Onainat sat down at the very edge of her blankets and crossed her feet in the dirt. She wondered what he meant when he said 'this sort of life' and how it was possible that he'd think he'd failed her somehow. For all the terrible things that happened, Onainat loved her life. She could see the pain in his eyes, but it was difficult to tell if she'd hurt him in conversation or if it was from bringing up Onainaht...
"It was one of my favorite stories," she said. Oh, Onainat never thought it was completely true. He'd told that story like a fairytale and she'd loved it as a fairytale. Her mapmaking was based in her love for that story - gathering songs for the stars - except she was trying to gather people and places and art that could be considered dead after five hundred years. Still, she wondered if part of her wanted it to be true as he told it. There was a small pain in her heart, finding out he'd woven that story differently from the truth on purpose.
Onainat watched him. Asking questions that ripped up the paths to everything she remembered wasn't easy. If she wanted to, she could continue on as she had before. Their relationship was comfortable, when she didn't push him. On the other hand, he was offering her a chance to know who her grandmother was. The person whose name she carried. And he was offering a part of himself along with it.
She picked a piece of grass and twirled it between her fingers. Her father knew she'd ask. So did she. It was just a matter of getting on with it.
"If she wasn't gathering songs for the stars, then who was she gathering them for?"