The Wolf Ballet || WW2

23. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Twenty-Three

There was an uncertainty that carried out into Arthur's mind as he ran out into the barren land. The internal battle between his conscience and pride.

Why did he care so much?

Had his guilt finally condemned him of his evil doings?

Why was he going far in ensuring this one girl survived?

He fought to catch his breath as he was beginning to feel the torment of the heavy snowfall. The freezing touch of Mother Earth. He was aware of the possibility of the girl not being out there—but the slight chance that she was made it impossible for him to leave it alone.

Scanning the fields he tried to make out any living figure but the storm's winds were eye-blinding. Endless snow covered the dirt land, making it out to be any icey hell. Pushing forward, he began looking into every ditch. Every place marks where the chambers would one day eventually stand. With every plot, Arthur could feel himself begin to lose patience.

"OPHELIA!" The Nazi called out but to no avail.

"God dammit," he gritted, "OPHELIA!"

Arthur's concerns only grew with the solace that drifted through the fields. Occasionally he'd run across a body, but it wouldn't be hers. Their frozen bodies looked as if they merely fell asleep but unlike Arthur's their breathing never materialized with signs of life. With every corpse he'd dig out from the snow, Arthur could feel himself come to sight with what hindered his soundness of mind. There was so many so them—so many people.

"Where are you girl?" his green eyes spanned over the horizon.

Was he going insane? He had to ask himself as he swore he overheard a startling symphony of bells. Aligned with the breezing of snowflakes the bells rang out in the distance. He could feel the air press against his back as he hesitated in following the unusual sound of music. His eyes liked back to the towers, no bells or siren seemed to be playing. Was this all just another slip of into insanity?

"Wha—" Arthur tore off his hat, slamming it into the ground as he covered his ears. He denied the existence of the music, denied the invasion of visions that played in his mind. The images of the theater coming into play. The vague glimpse of the crowd standing in ovation. The bowing figure on the stage. The girl from the Play, Ophelia, hiding behind the bouquet of stemmed roses. Films he had watched out curiosity now haunted his consciousness as he remembered the events that lead to its destruction. The day he marched into Poland and blew up the theater—it was him. The men and women he walked over to reach its high walls. The memories of windows shattering and guns sparking at the entrance of the building. Tearing down the Polish flag, he himself was responsible for unleashing mayhem on the ballet's proprietor. Arthur groaned unable to drown out the provoking sounds of the music.

"Ugggh!" He groaned one last time, before removing his ears and allowing the music to completely consume him. It was then that he eventually felt the wind release its relentless hold over the snow. Alleviating the harsh conditions that forbade him from finding the last ditch.

Arthur allowed his eyes to lift, as the fall of the snow lightened and the final chimney appeared before him. Arthur inhaled, his eyes barely catching sight of a hand peering out from one of the holes in the ground.

"Ophelia," he whispered.

Standing up, Arthur jumped into the trench and dug out the rest of Ophelia's body from under the snow. Her skin was blue in color, but Arthur could feel the beating of her heart pulsate to her neck.

Tearing off his black leather coat, Arthur wrapped it around the girl before hooking his arms under her knees and arms. He felt Ophelia stir, uttering weakly into his ear, in a language he somewhat understood. Arthur looked down at Ophelia and sighed, knowing now where she was actually from.