( it's meant to be another comfort, among all of the comforts koby has already offered her, but this one doesn't go down smoothly. there's no cozy warmth in her belly — it just tastes like burnt sugar when she tries to feed herself those reassurances. she represses the urge to wince, like her tongue has touched a cup of scalding tea; instead, she smiles, because — that's what she's meant to do. look grateful. act grateful. even if curling her mouth makes her feel less human, and more like an automaton. not dead, not alive, just some hollowly mechanical thing going through the motions.

at least someone is making the effort to ask after her bruises and scrapes, she reminds herself; pretending at being fine is the least she can do to repay koby, in this stupid, twisty-turny maze. as if waking from some delayed trance, alina blinks, turning her attention down to her thorn-cut palms. she thinks of nami in a field saying, you're bleeding, and how immune alina had been to that, too. like carrying wounds is such a natural state that she can't be bothered with tending to every single one.

she swipes her hand down her sides, gritting her teeth when the fabric irritates the little cuts embedded in her skin. )

It's barely anything. ( she doesn't give koby proper time to fuss. it's a little like trying to distract a dog from its bone by throwing a ball, hoping his attention hones in on something, anything, else. ) Mal would find us, if he were still here. He could find a raindrop in an ocean.

( a disappointed breath puffs out of her, squinting off into the path behind koby. maybe a little betrayed, too, that mal would separate himself from her again. )

I've lost count of how many times I've gone in circles, ( she continues, all self-deprecating sarcasm, as she snorts: ) Some mapmaker I am.