MOONCHILD
BY
LYLLY

Chapter Three: Return to Fantasia

"Not a revolt against legitimate authority, it was not even any radical reconstruction of the machinery of the state (though Burke always distrusted the wisdom and, even, the possibility of radical reformation), which made him the enemy of the revolution. He admits, in his Reflections, that such reconstruction was required, and would have had the Assembly set to work with an eye upon their old constitution to guide them, and, where that failed them, on the British constitution. What roused Burke’s passionate antagonism were the philosophy of the revolution and the spirit of the revolution. An abstract philosophy which seemed to him false to the fundamental facts of man’s moral and political nature. A spirit which he detested as the relentless enemy alike of liberty a religion-of that religion which alone can teach men to subordinate power to duty, to accept the mysterious dispensation which assigns to each of us his place in society, which alone can guide us in life..."

The incessant, neverending tone of the man standing motionless at the head of the classroom droned on and on and on, his tone never changing, the words of his lecture blending together till it seemed like one sound washing in and out of the ears of the group before him. His audience had lost interest over an hour ago. The students in the front row just sat up straight in cold, hard wooden chairs staring mutely at, but not really seeing, the blackboard, which at one time must have been a nice shade of dark green but was now a dull, sickly olive. Other people in the room were looking at the front of the room too. But their eyes were fixed as though fascinated by the thin line snailing its way from one little dot to the next located in between the numbers of the round clock that sat high on the wall in the far right hand corner of the room.

Bastian, sitting in the middle row, sat like the rest of his classmates in his uncomfortable chair, one arm propping his head up and his hand cupping one side of his face while the other held a pen that absentmindedly doodled in between notes located in his spiral notebook. The tips of his fingers had gone numb a half-hour beforehand owing to the fact that the heater, which was supposed to be keeping the classroom toasty, was broken yet again. His eyes, which were a dark brown, were glazed and slightly out of focus, his mouth slightly open as he sat stiffly cramped in his desk waiting for the bell to ring so he could go back home where it’s heater worked wonderfully. A very unpleasant chilliness had taken over the room, forcing it’s occupants, to either keep their coats on or, for those who didn’t have coats that day, shiver like icicles in desks that put blisters on their bottoms by the end of the two hour lesson.

Suddenly, a loud clanking sound broke the still air. Several people - including Bastian - jumped what seemed like ten feet into the air. Notebooks, pens, pencils, and some purses went tumbling to the floor. A few book bags were knocked over when their owners feet accidentally kicked them One boy was startled so much he lost his balance and slid out of his seat to the floor. When he tried to get up again, his foot got caught in the desk leg and he tripped, making both him and the lightweight desk topple to the floor with a loud bang! Everyone - minus the teacher - looked around to see what the cause of the loud clanking noise was. Groans of annoyance rose from the small crowed as their eyes fell upon the metal grate of the heater lying on the floor. Lots of heads shook in disgust and a few mutters of "not again" filled the room as everyone picked up their books, belongings, and-in the one boy’s case, his desk-and placed them back in their proper places. Bastion sighed and rolled his eyes. This was the fifteenth time this year in which not only had the heater broken down but it’s grate cover had fallen off.

Mr. Borander shuffled his notes and continued with his lecture as if nothing had happened:

"The argument is necessarily inconclusive, yet not without importance as establishing the fact that the success of the revolution was due to the skill with which its managers had succeeded in transferring unimpaired to the new government the authority of the old. This was just what the Assembly had failed to do; and, hence, the necessity for the authority of the guillotine and the sword..."

The minutes crawled by even more slowly then before. Noticing that the room was so silent that you could hear a pin drop, Mr. Borander glanced up from his notes to find half his students, gazing out the windows at the winter sky, while the other half were staring stupidly ahead, their eyes glazed and unfocused. A few in the back had even fallen asleep completely, their heads resting on arms folded or stretched out on the surfaces of the small individual desks. Pursing his lips in a fine line his brows narrowed in disgusted annoyance, Mr. Borander calmly put his notes into his breast pocket. He picked up a small metal stick that had a brass ball on the end, strode over to a small brass gong that hung on a nail low on the wall, pulled back the arm holding the brass balled stick, and

"BOONNNGGG!"

The reaction to the deafening sound was absolutely incredible. Every single one of the thirty-nine students sat bolt upright in the seats, their bodies rapped with attention as though they’d been electrocuted. The entire room sat so straight they resembled well-trained soldiers in boot camp. Satisfied that he now had his students undivided attention. Mr. Borander resumed his place in front of the blackboard and pulled his notes out again and went on with his lecture.

I can’t believe I decided to take this class, Bastian thought, mentally kicking himself, What was I thinking of? I never would have imagined it to turn out to be the most boring subject in the world! Oh, I’m learning about the history of books and stuff all right but I just HAD to get the most boring teacher in the school! His stomach gave a low growl making its owner give himself another mental kick for oversleeping which resulted in him not only having to rush around the house like a chicken with its head cut off, but to end up missing breakfast for the second time that week. The edge of Bastion’s mouth twitched in a small smile as visions of waffles stacked atop one another their middles soft and warm with melted butter, their crisp edges dripping with maple syrup. He could almost hear the sizzle of sausage links frying in the skillet on the stove, the fat from the plumping browning meat hissing in the Crisco-coated pan and see the plate of biscuits and sausage gravy sitting on the counter beside the stove. He remembered how the table looked the previous Saturday morning: the square wooden table held a large pitcher of orange juice, jars of strawberry jam, blackberry preserves and orange marmalade, along with a box of raisons stood huddled together in the center of the table. A saucer plate held a small mountain of toast; the casserole dish full of scrambled eggs with specks of green onion and black pepper in them stood beside the platter of bacon and sausage links. He could see his father, Barney, clearly in his mind ladling oatmeal containing both brown and white sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg from a large pot on the stove into bowls while his stepmother Jane retrieved the gallon jug of milk from the fridge...

"Mr. Bux!"

Bastian was suddenly jarred out of his daydream to find Mr. Borander standing beside his desk, looking down at him with ill patience reflected in his eyes.

"Wha?" Bastian stared up at his teacher wondering why he was standing next to him.

"I asked you, to tell me what roused Mr. Burke’s passionate antagonism."

"Uh...Waffles?"

The entire class exploded with laughter and Bastian wished he stayed home in bed today. Mr. Borander’s nostrils flared with anger as he glared down at his student.

"No wonder you were late for class again Mr. Bux! You were relishing in the aftermath of your breakfast on you way here."

"Um, not exactly sir, I um, uh, missed breakfast this morning."

To his relief, nothing came from the remainder of the class. A lot of them knew what it was like to miss a meal if they were rushing around or late for something. Mr. Borander was not at all impressed.

"Since Mr. Bux fails to know the answer to my question," he said loudly, making Bastian rub his forehead in attempt to ward off an oncoming headache, "who can tell me the correct response?"

The room fell silent.

Mr. Borander paced the room, walking up and down the rows of desks like a sergeant. "Anybody?"

A hand rose in the air.

Every head in the room turned toward the middle row. A young woman with light auburn hair cut in a bob wearing a short, slightly flared black skirt, with a white blouse, a vest that matched her skirt, dark knee-length nylons, and loafers was sitting in the seat next to Bastian. It was Crystiana, the smartest - and prettiest girl - in the class.

Bastian took one look at her and was so embarrassed he went purple.

"Yes?"

"The answer is that it was the philosophy of the revolution and the spirit of the revolution. An abstract philosophy which seemed to him false to the fundamental facts of man’s moral and political nature. A spirit which he detested as the relentless enemy alike of liberty a religion. Of that religion which alone can teach men to subordinate power to duty, to accept the mysterious dispensation which assigns to each of us his place in society, which alone can guide us in life as well as in death."

"Very good, thank you Crystiana." Mr. Borander turned, glowering at the rest of the class. "Well, why are you not all copying this down?"

There was a sudden silence as notes were quickly copied onto paper and the bell that rung twenty minutes later couldn’t have been more of a welcome.

Bastian, still very red in the face, gratefully gathered up his things and, stiff limbed from sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair-desk for two hours, left the freezing cold room.

Bastian, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, frowned in concentration as he moved the tip of his pen down the page of his textbook as he searched for anything that would help him write the essay Mr. Borander had assigned to him. Because he had not known the answer to Mr. Borander’s question that day he had been given extra homework - the only one out of the whole class to receive any that week.

It was well past midnight and he had been sitting at his desk for what seemed like hours. A large, heavy hardback text book: A Complete History of Literature by Melinda OcHanson opened up in front of him and he still hadn’t been able to find a single thing so far that would help him with this report.

The augmented office desk that had once belonged to his late mother was not in its usual chipper condition. Instead of it being neat and orderly, the sleek, shiny, dark mahogany wood surface now had scattered pieces of half if not barely started paragraphs of the essay its owner was trying so hard to write. Textbooks for his other classes: Math and Zoology - lay stacked on top of one another at the back of the desk against the wall. A piece of paper was sticking out between the pages of his mathematics textbook - Bastion had been working on it earlier that afternoon - while a bottle of white - out stood next to a mug of coffee - now gone cold - which was residing above the textbook that he was reading.

He wished he could have used the computer to type up his essay but he knew that Mr. Borander would just throw it away the instant he received it. For he believed that computers were a waste of time and the ‘kids now-a-days’ no longer knew how to write out things longhand. So he insisted that all assignments - no matter what they were - was to be written neatly in longhand. If a student dared to type up their homework or did not write tidily, Mr. Borander would scold him or her loudly during class and make that person do the assignment all over again. If he was in an especially bad mood - and one had to watch what one said or did around him for his temper was quite short - he just simply threw the paper away and give that person a zero.

None of the students liked Mr. Borander for he was the most boring teacher in the world. He was a tall, sallow-skinned man with dark gray hair cut in military style, small beady eyes, a slightly hooked nose and as skinny as a beanpole - if not skinnier. Along with this came a temper so short that if you dared to argue or prove him wrong you would get extra work faster then you could howl "unfair!" How he’d managed to get a teaching job let alone hold keep it for over twenty years was anyone’s guess. His lectures were so boring that the entire class was in a zombie-like torpor twenty minutes into the lesson. What mad it even more dull that his voice never wavered It never went high or low or showed any emotion at all - unless of course he was irritated or something along those lines.

It was bad enough that Mr. Borander’s lectures were duller then a month of detention but what was worse was the homework he gave out. All he did was tell the class what the lesson was or to copy it off the board but he never explained exactly what you had to do. He never went over the homework with the class and got irritated or annoyed if questions were asked. If you missed the day the homework was given out, he would snap at you telling you to get it from another student. About once a month he would give a test and he only gave the students two days to study for it. If you were late for class, had appointments, or were sick on test days you instantly received a zero - no questions asked and every two weeks he liked to throw in a pop quiz - that like the tests - had the hardest questions imaginable.

The pen paused at the head of a paragraph that looked promising. Bastian picked up his small, round glasses which lay folded neatly on the desk near his books and put them on for the eye doctor reported at the end of last year that he needed them for reading, writing longhand, and proofreading. He then began to read and, after he was satisfied with his findings, began to finally write his essay.

He had been writing steadily for about an hour when a sensation came over him-a prickly feeling that surged through his veins making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something-a little voice inside his head told him-was wrong. He could feel as if someone or something was watching him from behind. Very slowly he turned his head to look behind. He found himself staring at the full-length mirror that was on the inner side of the open closet door. His eyes widened with shock at what he saw. He did not, as he had expected, see his reflection. Instead he found himself staring at a clearing surrounded by trees with a patch of smooth dirt in the center and in the distance, just beyond this clearing, lay a smooth landscape of pale tan colored grass blowing, it seemed without a ripple, in a gentle light breeze.

Confused and utterly perplexed, Bastion removed his glasses, put them in the back pocket of his jeans, got up and slowly walked toward the mirror, his movements careful and unsure. Standing in front of the glass he looked at the scene before him and a chill ran down his spine making him shiver slightly.

"The Great Plains..." he croaked out, his voice no more then a whisper. "But how...? Why?" As his very confused brain tried to find answers to these questions his hand was reaching out to touch the mirror hoping to find some solution to this enigma. The tips of his fingers met the smooth, cool glass. But before his mind could even comprehend what he was doing, before he could think at all, there was a soft whooshing sound and he suddenly pulled into the mirror in a whirl of cool, fast, wind and blending color.

Wham!

Bastian landed flat on his stomach so hard the wind was knocked out of him. He lay there, his face pressed into the ground, with his arms outstretched, gasping for breath as he breathed in the smell of rich, damp earth. His heart was pounding away in his chest as if it were a very fast drum. After about five minutes or so he tried to move but couldn’t for he winced as he realized every bone in his body was aching more now then it did when he was sitting crammed in his small desk of his History of Literature class. Too stiff and sore to even think about moving again, he raised his head and found himself looking up at a clear blue sky through the branches of what appeared to be a very old oak tree. It’s dark green leaves moved gracefully as a light wind rustled them against one another on their fragile, slender limbs. Chirps of birds could be heard sporadically as they conversed to one another in song. What resembled a squirrel scampered along one of the upper branches of the oak, then stopped as it noticed the figure lying on the ground. It cocked its little head to one side, the deep, dark, round eyes blinked as a ray of sunshine shone through the branches of a nearby sycamore, dappling the ground with warm, pale golden light. A soft crunching sound, like twigs or dead leaves being stepped upon startled the little squirrel so much that it gave an agitated, high-pitched squeak and scurried out of sight.

Glancing to one side, Bastian found himself gazing at a young deer - a buck - standing calmly behind a small bush at one edge of the glade. It stood there, its eyes wide, its ears pricked up and alert as it listened, watched for a minute or so for signs or sounds of danger. Then, after receiving the silent reassurance that this was no predator, the deer came slowly into view as it entered the glade on long slender legs. Gracefully the buck made its way across the glade, its head bent slightly as it searched the ground for food. As it passed Bastian, whose head moved as he watched this creature with fascination, it paused to look at him. The liquid darkness of its eyes taking in the human that lay facedown in the dirt. Bastion just gazed back at the buck musing as his own eyes took in the sleekness of its soft smooth fur, the long slim legs and delicate little hooves. The antlers arched over the buck’s perfect little ears like a crown, the wee tail, streaked with a stripe of white, twitched as the two species, neither moving a muscle, held each other’s gaze. After a short while the buck moved onwards, stopping at the outskirts of the forest where the vast wide plains lay.

Bastian propped his head on folded arms and, with a small smile, watched the buck as it began to feast on the juicy wheat colored grass growing at the edge of the forest.

Suddenly, the buck’s head jerked up as it stepped back as though startled. It’s whole body quivered violently as it backed up quickly, its head moving from side to side on its long, slender neck. Whirling around the animal nearly trampled Bastian, who covered his head to avoid two pairs of hooves cracking his skull, dashing from the clearing as if it’s cute little tail had been caught on fire, and disappeared into the safety of the thick, dense forest. Bastian, after he tentatively removing his hands from the top of his head, had barely enough time to look up to see what had startled the poor creature, when, out of nowhere, an arrow came whizzing in his direction through the air like a bolt of lightning.

"Agggghhh!" Bastian thought for sure that he was going to have a heart attack. While franticly trying to scramble to his feet so he could get out of the line of fire, his sneakers slipped on some dead leaves resulting in him crashing facedown on the ground once more. He felt a rush of wind as the arrow went flying over his head, making a few of his hairs stand up on end, to land in some bushes behind him. His poor nerves didn’t even have the time to recover from the shock when their possessor spotted a second arrow, headed the same way, in the distance. Without giving himself time to think, Bastian rolled over and over till he made contact with the trunk of a tree. Flatting himself back up against the base of the trunk, he watched in horror as the arrow moved closer and closer. His eyes, already wide as teacup saucers, nearly popped out of their sockets as he gave a little shuddering gulp when the tip of the arrow landed smack dab between his outstretched legs in the dirt. Inches, it seemed, from his crotch.

This was all too much for him to take in at one time. His eyes rolled back in his head as he keeled right over, letting his body slump sideways and tumble over one last time onto his belly as he went into what was close to a dead faint on the forest floor. He lay there on the ground for what seemed like an eternity, feeling the pounding in his head like a jackhammer beating down on his skull, as his breathing slowly became normal. He buried his face in the crook of his arm feeling cold sweat on his forehead. The sound of hoof beats reached his ears but he was still too much in shock to do anything except lie there.

Then a voice from overhead broke the still air:

"Damn." Then, "Bastian? What are you doing here?"

Bastian slowly flipped over onto his back to find himself staring into the face of a white horse, whose hot, smelly breath bore down into his face, standing over him. There was silence as his frazzled brain fought to work properly again.

"Ar...Artax?"

The horse let out a brief whinny as it moved beside him and the next thing, which came into view, was a young man with long dark brown hair. He was clad in pale tan garments that looked as if they had been made from buffalo hide. He sat there on his horse staring down at the eighteen-year-old with a look of astonishment and surprise mirrored in his eyes.

Bastian’s face cracked into a dazed but very relived smile, "Fancy meeting you here Atreyu." He struggled to his feet wincing once more as he brushed dirt off his clothes while he watched as Atreyu rode his horse next to the trunk of the sycamore before climbing off Artax to retrieve his fallen arrow.

"You all right?"

"Atreyu! That thing nearly scalped me!"

"Sorry, I wasn’t aiming for you. I was aiming for the tree."

Bastian shook his head in disgust as he watched the warrior put the arrow back into the quiver that was slung over one shoulder. "Well, you could have aimed better you know." His voice held a hint of sarcasm.

"You would not happen to know where the other arrow is would you?"

"Yeah. It’s back there in the bushes."

Atreyu looked curiously at his friend as he returned with his other arrow, "Bastian," he asked slowly, "What in the name of Fantasia are you doing here? How did you get here?"

Bastian let out a huge sigh and rubbed his grimy face with both hands. "I don’t know why I’m here Atreyu, I honestly don’t. All I know is that I was writing an essay for my History of Literature class when I felt like something was wrong. I turned around to look in the mirror in my bedroom and instead of seeing my refection I saw the glade that we’re in now. So I got up from my desk to take a better look. My fingers reached out to touch the glass of the mirror and they had barely made contact when the room melted away in a whirl of wind and color. Next thing I know I’m lying flat on my face in this glade which happens to be the same clearing I had been looking at in my mirror."

"Hmm. Well, in any case it is good to see you again. Maybe you needed what you humans call a vacation."

Bastian grinned, "Maybe."

Atreyu swung himself up onto Artax’s back. "I’m heading back to my village now." He held out a hand, "Would you like to come along?"

"I have nothing better to do."

Atreyu laughed, Bastian joined in his laugher as he clambered on the steed to sit behind his best friend.

They had been ambling through the vast stretch of pale gold grass for some time when Atreyu abruptly pulled Artax’s reins taunt.

"What is it? Why are we stopping?"

"Look." Atreyu whispered. His arm raised to point in the direction ahead of them.

"Where?" Bastian peered over Atreyu’s shoulder, thoroughly confused.

"There, ahead of us."

"I don’t see anything."

"Look carefully. There’s something in the distance moving this way..."

Bastian put his hand up to his forehead to shield the sunlight from his face. His eyes narrowed as he strained to look in the shadows of a small mountain. The heat from the sun was bearing down on top of his head, threatening to trigger a headache. He dropped his arm to his side.

"Atreyu, my friend, I think you need to have your eyes checked. Cause I’m telling you I don’t see anything moving."

"I swear to you I saw something---"

"The only thing that’s moving are the leaves of the trees blowing in the wind! Either you’re hallucinating or your eyesight’s---"

"Shhh," Atreyu clapped a hand over Bastian’s mouth, "can you hear something?"

Bastion let out a groan of frustration and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand, "Oh, My God, Atreyu! You need to see a psychiatrist! I seriously think this heat’s fried your brain!" He leaned forward to take the reins, "Come on, let’s go."

"No! We stay here for now."

"What! Stay here? Are you crazy or something? We need to get to your village before dark you know."

Atreyu turned around to face him. "We can take our time. I did not say we had to be there tonight."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a sec," Bastian put up his hands, "I am not about to go traipsing throughout the wilderness in the dark!"

"We can rest for the night."

"Where? I don’t see any motels around do you?" Atreyu gave him a blank stare - one Bastian ignored. "There is no way I’m sleeping on the ground again!"

"You did not mind it the last time you were visiting me in Fantasia when we went on one of my hunts together."

"That didn’t mean I liked it! I froze my ass off all night and my back was killing me by the time I got up at the crack of dawn - which by the way you insisted we do!"

"I wanted to get an early start."

"Four in the morning is not my idea of an early start! Besides, you should know by now I am not a morning person like somebody I know!" Bastian buried his face in his hands, shaking his head in disbelief. First Mr. Borander’s class and the senseless extra homework, then having not one but two arrows nearly skewer him, now this! An exasperated sigh escaped him. It was turning out to be ‘one of those days’.

Atreyu said nothing, just shook his head, grinning to himself.

Bastian removed his hands from his face before giving a sheepish smile back. "By the way, when do we eat? I’m so hungry I could eat a-"

A crunching sound made them both jump. Atreyu pulled back on the reins to make Artax move forward then stop. Both young men stared intensely straight ahead.

"Atreyu, did you hear that?"

The warrior nodded.

Something indeed was moving towards them. Its body was cloaked in shadow as the creature made its way swiftly down the steep path alongside the base of the mountain. Tense minutes passed as whatever it was neared the shadowy edge of the hill. It stopped and looked straight at the two people sitting astride the horse. Bastian’s heart was thumping. What exactly was it? Would it attack? All he could see was the outline of a long, lean four-legged furry animal.

Suddenly Artax whinnied as he backed away nervously, Atreyu had to pull back hard on the hose’s reins to keep it under control. "Artax! What in Fantasia’s name is wrong with you?"

Bastian had to cling to Atreyu’s waist to keep from falling off. "What... The...Hell--?" He caught sight of the thing in the shadows. His breath caught in his throat as he let out an audible gasp. "Oh, My God..."

The wolf shot towards them at lightning speed, its paws barely touching the ground as it propelled itself forward. Five feet from the miniscule group it skidded to a halt then, in an instant, transformed into a person. Shocked by this, Artax reared up on his hind legs whinnying like mad. His master had to dig his heels into his side to calm him down. Bastian let out a yell of surprise as he grabbed the saddle just in time to keep himself from slipping.

"Artax!" Atreyu shouted, "Heel!" Jumping from his steed’s back he grabbed some mane then gently but firmly pulled at it causing the horse to settle down. The Great Plains warrior’s eyes flashed angrily as they fixed on the newcomer. "Who are you? What are you doing here and what do you want with---?"

The person, a girl in her mid to late teens, with deep hazel eyes, a lithe olive-complexioned body and a mane of long dark hair, which fell in a straight sheet almost to her waist, cut his questions off. "Are you Atreyu?"

Dark brows knitted suspiciously, "Yes I am. Why do you ask?"

"You must come to the Ivory Tower immediately! I was informed to find and lead you there at once. Her Royal Highness the Empress Moonchild wants to see you. She says it’s very important!"

Every muscle in Atreyu’s body tensed. Moonchild...The Empress herself...

It was all he could do to keep from staggering backwards. Dazed, he wandered away from the others, lost in thought. He could vaguely hear Bastian talking to the girl as if from far away. He stopped when he was out of earshot, his mind reeling from shock. Moonchild...Moonchild. It had been years since he last saw her: right after the Nothing had destroyed everything in Fantasia but the Ivory Tower.

He could remember as though it were yesterday how he had, battered and bruised from his recent fight with Grmork, slowly walked up the curricular steps of the Magnolia Pavilion, passed thought the entrance expecting to find guards there, only to find himself face to face with the Empress herself. Atreyu bowed his head, biting his lower lip as his mind once again brought forth the memory of her frail body sitting so still yet confidant upon her bed-like throne.

In his mind’s eye he could still vividly see her features: Skin, pale as the Ivory Tower itself, due to her terminal illness, looked smooth and unblemished. Eyes resembling azure jewels gazed upon his battle-worn body out of sunken-in sockets ringed with dark circles. Soft lips, which were as colorless as her skin, enhanced her loveliness whenever she smiled at him. Hair the shade of chestnuts was held back from her face in a simple, refined manner. The sliminess of her little body had been draped entirely in ivory satin and lace so white it made the room look dim in comparison.

His eyes opened as he shivered. For even after so long he still could not get her out of his head. He had tried not to think about her for her beauty had been haunting him ever since that fateful day. Now, after all this time, he was going to see her again. His hands clenched into fists as he fought back more images of her. Images of how she might appear now. Atreyu had heard about the aging process and how it would affect both the Empress and Fantasia, but still he did not know exactly how she would look today. Of course she would be beautiful, but in what way? That was what he did not know.

He had pondered over this question from time to time but did not dare dwell on it too long. For the mere thought of seeing her, even in his mind, made him feel as if he were surly going to go mad. For from the moment he had lain eyes on her, a tiny flame had sputtered to life within his heart. Still, try as he might to extinguish it that little flame refused to be put out. As the days, weeks, and moths melted into years, as he slowly made the outward and inward change from boy to man, he had to mentally tell himself to get her out of his mind. It was important for him to let things be, as they should. Atreyu knew he must do his hardest to not think of the one person in all of Fantasia who must be thought of only as a ruler instead of someone he could cherish let alone love. ‘Twas nae right for a mere commoner such as himself to think of the Empress as someone he could fall in love with rather then being just another admirer looking upon her as though she were nothing more then a fragile figurine who could easily shatter into a thousand pieces if touched upon.

Footsteps came from just behind and he nearly leapt out of his skin. He turned to find Bastian staring at him.

"You ready to go?"

"Huh? Oh, yes...of course I am." Atreyu started to move past him when the eighteen-year-old put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"Hey...are you ok?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"Are you sure? You seem kinda out of it."

"I assure you there is nothing wrong with me." Bastian gave him a look that plainly said, "Yeah, Right." But since he trusted his friend, he let the matter go. Reaching Artax, he hoisted himself up onto the horse then looked back to where Atreyu was still standing.

"You coming?"

"Yes." Shaking himself mentally, Atreyu ran back to where Artax stood with the human boy sitting astride him. Swinging himself into the saddle, he addressed the girl, "Lead the way."

The girl nodded, turned back into the wolf and, with the horse, human, and warrior in tow, led the way back to the Ivory Tower. Back to the Empress.