Chapter 50: Small Bites
"Yes. As practice. You have to start out learning to believe the little lies." — Hogfather by T. Pratchett
He sat just a the edge of hearing from Ilya's group therapy session for the Altmer refugees rescued from the Summerset Isles. Most of them were political prisoners who'd remained loyal to their half-Dunmer prince and princess of Firsthold. Others were too-loyal servants. The mountain they'd been imprisoned on was cold and barren, impossible to grow food, and animals and birds had been driven away with powerful wards. Meager food was supplied once a month. Anything else required humiliation at the feet of the Thalmor.
No need to explore what that entailed. Ilya wasn't trying to heal them. Some things could never heal.
Oddly enough, Solstheim and Tel Mithryn seemed like a good environment for them. Life here was challenging and harsh but not hopeless. Neloth was not interested in being their caretaker or guardian. As long as they were occasionally useful and didn't bring any annoying attention from the Redorans, he didn't care what they did or their state of mind. It was an odd sort of freedom that allowed them to re-explore their lives and a comfort knowing there was someone around strong enough to handle them if they went out of control.
Neloth really wanted a Dragonborn child for his House if he was willing to be put in such a position. Curtis had had a good belly laugh when the Adrevanni brothers told him about their initial visit to Tel Windstad to confront the peasant husband of Lady Helsette. Yeah, getting slammed in the face with a tower full of ghostly ancestors and the champion tokens of the Three Great Ancestors and Sheogorath was enough to put the fear of gods into anybody of sense. Neloth was not part of that visit, knowing very well what he was dealing with in Lady Helsette and her husband. But he'd decided his family needed a sharp lesson in trusting his judgment when it came to his choosing his heir. Revyn hadn't disappointed him in delivering that lesson.
"Ilya's suggestions are not so much different than what you had for us, lord," said Irdal as she helped him lift the spit of roasted fish and vegetables off the fire.
"We've all been working on the same project, me, her, and Master Colette. There are a lot of people coming back from the civil war frontlines that need help. That was Ilya's whole purpose in enrolling in Winterhold College. She wanted to be a healer because her friends in her combat units were suffering after-battle effects. And even if my past world put a low priority on mental healthcare, it's still miles more advanced than what this world has. I've shared what I know with Ilya. I'm no expert, but at least it's better than just relying on a healer's magic or a priest."
Irdal touched his arm, smiling hesitantly, her eyes questioning him. "Thanks. But I'm a bit different. Dumac and Slitter have no crippling regrets of their lives. Our problem is just coordination."
"Maybe they don't, but you? You had family and you had a life you lost."
"Right, I lost it. And I was given a new life. I know my family. They would've been sad, but they're strong people, and my being gone won't stop them from living or loving. Same's true for me. Losing them won't stop me from finding a new life and family. I had it once before; I'll have it again." He gave her a quick hug. His Dwemer and Snowmer. They all had their family and friends they'd left. They hadn't intended their "three-week cruise" to take them thousands of years. They seemed to be adapting well, even thriving. Their form of therapy, their dream-time sharing, was terrifying to Curtis, who couldn't imagine sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings that way. Bad enough with Slitter.
Still… He side-eyed her. His people were in the same boat as these Altmer. They were no longer confined and facing overwhelming forces they had no control of where clinging desperately to each other was the only way to survive. They were getting their individual lives back. Their unity was starting to fracture. Like that old cartoon, Voltron, where all individuals came together to form one heck of a unit, but time was weathering the old connections. Someday, the units would refuse to fit; the signals to connect. The signs were subtle, but he sensed them. The little stress fractures. New connections were being formed. And it's a sad fact that old connections could get forgotten or dismissed.
He was a firm believer in work therapy. And work could take many forms. Some, like Forest Gump, literally ran away for a couple years. Then one day, say, "I'm done," do an about-face, and jog home. Another, like Dashrath Manjhi, would spend most of his remaining life with a pickaxe and shovel to build a road through a mountain. Because running around it to fetch a doctor had taken too long, and his wife died.
Grand examples, of course. But sometimes the internal injuries screwed the mental connections, and just getting up and washing your face was too much effort, too hard a goal. Social conformity pressure would eventually force a live-or-die situation, which is why most of the homeless to be found in cities were also mentally ill. Society wasn't kind to non-functioning members.
Not that he could claim any big insight, really. He'd suffered from depression before, but it hadn't even gotten to where he'd shut the door to his room, made himself a blanket burrito, and faced the wall waiting to die.
These surviving Altmer weren't that type, either. Still didn't put them out of danger, though, too many examples of battle survivors who couldn't make the transition back to civilian life. Suicides because, perversely, it was the same external pressures that forced them to keep it together. They couldn't adapt. Or people couldn't understand. Wouldn't understand. Understood but didn't care. Or cared but didn't know how to help.
Keeping it together. Dying on the inside. Didn't need war for that. Just the battle for everyday living could do that. The disease of desperation that no one wanted to talk about.
The walking wounded. This world, last world, next world. You want to help, they want some help, but hardwired survival instinct said: Never show weakness, or the predators will get you. Sacrifice the weak members, push them to the outside, let the demons have them so they don't bother the rest of us.
In the end, you still had to walk alone. People might show up to cheer you on or walk it with you. But even the most loving god won't carry and walk it for you. But if that's what you want to believe, fine. Tell yourself whatever and as many lies you want as long as you keep moving. Lie until it becomes the truth. Every day, in every way, I get better and better…
Yet, how defeating and soul-destroying was that belief? Alone. How many had that concept broken? Funny. He recalled watching a survivalist show. It was isolation and loneliness that broke the contestants more often than the environment and deprivations. The producers deliberately chose contestants, especially new parents, with strong family bonds because it was more entertaining to watch them go downhill than a true loner.
Whatever. Ilya was doing her best to help her patients deal with life. The Altmer voluntarily participated because they believed they needed help and didn't know how to do it alone. Curtis volunteered to do meals after these meetings because soul-searching and ground-building were tiring work. A full stomach was the most basic comfort and show of support he could make. He kept the menu light with good proteins and fiber- and antioxidant-rich foods. Good food equals happy guts and good moods.
"Here, add a little more protein to that plate. All the fish is from the north side of the island. They're full of healthy omegas to help rebuild nerves and pad in your brain cells," Curtis urged one overly thin woman. She smiled faintly and took a small piece of fish. Curtis watched her eat the cracker topped with fish and veggie slices. He kept portions bite-size to minimize food dumping if an ambivalent or bad mood discouraged eating. He got her to take a small cup of fruit and finely ground flax seeds. She grimaced at the thick, slimy texture, but it seemed to suit her taste, and she drank it all.
"You take such care with the food. This would not be out of place in a formal garden party," said Goranthir, the half-Dunmer, half-Altmer, exiled prince of Firsthold.
"Good food, good health. I could be lazy and feed you guys donuts and sujamma, an immediate sugar energy boost, and booze to deaden your synapses. But that's not the kind of food you need for healing. You ever hear the phrase, 'you are what you eat?' Feed it crap, and don't be surprised if your body and your mind turn out the same. Building on sand, you know. Bad foundations. You people are still too thin, and you need to rebuild your health."
"I suspect this is also your lure to get us to attend these sessions," said Goranthir, smiling as he picked up a small two-bite sandwich of cheese and pickled vegetable slice. "We only get such delicious tidbits when we attend."
"Ain't denying it. So, how are you feeling now?"
The prince sighed. "Tired. Confused. Uncertain. The normal doubts one has when preparing to step forward into an unknown future." He took out a folded parchment from a pocket. "This is a letter from Master Tolfdir welcoming me to Winterhold. He assures me measures can be taken to ensure my safety whilst I study there." He tucked the letter away. "It feels so strange to put myself back in school at my age."
"Yeah, school a second time around and at a later stage in life is always a challenge," said Curtis. "You know what your end goal is, right? That's important to have when you're surrounded by young kids, most who haven't yet figured out their future or ambitions. They usually have time to play; you don't."
"You speak from experience?"
"Somewhat. I've picked up extra money as a teacher in community and trade schools. Most of those classes are attended by young adults already working full-time jobs and don't have any time or patience for games. Then I get older professionals trying to keep up with the new developments. And they don't have the time to chase down and study information that isn't relevant to their goals, or just need guidance to study efficiently to keep their jobs. Have you a goal?"
"Only to relearn magic. As a group, we've selected the initial group to go to Winterhold; the rest will work to pay the fees. After that, we graduates will pay for the next group to go."
"Okay. That it?"
"I've asked Lord Revyn to teach me, but he has declined, saying that what he teaches wouldn't suit me. Instead, he would recommend a temporary job for at least a decade. But I would have to consider very carefully before accepting."
"Yeah? And what job is that?"
"Assistant royal court mage of Windhelm."
"Oh. That's kind of jumping right into the political shark pool. But, yeah, I can see that. Crazy son of a… If you can go ten years there without being knifed or poisoned, not to mention all the crazy prejudice and political and social cock-blocking… He's setting you up for a bigger stage. Maybe the Imperial Court stage. There hasn't been a Altmer in the Imperial Court since the assassination of Councilor Ocato after the Septim reign, which put the whole Empire into a free-for-all until the Medes brought the warhammer down. Of course, he would only see it as helping family, not necessarily as nepotism, Felix Mede being your cousin."
Goranthir stared at him. "That's a horrifying prediction."
"Yeah. Well, I could be totally wrong. That may not be your future at all. After all, you're going back to school to find one, right?"
"So I understand. But I will have time while in school to consider the job. And there's no guarantee I would get the post. That would depend on his lordship's ability to obtain King Ulfric's approval."
"Uh-huh. You going to study Alterations? I hear that's what you were good at."
"Yes. Destruction doesn't suit me, even with Ancestors' Sanctuary. And I've heard Winterhold is redefining the Alterations school, bringing back what was forbidden by past Imperial decrees of Tiber Septim. They are working with the Telvanni, who ignored the decrees and continue to use levitation study teleportation. And you, I hear you teach the Dwemer arts of advanced metallurgical and elemental alteration and manipulation."
"Er, not me. That's Irdal and a couple others that teach special classes. You have to be at least an Adept to apply and have done some prep work beforehand. Most of that's practical applications because the Alterations the Dwemer focuses on are related to construction, manufacturing — that sort of stuff. Engineering and Alterations. You see the connection and mindset?"
"Editing realities, yes, I see. Fascinating."
"Yeah. We're pretty much into hands-on, and practical work experience is key to Dwemer-based magic theory."
"Are you, by chance, hinting I should also find a manual labor job while I'm at Winterhold?"
"I suppose if that doesn't appeal, you could go the theoretical engineer route. No practical work experience, but a killer when it comes to conceptualization, design, theory, and other planning and calculations. Architecture. Composition. Nothing wrong with that, but definitely out of my teaching scope. I'm hands-on. Advanced theories put me to sleep. If you're smart enough to go the tonal architect route, go for it. But if you create another Numidium, I will personally put my pickax through your skull."
"I would deserve it. And despite such encouraging faith, I doubt I will ever have the skills to be a 'tonal architect,' whatever that is. No, no, I think I will be satisfied with whatever is the standard course. And councilor to the Emperor, that would be a nice way of putting a knife to the Thalmor. They won't ever threaten my family again." He was smiling now in a twisted way.
"Oh, hey, no need to go all-out crazy like your cousins." Curtis put a glass of juice and ground flax-seeds in his hand.
"I think that's a fairly realistic goal," Goranthir argued. "Isn't that what all this counseling is about? Goals?"
Curtis rolled his eyes. "Oh, man, your Dunmer blood is showing. Okay. Sure. Kill the first-born dragon son of the god of time. Redefine a global empire. Crush the Dominion. Make lots of money. What a House."
"House Mora. You are also a part of it. I am sure you have mad ambitions. That valley, and the gryphons, for example."
"Yeah, you got me. I got a large territory that needs development, and that costs money. So I'm building myself a tech empire to pay for it."
"And you and Severus-cerum wish to reclaim Vvardenfell for Morrowind. That's the talk I hear from the Dunmer. You want to take on a volcano, reclaim the Red Tower. How is that any less mad than my ambition?"
"Yeah. It's crazy. Guess I'm crazy." Curtis laughed. "House Mora, the little house on the Shivering Isles. We're all a little demented, a little manic." They both laughed.
"But, seriously, expect bad days. You spent a great deal of time having the world pound all that misery into you during prison. It's in every cell of your mind and body. There's a theory floating around that it takes seven years or so for all your cells to be renewed. Man, anyway. I'm not really sure about Mer. Maybe a decade or a dozen for us. And every day of that renewing, you gotta work on your belief that you're stronger, that you will get better.
"You gotta hammer that into every new cell. Temper all that with tears if you must, but you can't stop. It's hard, it's tiring, it's survival. Thank yourself at the end of each day for surviving it. You may not feel it, but it's important. Find a ritual you can do every day; make a picture of your dreams or a quote that summarizes your hopes — look at it or read it every day. Just go through the motions even if you don't feel like it.
"Make it a habit to say 'thank you' and 'hey, you made it another day.' Sounds stupid, but sometimes, being stupid is all you need to make that next step. 'Fools rushing in' and all that stuff. Being 'stupid' like a child. Innocent. Daring to believe that tomorrow will be better." He peered up at the Altmer, not laughing, not joking. "I know you've heard this from Ilya. She probably used different words."
"Certainly more militantly. She thinks in terms of military deployment," said Goranthir. "You think in terms of a smith. No, not quite a smith. A cook. A stew of ideas, but I understand what you're saying."
"Oh. Good." Curtis looked away, suddenly embarrassed. "Hope you know I wasn't preaching at you. And I'm sorry about the nagging. Nothing worse than feeling down and people trying to stuff you with their happy thoughts and advice when you're mentally and spiritually constipated."
Goranthir laughed. "Such a way to describe the condition. Yes, my diet's been bad, so my stomach's a little sensitive. Small bites is all I can handle. Nutritional little bites."
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