There are, Cassandra thinks through the pain, a great many things she said much too quietly. Things she only said loud enough for herself to hear.
Too little, too late.
With a wince at the wetness, the rattling, wheezing sound that accompanies every breath, Cassandra pushes herself upright. The sharp, awful pain in her right side, where her right arm hangs limp and useless, causes her vision to swim.
The giant's meaty fist had sent her flying, Cassandra remembers. Which is how she wound up in an awkward tangle of armour, limbs, and tree branches at the bottom of a ravine. From the feel of it, Cassandra's also fairly certain her helmet (currently hanging off a branch) didn't keep her from a serious head injury. Whatever happened, she's bleeding quite a bit, and that's no good at all.
From up somewhere beyond the ravine, battle rages on- the ozone tang of Lavellan's magic, the heavy thump of a crossbow bolt sliding home. Bull's entirely inappropriate war cry, and the wounded pain riddled bellow of the giant. As it collapses, its death throes shake the ground. A slide of mud and rocks slither down the side of the ravine. Cassandra, dizzy and tangled in branches, is trapped beneath it. Something heavy bounces off her head.
Seeker training has seen her through injuries that would cripple or kill a common person, but even Cassandra can't shrug off being flung across the glade like a rag doll.
Between one shaky, sticky breath and another, Cassandra slides into unconsciousness.
"Cassandra!" Someone's calling her name. A woman, frantic with worry.
Mother? Cassandra thinks muzzily. No, that's not right.
Her brain can't quite make the connection between the voice and the right name.
There was someone I wanted to… I needed to say something.
Large hands worm their way between Cassandra's body and the debris she's trapped under, careful to cradle her head.
"It's okay, Boss," the voice rumbles, low and soft.
Not the right voice. Not the one…
Movement drags a moan from her lips, quiet and utterly pained. It hurts it hurts and being jostled about brings bile up in her throat.
"She's alright?" the woman says.
Lavellan. The name swims up into Cassandra's thoughts. Lavellan. The Inquisitor.
Pieces of memory slide around in Cassandra's aching head. The Iron Bull's hands are the ones which curve delicately around her, so careful.
"Varric" Cassandra tries the name out. It was important. Not the name, the person.
Someone's sharp intake of breath reminds her.
Late nights, a fire.
Warm hands, warm mouth. Smiling eyes.
His rough gasp when they'd-
"Varric?" Cassandra says around the pain in her chest and the endless din in her brain.
An ice cold hand brushes against her forehead, fingertips trailing her cheekbone.
"Hey, Seeker," Varric says, the smallest tremble in his voice.
"Love you," Cassandra mumbles, slipping into silence.