“Why is it always the horse that dies first, and never you?” the girl asked.
“Because of strength of will.”
She stopped with the sand.
“Does that still matter out here?”
“It always does.”
“That sounds like fate.”
The mule shifted and he put a hand on one of its legs.
“Well, maybe it’s fate.”
“Then what is fate?” she asked, the voice seeming amputated and roving in the sightless black.
“It’s somethin you’re born with. Somethin that’s passed down from the fathers before and shows itself in triggers that weren’t meant to be pulled and triggers that were. You caint control it and can only look back on it as explanation for why you did the things you did even if they’ve ruined you because it couldn’t have been any other way.”
“Can you fight against it?”
“Yeah, like you can fight against the land.”