The laugh that pulls from her is sharp and biting, perhaps not the response 9S was expecting from her after calling her lucky. Lucky. As if her life hadn't been one long streak of bad luck enough to wrap around to being lucky again. Varric argued so, and Lavellan finds it so hard to believe in.

"No, it isn't a bad trade. But it was-- more, I'm afraid." She lost her arm, the Inquisition, her faith, her history, her culture. And her lover, although he'd never been it in such a traditional sense. But it all crumbled along with her arm, falling away; turned to ash in her mouth and on the ground.

But it isn't his place to deal with Thedas, or her own baggage, so Lavellan attempts to move the conversation onwards. "I am grateful to him for saving my life, something I hope he knows." After all is said and done.