There might have been a point where this would have been the start of an argument. But Gustavain just looks away, silent for a moment, voice quiet when he speaks,

"It would mean that, wouldn't it."

For once, there is nothing to follow that with, no other words to weave into a story or a song. It is the brutal truth: there is nothing holy about them, tiny ants on a tiny, backwoods star. They have only lived this long out of a wretched combination of desperation and love.