The mat's too thin. The ground's too hard. The stars are too smug. And above me, swaying ever so slightly in her stupid little hammock, she sniffles again.
I sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Not that she notices. Or cares.
Another soft sob. Like a kitten with a bruised ego.
"Could you not," I murmur into the dark, "do that thing with your face where water keeps leaking out?"
Silence for a breath. Then:
"I'm trying."
"Try quieter."
She shifts. The ropes creak gently overhead. I stare at the blackness above me like it owes me an apology.
"I just…" she starts, then falters. "It's not supposed to be like this."
I don't ask what this is. Sleeping on dirt? Bruises where your pride used to be? The part where your feet never quite stop aching?
"I'm not made for this," she whispers. "I wasn't supposed to end up here."
Ah. That kind of night.
"I'm the princess of Tanagra," she adds, voice fragile as spun sugar. "They don't believe me, but it's true."
I grunt. Just loud enough for her to hear. Nothing more.
She sniffs again. "You don't believe me either."
"Nope."
"Of course not." A pause. "You don't believe anything. You just make jokes."
I shift onto my side. The mat crackles under me.
"Because jokes don't cry at night," I mutter. "They don't get exiled or branded or thrown into mud pits. Jokes survive."
She doesn't reply. Just breathes. Slow, uneven.
After a while, I lift one foot and nudge the bottom of her hammock. It sways gently. Back and forth. Back and forth.
"That's not comforting, you know," she mumbles after a moment.
"Wasn't trying to be," I say.
But I don't stop pushing.