Page 45 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
They aren’t the truth.
Mawasa philosopher.
“I can tell,” he says.
I swallow my sorrow, narrowing my eyes at him.
“You cantell?”
Once more, he shrugs. “It’s in you, the nature of pondering. You question what you see—it’s the best way to learn.”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” I ask, though I’m sure I’ve felt it before.
Azaire tugs at his beanie, growing shy. I’ve all but forgotten about the gash on his cheek—and he has, too.
“I guess,” he murmurs as I unbutton one of my gloves. Instantly, green vines of light wrap around my fingers, as if my magic is waiting to jump out.
I raise my hand to his face, healing the wound left on him by the faculty of this academy.
“Tell me,” I whisper, “what you were thinking about the free will question?”
Azaire stares at me blankly.
“I felt you in class,” I add.
He nods, his shoulders deflating. His posture sinks just slightly. It makes it easier to heal his skin without touching.
“Promise you won’t steal my mighty insights?” he asks.
A joke.
It’s been so long since someone joked with me.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly promise that. What if I get rich off your mind?”
“Then it’d be a fair trade,” he replies. “I’m already getting rich off yours.”
I laugh under my breath, soaking in the sensation. I’ve missed it, the lightness. I’ve only ever felt its residue these last few years.
But right now, this smiling, this laughter—it feels like I’m glowing.
“Go on then.” I lower my hands. “Make it a fair trade.”
Azaire rolls his eyes playfully, clearing his throat mockingly—the same way our professor does.
I would never think this boy was being tortured by the academy he attends.
His voice is wholly serious when he says, “I think our professor misunderstood the question. It’s not about free will, but something grander, a piece of a soul, the nature of a person, beyond the experiences that shape them.”
A piece of us, unblemished. A piece thatstaysunblemished.
Something in me that is not destroyed by the events of my life.
“So, if there’s something beyond our nature and experiences,” I ask, “wouldn’t that fit into the professor’s argument about the gods? Something predetermined?”
“It might be from the gods.” Azaire shrugs. “And it might not. I only think that we carry something with us into this universe. We’re not blank slates, waiting to be filled by nature and nurture. There’s just… something else.”
“I, for one, cannot wait to get rich off that idea.”
