Solas' head tilts slightly, a question in the angle of his gaze. Two years? So little? And why that number, and no other? Nothing significant had happened then— not in his memory.

"Ten," He says, after considering and then discarding a number of lies, "You are well?"

He is aware, after all, that he abandoned you all, the Inquisition and its cause all in one, not the least of which is Lavellan. True too, that he knows they are alive, at least, in his time. Or they were, last he knew, before his imprisonment. If that is a betrayal, then it is the least of its kind that he owes— and even so, they are, or were... Friends. Of a sort.

It is too much he thinks, and foolish besides, to hope that it can ever be the same again.

"...Current circumstance aside, of course."