“I don't,” because saying it might make it so, if she says it firmly and frequently enough, what does he know. (Nothing, when she isn't willing to hear it.) He is a comforting solidity even when she disputes the comfort he offers, and her grasp gentling some under the hand upon her hair, her jaw so tight when she isn't speaking that it will ache, later, from the force with which she chooses not to weep for her father.

He still lives, for now. What right has he to do this to her. And what right has Orlais, to keep taking and taking and taking—

Some things they still have. This, and tomorrow, and what she wants to do is stay precisely where she is and not make any decisions or think very hard about anything or be let go of, but what she does when he prompts her is pull back, push her hair from her face, shake herself a little as if shrugging this off will be that easy.

“No, I'm fine,” she says, and it's not avoiding his gaze when she says it if she's turning away to look for her own clothes, a comb, to dress and go with him. “Of course we should—take Iorveth his things. You were in the middle of something, we should do that.”