A Tale of Two Stations

I. Beginnings

"...It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… who starts a book like that?! I mean, who honestly thinks that is a good beginning to anything? You should try and capture the reader's attention right out the gate, not start it off with weird, contradictory poetry. That stuff just confuses people. And the way the rest of the book drags on and on about the revolution, with no true adventure in sight...who would ever want to read about that. It is so dry I'm surprised it wouldn't catch fire in my hands. I don't care if the author is a great literary figure, his books are shit." Varric's gravelly voice tumbled out onto the microphone, words a whip crack of agitation.

The only reason he had chosen the damn book was because of Cassandra. She'd called during his show a week before and gone off on a tirade about how Varric couldn't comment on things he hadn't even read. Her insults were creative, he'd give her that, but he'd heard it a thousand times before. Cassandra liked to stick to what she knew and deliver it with blunt force and sheer determination to be heard. Varric, now he'd have made a thin-veiled threat - employed a little blackmail maybe. Something with a little more finesse and a lot less growling and vitriolic pontification.

Usually he would have favoured her with a sly comment and then flat out ignored her, but he'd been told that it would be best if he gave into her demand—purely to maintain the ratings of course. Not that he had to. His show alone brought more than enough to keep the station afloat. He was doing it purely for posterity... and possibly to rile Cassandra up. Just a bit. There was no way he was going to pass up the opportunity to annoy her. Not when she so blatantly left herself so open like that. She was such an easy target.

A light began flashing on one of the station's telephone lines. Right on queue. "Ah, we have a caller on line one. I wonder who it could possibly be?" He mused to his listeners, ready for Cassandra to let loose.

"Your inflated ego about the trash you peddle doesn't give you the right to criticize that piece of literature, Varric." Cassandra's icy tone—which, he was certain, she only reserved for him—came blasting through the speaker.

He chuckled with no small amount of glee at her displeasure, the office chair creaking under the weight as he moved the seat back and forth. "Why Seeker, be still my heart! Does that mean you read my books?"

Maker, how he loved winding her up.

"NO- of course not! I've... merely heard about the tripe you come up with from others. I would not stoop so low as to read anything you've written."

"Ah, Seeker," Varric clutched at his chest dramatically. "You wound me! My books can't be that bad! Unless half of Thedas is using them as paperweights instead of reading them." He highly doubted that was the case, especially when people would call into his show all the time and tell him how much they loved his books. She was totally grasping at thin air there.

Giving a glance to his watch, he was surprised his time was almost up. "Unfortunately, that seems to be all the time we have for today. On that note, thanks for listening to Lowtown Low down, with me, Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong. Coming up after the commercial is everyone's favourite broody weather man, Fenris, and at eleven, beautiful botany with Merrill." His broad fingers depressed the hold button promptly and slid about the soundboard, making sure to turn off the mic and all necessary equipment. Letting his headphones slip off into his broad palms, he placed them upon the desk before dragging a hand through his hair and tying it back out of his face. Now to deal with Cassandra.

"You still there? Sorry about that. I needed to finish my show before you got going one of your amusing tirades. You know—if it was up to me—I would let you keep going, but I don't think broody would be happy about me cutting into his time." His voice rumbled into the handset.

"I do not go on tirades, Varric!" A loud, exasperated groan bounced toward him then, a ball of noise which hit his ear abruptly and forced him to pull away from the receiver for a moment. "I was simply stating that you would have no idea what proper literature was, even if it hit you in the face."

"That's rich coming from you, Seeker, since you've never read any of my stuff. And since when did you become a know-it-all on the subject? I mean, where's your diploma? Do you carry it around with you in your pocket and whip it out in people's faces whenever anyone disagrees in your taste in books?" He let out a long sigh, "Look, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Opinions are like testicles, you kick 'em hard enough and it doesn't matter how many you've got. Now, I've got to go and meet with my editor, so I'm gonna have to cut this short. But who knows? I might just phone in tomorrow and steal the show from you while you're on the air." He smirked while another disgusted noise toppled through the receiver.

"You cannot be serious. You have no such control over my listeners, much as you like to think so. And no, I may not be educated in the scholarly sense, but I know a good book when I see one. Good day, Var-"

He snapped. "Here's a thought—how about you read one of my novels before you tell me my books are shit."

His voice was a knife, cutting Cassandra's assumptions into pieces and the instant he let them slip from his mouth, he regretted them. Hanging up the phone without warning, a hefty groan escaped his lips and he rubbed at his tired eyes. Why did her opinion of his books bother him so damn much? It's not like he ever took anything she said seriously. Not really. For all he knew, it was a stunt put on my her station to boost ratings. Besides, her harsh words would only get more readers interested in his books. It shouldn't bother him that much. Then why did it feel like her words were sandpaper, rubbing him the wrong way?

His feet moved him through the jungle of office cubicles that made up the back end of the station, her barbed comments still snagging on the fibres of his mind. It really pissed him off that she would criticize his books when she hadn't read any of them; she wasn't usually the type to form opinions unless she had something to back it up. That's what she was most known for, after all. Her program was about getting to the bottom of things—an advice kind of show—called The Seeker of Truth. She seemed to have the know-how that was needed to help people with their problems, and yet, the only thing that seemed to come out of her mouth in regards to his books, was criticism. He thought she was made of better stuff than that. Apparently he'd thought wrong.

"You know what? Fuck it. Doesn't matter anyways," he muttered to himself as he reached the glass doors that led out onto the sidewalk. Pushing one open with his broad palm, the crisp air of autumn danced over him as he exited the building. A shudder ran up his spine and he pulled his coat closer about his stout build. Even though he hated the cold, at least it wasn't raining. Or snowing. He despised all types of water, unless it was the kind that involved a nice hot shower. Which he wanted nothing more than to enjoy right now, but he still had to meet with his editor about his new book. No rest for the wicked, he figured.

His car—Bianca, as he called her—was parked round the corner, and he walked swiftly to it as the wind buffeted about him, leaves fluttering past as he neared his destination. Maker, it was blustery outside. Wisps of his hair were now being tugged free from his hair tie as he pushed onward, wind whipping it about his face irritatingly. He attempted to push the flyaways back, but they just wouldn't cooperate. Groaning at the minor frustration, he swiftly pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the car and hopped inside. His hands then smoothed over his hair again, finally taming the strays that had come loose and re-tying his hair back. Once he had gained back some form of control over his appearance, he put the key in the ignition and let Bianca's engine roar to life.

A classic car from a time gone by, she was a pure indulgence. Bianca had been a gift from a lover of his, after his books first took off, and at first, he thought she was being generous. But as things started to break down, he realized it was all a ploy to buy his love. Thank sweet Andraste he had given up that arrangement. He was tired of the heartache and, if he was honest with himself, being used. Sharing her with another man, let alone her husband, was not something he had signed up for. Never again. That was his only solace in keeping the car after things turned sour. His car served a purpose—to remind him not to make the same mistake again; he was getting too old for that kind of shit.

Putting her into gear, he sped off in the direction of his editor's office. Hopefully he wasn't going to be too late because of Cassandra's antics.

~TtS~

"Ugh! You are such an ass!" she yelled at the earpiece of the phone when Varric had rudely hung up on her. Slamming the receiver down forcefully, She collapsed back into her office chair in a huff, the seat complaining at the sudden weight. Maker take him! Why did he always have to be so infuriating! A long drawn out sigh graced her lips, as her arms crossed themselves neatly in front of her. The trouble was... he was right. She had jumped to conclusions without having the necessary information about his books, and he had caught her red handed. She was not usually in the habit of throwing unfounded accusations around. Truth be told, she felt terribly bad about it, but it was impossibly hard not to become accusing, especially when he got way too much joy from her discomfort. That didn't excuse how she acted though and in retrospect, she should have seen it coming, really. Well, there was only one thing left to do—it couldn't hurt to humour Varric and pick up one of his books on her way home. If anything, she would be better prepared to disarm the pretentious accolades of his own books next time.

Putting her day planner and water bottle back in her bag, she gave one last scan of the booth to ensure everything was back in order for Leliana. He mental check list done, the door swung open with a creak and she exited into the stark fluorescent light of the hallway.

Cassandra was relatively new to the radio business, having just completed her broadcasting program the year prior, and on the insistence of the stations owner and now, her dear friend, Dorothea. In fact, she was the only reason why she had pursued this line of work in the first place. The remembrance of her beginnings at the station filtered into the forefront of her thoughts as she wandered down the maze of hallways.

It had always been an uncanny skill of hers, to separate the truth and the lies of others. Originally it had been her dream to pursue a career as a PI, but as the years passed, and one failed attempt at schooling later, she found it wasn't the right fit for her. She was too impatient and impulsive to carry out undercover investigations and she didn't think there was any way she had the mind to spend hours sifting through information on the people she was investigating. That's when she tried to go back to the drawing board so-to-speak. Seek out a new path that would be better suited to her candid personality.

The first week, she was very pro-active, doing lots of research and looking into anything that caught her eye, but it was hard to keep optimistic with very little money coming in from her part-time job. By week three, she was nearly panicking that she would become destitute. She had had some money saved, but most of it had been used up since her decision to change career paths. She'd need to think of something fast, if she wanted to avoid becoming penniless. Perhaps she'd send a prayer to the Maker. Maybe it would help her to focus and with his guiding hand, point her in the right direction.

A few days after sending that prayer to the Maker, he answered.

She had started to listen to an advice show on the radio, when it happened. It made her feel as if she wasn't alone in the world with her problems, that others were struggling just like herself. It eased her worries greatly. They may not have had the same problem as her, but she felt a sense of comradery nevertheless.

One dreary Saturday morning, while Cassandra was folding laundry, a woman called in and asked about how to approach her co-worker whom she had feelings for and wanted to know if it was a good idea that she even broach the subject. She immediately empathized with the caller. There was a time she herself had found it hard to express her feelings for a young man who she had once worked with. Armed with the knowledge that if she didn't at least try, she would never know if he felt the same, she bit the bullet and told him. Getting out of her own way was the hard part though. She had been so scared of rejection, it took her at least five tries just to talk to him without becoming impossibly flustered. Once done, she found that all her worry was for nothing.

That fond memory still had enough emotion left over to make her heart flutter and even though they had parted ways some time ago, she always had a special place in her heart for him: her first and only love. No one ever had come close to being what he had meant to her, after he had left. So, she was content to continue on alone, not out of choice, but waiting for someone else to sweep her off her feet the way he had. It had been well worth the time they had together, and she wouldn't take it back for anything.

While the presenter seemed mildly interested in the woman's predicament, he did little to direct her to some sort of conclusion, which irked Cassandra greatly. Being wishy washy was not the way to find a solution. What a flake! His only job was to help people, and even though he said he would help the woman, there was nothing coming from his mouth except bad anecdotes. She couldn't just stand by and allow the fool of a radio personality to give out terrible advice! That was the last straw. She had to do something. Punching the phone number into her mobile, she'd pressed send and waited for the host to pick up. After two rings, he answered. That was his first mistake.

Cassandra had wasted no time, laying into him about how stupid his advice was, without even giving him time to ask what she was phoning in for. She would not allow the dunce to get away with it. He should simply find another job that better suited him, since this one certainly didn't.

Once she was done berating the host, she'd switched to ignoring him completely and started giving her own advice to the woman. She deserved advice straight from the heart, and nothing less would suffice. Cassandra made it clear to the woman that she should follow her instincts and talk to him about it, saying that she would regret it deeply if she didn't. Tormenting herself with keeping those feelings inside would do more harm than if she set them free, even going as far as suggesting she use a token to show her feelings for him if she felt too shy. She seriously hoped that the host had taken notes on how to properly help people. That or he was using the paper to write his two weeks notice. He really should not be in the business of helping people.

A week later, the woman phoned back and told everyone that the advice she had been given hadn't worked as well as she thought it would. The woman claimed it wasn't because the advice was bad, but because of awkward miscommunication on her part and the fact she had used a mutual work friend to help her out—which made things worse. She had no idea how she would ever get over the fear of telling him; it seemed to her that she was destined to remain alone unless she got more help.

Again, the radio personality was quite blasé about the whole situation, which only infuriated Cassandra more. He obviously hadn't taken any notes the first time. The stupid fool. He was supposed to be helping people and getting to the bottom of things, not telling the caller that maybe she was right! He went on to tell her she should just leave it alone because if he obviously wasn't interested and that's why she was getting nowhere with him. What a bunch of horse shit.

Fingers flying across the keypad, she'd dialled into the radio again, this time her ire a flame burning white hot. This useless excuse for a presenter had no business giving advice over the radio! Razor sharp daggers for words were spat out through the phone, puncturing the pretentious bubble that had been protecting the host. It got so bad, that they had to cut to commercial to spare the radio personality total embarrassment of crying on the air.

Yes, the caller's deeds and actions were being misconstrued by her potential love interest, but Cassandra had the innate need to tell her she needed to try again, certain that it would be well worth the torment. She needed to hold out hope that the woman would succeed at finding love. She deserved it. Everyone did.

When she had promised to keep her temper under control to the shows producer, she was allowed the small triumph of being allowed to revise her help.

...It must be you who initiates this, dear caller. Your friend, no matter how helpful, may be confusing what you wish to convey to the man. You need to be brave in the face of love, even if it means that your heart is left vulnerable. Do it. Don't think, just act, and I assure you that it will all be worth it... her own words echoed within the walls of her mind while she stepped onto the main level of the station; the memory as bright and vivid as if it had been made only yesterday.

After that, Cassandra had kept a keen ear to the radio show that the caller frequented, waiting for an update of any kind and even though the days turned into weeks, she still held out hope that she would call in with good news. After nearly a month of nothing though, she was becoming disheartened that the woman caller had either given up on her chance at love or it hadn't worked out. Putting it out of her mind, she carried on with her life, trying not to let it bother her too much. She had more pressing matters to attend to anyway. The first order, being to find a job that paid enough so she wouldn't have to feel as if she was living paycheck to paycheck.

By the time the woman had called back into the station, Cassandra nearly had forgotten about her and the advice she had tried to provide, the memory like a ghost in the back of her head. However, when she heard the caller's voice come over the radio waves one morning, she dropped everything and ran to the stereo on her kitchen counter, leaning so close, she could hear the faint crackling of the speaker in her ears. With bated breath Cassandra heard the caller tell the last of her account, her eyes went wide and the beat of her heart began to thump in her chest like a drum, hoping beyond hope that she had sincerely helped her.

As it had turned out, the woman finally had plucked up enough courage to talk with him and tell him of her true feelings. At first it was met with silence. The caller had feared the worse, and was about to apologize for being so forward, when he admitted to sharing her feelings. She told the host she felt so incredibly stupid that she had spent all that time worrying and using round about methods to tell him she was interested, when she should have been brave enough to meet the situation head on in the first place. Not only that but she now felt empowered by Cassandra's advice and that the man in question and her were now involved.

Oh blessed day! Hearing those words had made Cassandra's heart rejoice in triumph. She had been of use to someone; helping them in a time of need. It almost felt as if she was doing the Maker's work in some way—guiding the woman to find the joy Cassandra knew her to be capable of.

Later that week, and much to her surprise, the producer—Leliana—got in contact with her and let her know that the ratings for the show had skyrocketed, all because of her advice. She then asked if Cassandra to come into the station so the owner could meet her in person.

Once she had arrived, She was introduced to the staff of the show and was led to the office of the Owner. Dorothea was quite the pleasant woman to talk to, and it eased Cassandra's fears of being charged for acting so brashly. As it turned out, Dorothea was so interested in Cassandra's fresh take on the world that before she knew it, she had been offered a full time entry job at the station. She also proposed that if she went through the necessary schooling, she would no doubt get a spot in the station's morning show.

A laugh escaped Cassandra as she opened the doors that lead outside. She had helped someone, and in turn, was helped herself. It must have been the Maker's will the entire time. There was no other reason for it.

Making her way down the street, she quickened her pace as a chilly blast of wind wrapped its way around her form, her coat ruffling about in the gale. Hugging herself tightly, she braced herself against the stiff breeze and made her way to the bookstore a few blocks down.

She began to wonder what Varric's books were actually like—she suspected they would be filled with mystery and intrigue if anything he talked about on Lowtown Low Down was to be considered. Ugh, just what she wanted to read about, more conspiracy theories and lies. What a bore. Now romance novels, that is where her-

Suddenly, Cassandra's ears were met with the blast of a car horn and the deafening sequel of car breaks; she looked to see a gold car hurtling toward her like a battering ram. Shock made her body slow and defiant, her limbs refusing to move out of the way. All she could do was stare—like a halla in headlights—as the car tried to stop, its nose almost pushed to the ground like a hunting mabari.

Squinting her eyes tight and bracing for impact as best she could, she sent a silent prayer out to the Maker to keep her safe.

"What in Andraste's name do you think you're doing?! Shit, I could have killed you, walking out in the middle of the street like that! Next time watch where you're going, will ya!?"

Opening her eyes at the gruff voice that hit her ears like a wall of thunder, she watched the driver lean out of his car window, his face oddly obscured by the glare of the windshield; the car just inches away from her.

Thank the Maker, she was alive!

When she walked out onto the street, she could have sworn that there were no vehicles coming. The car must have been speeding, that was the only reasonable explanation.

She clenched her fists and looked at him through slitted eyes. There was no way he was going to get away with it. He had almost hit her. Her feet marched purposely to meet him at his window, wanting nothing more than to give him a piece of her mind, but as she rounded the car's headlight, he punched it and the car shot forward like a bullet. All she was able to catch of the person who had almost killed her, was a streak of coppery blonde hair and a broad hand gripping the steering wheel.

"HEY! Come back here, you coward! Void take you!" She yelled after the car as it shrank fast into the distance. Maker's breath, what bastard does that to someone—taking off instead of checking to see the other person is okay. Someone who only cares for themselves. Obviously.

This was quickly turning into a lousy day. First, she let Varric make her feel like shit because she assumed his books were crap without proper evidence, and now she almost killed by some madman speeding in a car. A black cloud began to settle over her head. All she wanted to do was go home after everything she had been through that morning, but she had told herself she owed it to Varric to read at least one of his books. Resigning herself to complete her task, she crossed the road—a little more cautiously this time—and made her way to the bookstore.

Her hand grasped the cold metal of the doorknob and as the door opened, the cheerful ringing of the old fashioned doorbell filled her ears. Stepping inside, the smell of paper and ink wafted over her, mellowing the dark mood she was in and prompted the corners of her mouth to turn up in a smile. It was small comfort to her, especially on this seemingly terrible start to her day. Reading was Cassandra's favourite pastime, and she thoroughly enjoyed spending hours among the pages of a book. Most of the time though, she was too busy promoting her show or helping out at the station in her spare time to get much reading done.

Deciding to take the rest of the day for herself, she perused the walls of books. Wandering leisurely from section to section, she took time to enjoy the feel of each cover she touched and the rustle of the pages under her fingers. Soon, the dark cloud had dissipated and she was left with a quiet sense of contentment. It was just what she needed to brighten her spirits.

On a whim, she ambled down the romance aisle. One quick peek, she told herself, then she would go search out one of Varric's books. She'd finished her last romance novel weeks back, and wanted something fresh to sink her teeth into the next time she found a moment. Not that she couldn't do that with one of Varric's books, but just as a fail-safe, she wanted something interesting to keep her from complete boredom if his books turned out to be as dull as she imagined them to be.

She thumbed the spines casually, only half paying attention to the titles and the authors who graced the covers. Then, she saw it. A book tucked into the corner of the shelf, virtually obscured by another, much larger one. The hidden novel—called Swords and Shields—was by none other than the man himself! What were the chances that she would find one of Varric's books in the romance section! How in the void had he managed to write a romance novel? It was almost ridiculous to think he would have the capability to write such a thing, given how lewd he was on his show. It certainly piqued her interest. This is going to be extremely entertaining to read! I bet it is so atrocious, that it barely paid for the paper it was written on! And once I'm finished this disgraceful book, he will never be able to question my judgement his books again!

She let out a sigh. No matter how badly they clashed on air, she had come to think of Varric as a companion of sorts. Not a true friend, but someone more than an acquaintance—not that she'd ever tell him that. Truth be told, she didn't possess many friends; the amount of people she could count as being on friendly terms with her could fit on her hand. She knew it probably was because of the gruff way she dealt with things and others in her daily life. She even suspected that some feared her. But not Varric. He simply took her candid banter in stride and quite often gave it back to her without fear. In fact, she found the repartee between them to be invigorating. It was just too bad he felt the need to embellish the truth so much. She really wished that he would, just once, show a side of himself that was true.

"Idle fancy," she muttered to herself and went to pay for the book. She shouldn't ponder the reasoning of a person who she had never met. There was no use for it. Pushing those thoughts aside, she gave up some bills to the clerk and said "Thanks," before stepping through the door and back out into the cold. The wind was coming in violent gusts now, whipping leaves about her as she walked back to her car, desperate to be home.

A storm was approaching. The wind was now howling since she had entered the store and rain begun to sprinkle down upon her as she walked back to the station's parking lot. She didn't mind the rain so much, but when it was paired with an ice cold wind, that's when she started wishing for the comfort of some tea and a nice, warm bed. Or even better, a bath—complete with lit candles and a nice glass of wine. That's what she'd do when she got home. She'd crack open this ridiculous book and spend the evening in the bath, allowing all her frustration to melt away.

An appreciative hum touched her lips at the thought. Perfect. Now all she had to do was navigate her way home in this inclement weather. Thank goodness her car was sturdy and reliable.

Tugging on her keyring in her pocket, her keys clinked together merrily as they slid out of her pocket. Rounding the bend, she zigzagged her way through the rows of cars. A shiver shook her body as she neared her car, her coat and hair now sopping wet while a blast of wind buffeted about. She hoped she wasn't going to get ill because of this blasted weather. She couldn't afford to take the time off. Not because of the money, but because she felt indebted to Dorothea and Leliana for allowing her to be a part of the station. They had taken her under their wing and asked for nothing in return. The least she could do was devote her time to the station as a thank you for everything they had done. Which, if she got sick, would interfere with that plan. There was no way she was going to rest if came down with something—she grimaced at the very thought of it—when there was so much to do and so many to help.

She opened and shut the door to the car in one swift movement, sinking down into the cold leather of the driver's seat as beads of water dripped down her face. She needed to get home and out of these wet clothes that clung to her like a second skin. Starting the car, her hand immediately went to the dials, adjusting the heat so that the interior would heat up as fast as possible. She was frozen to the bone and she shivered uncontrollably as the first blast of cold air hit her skin. Why was the car taking so long to warm up!

Finally, she felt the temperature of the air begin to rise as she gripped the steering wheel and reversed. A feeling of joy fell over her as she realized, in as little as a half-hour, she would be home—the bath and the alcohol calling her name—probably reading the most preposterous romantic fiction she had ever laid eyes on. Until then, she'd just have to make do with the lukewarm air that was forcing itself through the vents and hope for the best.