"Go; we'll--" The words be all right stick in Myr's throat--and how could they not when he's got a baby in his arms that's little more than bones and a thready pulse? "--we'll manage here."

He's hardly the one who needs worrying about, anyway, though he's sick at heart and shivering from the cold. (It seemed a far better use of his cloak to give it to Sina and the other children.) That's nothing; that's forgettable.

"Don't think they'll be long, at least," he adds, in a murmur. Maker grant them haste; Andraste clear their way.