I really hate to do this.
Arthur stood in the nursery, before him row upon row of sick children lay sleeping, covered only by a think white sheet and a feverish sweat. The room was quiet, but by no means still, constantly disturbed by the restless children turning over in bed, breathing uneasily, and occasionally coughing. The air was quite uneasy, and thickly coated in a scent Arthur knew all too well- the scent of death.
But this is no way for children to live.
The Englishman untucked a brown leather bound book from his arm and leaved through the yellowing pages, stopping at a page marked XXXII. With one final glance at the children, he took a breath- or maybe it was a sigh- and began to read softly:
"Unde nullum vestigium remanet tuam delere memoriam Fictione moueor substitue Obliviscatur mei, cum tu non obliviscar Et certe quod cor familia conecti..."
Arthur closed his eyes a moment, the taste of his last words still lingering on his tongue. The room had grown still, like a child gone to sleep after a long day.
After an eternity of several seconds, Arthur opened his eyes. He was alone in the nursery. Before him, row after row of empty beds lay, still warm from the bodies of sick children who had been sleeping there moments before...
