Maybe he does, but Lavellan will never know. She pushes back her hair from her face with a hand, and hums slightly. There are so many things stopping her, but she settles on perhaps the easiest to explain, the one that does not leave her open and raw to more questions than she feels like answering.

"He left, and I was in no shape to follow him. Not that he wanted me to," she muses, her lips twitching up wryly for a brief moment. "But we are at odds, the two of us -- I doubt he'd give me the chance to say so without fleeing like the coward he is if we were ever to meet again." For he runs from her in her dreams, although he dares to invade them in the first place.

She is torn, she is always torn -- between the Inquisition and her clan, between her duty and her desire, between loving Solas and wishing to wrap her hand around his neck and strangling him for all that he's done. It hardly matters now, though, and she shakes her head.

"But that is in the past, for now." And that is where she is content to leave it.