For over twenty years, I have been a healer
at the Temple of Stendarr. As the reader is doubtless aware,
we are the only temple in the Iliac Bay that offers wound
healing and illness curing for both the faithful and the heathen
alike, for Stendarr is the God of Mercy. I have faced people
at their most miserable and their most terrified. I have seen
brave knights weep and strong peasants scream. I like to think
that I've watched the masks drop from faces, and seen people
as they truly are.
A healer's job, after all, is more than simply
binding wounds and stopping the flows of poison and disease.
We are counselors and comforters for those who have given
up all hope. Sometimes, it seems like our kind words and sympathy
do more for our patients than our spells.
I am reminded of a very sick young man who
came to the temple, suffering from a variety of maladies.
Once I had given him an examination, I told him the results,
careful not to alarm him. I let him decide how he wanted to
be told the news.
"I have some good news and some bad news,
my child," I said.
"I better hear the bad news first,"
"Well," I said, gripping his shoulder
in case he should faint. "The bad news is that, unless
I am wrong, you will sicken even more over the next day or
two. And unless Stendarr choses to be merciful to you, you
will pass from this existance. I am sorry, my child."
As soft as the blow was, it stung nonetheless.
The boy was, after all, very young. He thought he had his
whole life ahead of him. Tears streaming down his face, he
asked, "And what is the good news?"
I smiled: "When you came in, did you
notice our proselytizer? She was the enchanting, voluptuous
blonde in the antechamber by the foyer?"
Color returned to the young man's face. He
had noticed her indeed. "Yes?"
"I'm sleeping with her," I said.
If more of the healers of Tamriel would consider
their patients' feelings, not just the quickest way to heal
them up and get them out, we would have a far, far healthier
society. I truly believe that.
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