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," he said.
"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.