Chapter 17

Ellana had spent most of her morning copying and scanning supplemental materials for her classes. She could have asked her teaching assistants to do so on her behalf; only after the assault, she had taken renewed pleasure in any task that she could be accomplish independently. Immediately after the attack, It had been challenging to work full time and keep up with her scholarly publications and conference applications.

Against better judgment, Ellana had pushed through her injuries. The effort to make it to campus and keep her classroom running left her little time to be anxious over the attack-and the fact that the assailant was still at large. Occasionally, when traveling around campus or public transit, she'd sense someone following her. It was always reassuring to hear the plainclothes officer mutter "mud splasher about," the code phrase to indicate to her who was and wasn't part of her security detail.

Although Ellana still was troubled that she didn't have the whole picture involving the Elvhen fanatic, Andruill, that had attempted to bind her will, she did her best not to obsess. Leliana, who she still did not trust, had sent some pithy updates, but Ellana thought that obsessing over if she would or would not be attacked in the future was a waste of time and energy.

She was grateful that the Department of Orlesian Homeland Security had made quick work of cleaning up the dismal scene around her office. She had steeled herself for whispers and half-hidden sneers on her fast day back at work. Her breath hitched a bit when she made the familiar trek back to her office, but finding the hallways cleaned of blood and put back to order as if it had never happened had brought her relief.

"It is perhaps in everyone's best interests to not let this story leak," Leiliana had instructed her.

"That's smart," the Iron Bull had agreed when she had asked for his opinion of the situation. "At the very least, it will give the appearance of strength, which makes you less of a target."

And so she moved forward with her life.

She had done her best to ensure that her students received engaging lectures and discussion materials. If they noticed that she leaned on the podium giving lectures, or sometimes had shut her door to lay on her office floor, none had indicated anything other than enthusiasm.

Two-and-a-half weeks later, she was finally starting to have some pep back in her step.

Or was that because her heart fluttered every time she received a text message from Professor Solas Fen'Harel? Her cold feelings for him had shifted gradually, but she couldn't deny the ease between the two of them. At the very least, she thought they could be friends. Indeed, other scholars throughout history had similar ideological differences and still managed to collaborate on projects.

She was humming softly, turning the pages of a recent publication on Dwarven iconography and the Shaparate when she was interrupted by the unmistakable grumbling of Roderick Asignon rummaging through the piles of papers she had placed in order on the nearby prep table.

"May I help you, Professor Asignon?" She asked in a dry voice.

"You don't use Brother Gentivi's book? If I recall, the curriculum committee decided that the text was mandatory for all introductory courses."

"Yes, and the students in my courses do utilize the Gentivi textbook."

"Brother Gentivi," Roderick huffed, his face turning an unattractive shade of red.

"Excuse me?" Ellana scoffed. The textbook in question was generally out of favor in many other universities as a nostalgic romp of the past. Although the good Brother had done his best to reconcile the various histories of all of the races of Thedas, his analysis was unmistakable, humancentric, and often misattributed artifacts and concepts. The book was beloved, but overall, useless.

Besides, even if Professor Asignon was a senior faculty member, he was unequivocally a buffoon.

"As both a dual-member of the Chantry, and a senior faculty member, I insist that you use the honored scholar's proper title." Ellena had forgotten that Roderick was a Chantry scholar first, and an art historian second. Remembering that didn't make Ellana feel any less irate.

"Thank you, I will take your advice under consideration," Ellana said in a cold voice, turning her attention back to the copy machine. She knew that if she reacted in anger that she would lose the battle.

"You would do best to take this advice into consideration: mind your attitude," Roderick hissed, slinking back to his large corner office before Ellana could respond any further.

For the next hour-and-a-half, Ellana ignored the crashes and snorts coming out of his office while she copied, scanned, and collated her various handouts. She could hear the low murmur of Roderick making several phone calls while murmuring, evidently about her conduct. Walking pointedly to her purse, Ellana took out her phone and a pair of headphones, pushing the volume up past an acceptable level so that it was clear she was not listening to his tantrum.

When her work was done at the copy machine, Ellana was packing all of her papers and books into a few tote bags when Roderick rushed out again. Blocking her exit, the man crossed his arms, a sour frown on his face.

"Pardon me, Professor," Ellana said, doing her best to assume her full height. A difficult task given the heavy books and stacks of handouts she was carrying.

"You should know, out of concern for your students, I have contacted Vivienne to speak about your disregard for the scholarship and professional culture of this department. Surely, you can't be blamed for your ignorance considering your upbringing."

"You are out of line," Ellana said, her voice taut with rage. Ignorance was often code for savage when speaking about Dalish elves. He might as well have called her rabbit or knife-ear. "How I choose to run my classroom is none of your business. Now, get out of my way, or I will report you for harassment."

Roderick slumped a bit as he moved out of the doorframe, but his frown indicated only one thing to Ellana: it was war between them.

When she turned down the hallway, she could hear him call out at her, "Report me all you want. This is my department."

Sure, jerk.

Strolling back to her office, she did her best to keep the feelings of defeat at bay. Dropping her pile of books on her desk, for the first time, she slammed the door and buried her head in her hands, overwhelmed with the obstacles that she continued to face. She had never been one prone to have emotional outbursts, preferring to view the flow of the world as a rational one. Moving to Val Royeaux threatened her outlook that the rules might be unfair at times, but that any hurdle could be overcome by identifying the underlying pattern and persevering through with a solution.

Before she came to Orlais, Ellana could barely remember the last time she cried. Now, she had lost count of how many situations she found herself in fighting back the tears. So much had happened in so little time. What more could go wrong?

She shouldn't have asked that question. A few seconds later, her phone buzzed in her purse. Thinking it was a message from Solas, Ellana's heart sunk when she found a message from her Chair instead.

xxx-xxx-4245, Vivienne Le Fer, 1:14 p.m.

Ellana, darling, please come to my office within the next half-an-hour

xxx-xxx-4245, Vivienne Le Fer, 1:14 p.m .

I hear there has been a misunderstanding.

Doing her best to collect herself, Ellana stood, smoothing her black suit set, and adjusting the gold patterned scarf tied around her shoulders. Grabbing her handbag, she counted to ten, doing her best to suppress the feelings of dread that threatened to spill over. Surely, Vivienne would see reason if she found the right words?

Somehow, she was skeptical that she would receive any compassion from the ruthless curator.