A ghost is all that's left
Of everything we swore we never would forget
We tried to bleed the sickness
But we drained our hearts instead
We are the dead
A ghost of everything we thought but never said
We tried to bleed the sickness
But we drained our hearts instead
We are the ones who lost our faith
We dug ourselves an early grave
We are the dead, can we be saved?
—All That's Left, Thrice
Chapter Four: Can We Be Saved
____________________________
The Lower Elements, Frond's Memorial Grounds, Haven City
The headstone was new; the limestone gleamed, shining.
Bole Davison Brooklime. 1906-2003. A unfaltering warrior who fought to the end. His courage will not be forgotten.
There were too many other monuments in the cemetery. Too many new ones; polished stone and fresh candles and gifts from mourners. The cemetery was almost empty; other grievers had gone home, leaving a small group behind at this one unadorned headstone.
The group stood in silence. It was a medley of fairies; several elves, gnomes, a sprite, and a centaur with unattractive bald spots on his hindquarters.
The oldest elf shook his head sadly; the gray buzz cut shaking slightly. He draped a well-worn LEP uniform on the gravestone. "Bole fought to the end."
Commander Root's tone was gruff, but it did not hide the anguish that he felt.
"He died fighting," added Foaly. "It's what he would have wanted."
"Fighting?" Trouble gave a short laugh, one that had no mirth in it. Holly shivered; hearing her fellow captain like this was unnerving.
"Fighting?" Trouble repeated. "What? This wasn't a glorious battle he would have been proud of—he was delirious, foaming at the mouth in a hospital bed!"
"Trouble," said his little brother Grub. There were tears in his eyes. "Stop."
But Trouble was not finished. "D'arvit! What is going on here? His magic should have stopped it—all the others should have lived, don't you understand, first it's Bole, and my ma has it too—"
Grub looked at his brother, the most spirited and courageous captain in the LEP, completely break down into hysterical sobs.
Holly felt the tears slide down her cheek. Her last mission—partnered with Trouble—had been a failure. There had been no trace of Trasovan or the bodies, and Trouble had been moody the whole time. They had returned to Haven dejected, to find that Bole had died the night before in the hospital.
Holly's vision blurred; she wiped the tears from her face. There had just been too many deaths from the bizarre sicknesses.
"Holly. We should go," said a voice beside her.
Holly shook herself and looked up, to find that they had already left. Only Foaly remained, watching, his chestnut tail swinging.
"I don't get it either, Foaly," said Holly. "Why haven't they found a cure yet?"
Foaly didn't meet her eyes. "Most likely because there isn't one."
"Nothing—nothing like this has ever happened to the People! We've never gotten sick, or had a plague—D'arvit, what is this thing? How are we supposed to fight it?" asked Holly. Her hazel eyes shone bright. Give her an enemy and a gun, and Captain Holly Short knew exactly what to do. Against an invisible sickness that attacked without warning, in all races and ages—Holly was lost. The riot yesterday had given her buzz baton more use than she cared to remember, and the masses of distraught relatives of the sick were overwhelming, demanding that the Council, the LEP, do something.
"I really don't know, Holly. I don't know."
Author's Notes: Is that all? No…I'm still writing this chapter. Just putting this up here to keep you all happy for now. I will update soon—most likely today with the rest of this chapter. Review! (Otherwise some toast is getting ready to be flung.) And then, go read my MWPP fluff. (I still have no reviews for Happy Family. Boo.)
Part Two: The Black Cat.