, even one such as you. He sighs, the most human sound I have ever heard from him. I don’t know exactly who I am. The dagger in your hand? It resonates with me. I think it’s a part of me, but I don’t know how.

So you are the dagger? I ask, slightly confused. He's been with me long before the pretty dagger came into my life from the wall in Videlia.

No. It’s more like the dagger is a part of me, and a part of you. It links us.

But you’ve been with me long before the dagger.

I’ve been with you since birth. His voice is quiet and reserved.

How?

An image flashes into my mind. The eyes of my blood mother, tears shimmering on her lower lashes, putting a necklace around my neck as I giggled and reached for her with chubby hands. She whispered a word. It caused a light to swell from her fingers, and when she touched the necklace, it disappeared into a birthmark.

I rub the spot, just over my collarbone and above my heart.

Your mother was a mage.

The words strike into my heart, and I sit back hard against a tree behind me. Barry looks back at me, so I paste a smile on my face and wave him back to what he was doing. He gives me one last narrowed gaze, but goes back to his drawing. I slump against the tree as soon as his eyes are off me.

Who am I?

You’re the bone to my steel.

…

WHAT?

You know, I’m your steel and you’re my bone handle.

So you are the fun shiny part and I’m the handle that keeps the wielder from hurting themselves?

… Yes?

That… is…

Kind? Compassionate? Complimentary?

… No.

Oh. I was trying to be nice. You keep us sane and from killing everyone who looks at us wrong; I’m the one who can kill without you having to retain the guilt.

So you’re the killer and I’m the relational advisor?

YES! You get it.

… No, not really.

Oh. Think of it like this. You are kind and considerate and like to rescue people and be the scholarly hero. I’m the anti-hero who can kill to keep you and those we care about safe.

So you're the villain and I’m the hero? But aren’t we, you know, one being… technically?

Err… no. I’m something more.

Then what exactly are you and why are you in my head?

That is not my secret to spill.

How in the Allfather’s good Name… you know what, never mind.

I would share if I could. He seems slightly… apologetic. That’s a first.

You aren’t making me forgive all you’ve done and said that easily.

I know.

This time guilt makes my gut curdle, as the voice is both resigned and sad.

I’m not that compassionate, I say, both to stop the guilt and to convince the voice.

I know forgiveness shan’t be mine, but compassionate is who you are, Roland. That’s the part of you, your heart and soul, that the Master’s could not touch. It’s both what makes me envious of you and what makes me the perfect villain to your hero.

Who is this? What is this? I thought the voice was just a part of me going insane—a way to cope, if you will. But the things it has done and said over the years, it makes me wonder.

If he’s not a part of me, what exactly is he?

I think the answer to that question is something both he and I do not know, left in the Knowledge of the Allfather to give to us when it's needed.

Great. Something else I must trust the Allfather with.

I do not think I imagine the chuckle in my brain that is not from Cynic.

Cynic is not my name.

Then what is your name?

…

Alrighty then. Cynic it is, I say, smug for reasons I'm not entirely sure I can define.

Idiot.