It was a little too much.

Or it was too too much.

Ophelia had no idea what sort of place she was in. All she remembered was coming around in the port of a city - in a sack of cinnamon. Her head throbbed, her sword was intact, her clothes were all there, but her feet were bare. She had sliced her way out of the sack and brushed off the cinnamon as best as she could from her robes, groggily stumbling and walking on her sore feet.

And then the surprises had begun.

It was January, but the place was so warm that she had had to abandon her cloak. Sneaking out of the port, she had no idea how she had got into, Ophelia had discovered that this place was not Idgard.

It simply was not.

Everybody was black haired here. And the skin complexions varied from milky hues to the darkest shade of rain clouds. Nobody spoke the Vedessan tongue - they had a language of their own. And they tried helping her, offering clothes - which were most unlike what she wore - and eatables. Though her stomach ached with hunger and she felt fatigued, she had declined those.

How could Ophelia take them? She had no currency!

That was only part of the reason she was as nettled as she was currently, trudging down the market lane of the city with the jostling crowds of sweet smelling women with flowers braided into their hairdos. Ophelia was feeling sick. Perhaps homesick. And she was, not without reason, confused.

Until last night, she had definitely been in Idgard. And had lied down to sleep, and had been thinking of going down to her parents' chambers just to see if they were discussing her. But before she could contemplate more on the idea, she had fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber - waking from which, she was here. Here, a place which she did not even know the name of.

Was that even last night?

She felt a time longer than twelve hours had elapsed in her unconscious state. The sun, of course, felt hotter than a January one, and her surroundings didn't seem winter-like.

And then those stupid bandits had accosted her. Apparently, they had wanted her ring, all her ornaments and her cloak. That was just as well, Ophelia had given them broken bones, hundreds of wounds they were free to lick and a lesson they wouldn't forget anytime too soon. But perhaps all her father would have had to comment on it was that she had taken longer for it than she should have.

The comment would be more than welcome, but where was he? Where was everybody? Where was she?!

Ophelia looked over the heads of the jostling crowd, and they seemed to grow bigger and bigger. Everybody was talking but she couldn't understand a word of it. Crushes of pretty girls passed her, and then battalions of potbellied, middle-aged men. Time and again, Ophelia wondered if she would attract more unwanted attention - a sword strapped to her belt, and her robes being nothing like theirs. If she was too old to feel that way, she didn't care at all - Ophelia wanted to be back with her parents - and it was silly, but that was the first thing one thought of when lost.

She walked on for a little more than half an hour, because stopping, with the rushing crowds at her back, was next to impossible. And then, as the hurried talks around her grew louder, she spotted a man staring at her. The "spotting" part had come easy to her, having a spy for a mother - but the spy being one like Alexandra, Ophelia's findings were more often than not, signals for trouble. Both her parents had a grave penchant for trouble.

But just the sight of this one made Ophelia's heart leap. He was blonde! Utterly blonde, his skin tone as pale as her, his eyes dark but there was no mistaking it - in the crowd of black haired masses, he was a blonde - and he was staring at her as though he couldn't believe his eyes.

After their eyes met, they both rushed towards each other, and stopped at the same time, at an arm's length. They faced each other, Ophelia's back to a store, calculating - trying to understand what was going on.

But even before Ophelia could smile, and open her mouth - the man showed uncovered hostility. He grabbed her by the neck - or perhaps the jaw, she wasn't sure which - and pushed her back with brute force against the store's wall. Around them, men and women shrieked and leaped away from them - an scuffle in broad daylight between two of foreign appearance ... nobody wanted to be a part.

The man was unperturbed. He had a modest appearance, by no means excessively pleasing to the eye, in spite of that, he was quite an important man in the place - as much was sure. People knew him, a few tried to feebly point out how such atrocity, against a woman, was unbecoming of his stature. Ophelia could have kicked them - and the man too - had she not been so astonished. A man, all of a sudden, grabbing her by the throat and pushing her against a wall ... why, she didn't need another inch of proof that this wasn't Vedessa. Or any nearby kingdom.

'You are a cardinal.' He announced, and Ophelia had no idea what "cardinal" meant. Despite that, she was a tad bit pleased to hear words in her own language at last. 'Say, are you from Doveland? Or is it Cartania? Vedessa?'

That was when Ophelia realized how far from Vedessa she actually was. There were Westerners, who lived in countries to the west of Cartania. And there were Easterners, who lived in countries east of Vedessa. Cardinal meant nothing other than belonging to the center of the globe, neither east, nor west. And examples of cardinal countries were - what the man had pointed out.

And the mere fact that he was asking her this, meant that she was either in the east, or in the west. As far from Idgard as she could even dream of being.

But that did not mean any Tom, Dick or Harry could pass her in a street and pin her back by the neck. After the two shocks abated, she was filled with a calm brimming over to anger, she pushed her knee upwards, against his gut - a classic move she had seen her mother perform with an ease she couldn't replicate yet. But it more than sufficed, the blonde man's grip loosened, he doubled over - and that was all Ophelia needed. Before he knew a thing, he was on the ground - a blade's perfectly sharp end not more than an inch away from his neck.

'Vedessa,' she confirmed, 'and just so you know, we do not enjoy being manhandled.'

This time, the crowd was more than alarmed - the man was important, because quite a few other men rushed to his rescue. Ophelia did not mind dealing with them too, she was at the end of her patience. But he raised his hand, in a gesture declining interruption.

'If you would kindly remove the swor-' He then began, addressing her.

'Make me do it.' She challenged, and her eyes must have been bloodshot with intensity.

'Alright then, by all means, keep me pinned to the ground for all eternity. But I am very sure that you are lost.'

Because it was true, and because she didn't want to give him the confirmation, Ophelia chose to remain quiet.

'And you have a lingering scent of Cinnamon. We trade in it, you see. I am Jack Lucas, and am Vedessan too. In name, at least, for I have lived my whole life here. This is Theronsia, young lady. And we are but Vedessan traders.' He continued, quite calmly.

Her parents would have disowned her for it, but Ophelia actually dropped her sword. It fell loose from her grip for a millisecond before she grasped it once again. Jack Lucas. His father was the wealthiest merchant of Vedessa - settled in Theronsia, having a huge business worth ... worth something quite large, as far as she knew. He had a Theronsian mother, an elder sister fluttering about in Theronsia's elite society and attracting tons of men she wasn't interested in. He had told her all of that - in letters one after the other, that took half a month to arrive, even by pigeons. And in return she had told him just as much about her own personal life.

The luck that she had met him with was secondary. How was she in Theronsia?!

'Jack Lucas.' Ophelia repeated, and she couldn't help smiling, the situation being so dire and incomprehensible that it was almost funny. 'You know who I am?' She asked, helping him up.

Of course he did not. Had he known, he wouldn't have done what he had and wouldn't have got what he had got.

'It sounds funny ... and impossible,' she began.

'Nothing is impossible in Theronsia.' He interjected. And Ophelia closed her eyes to take a deep breath.

'This is. Jack, I am Ophelia.'

It took him a moment to locate the name, for it had been six months since they had shared a letter. But he finally did, and his jaw dropped.

'That's it. I am Ophelia,' she repeated, and was thankful that she hadn't allowed those robbers to get her ring. She extended her hand to show it to him - and had never seen an expression as blatantly dumbstruck as Jack's. 'Heir of Idgard.'

And then Jack did the most appropriate, but the most embarrassing thing to do in a street full of people. All his importance and popularity evaporating, he went down on a knee, his head bowed and gaze lowered, 'I beg your pardon, My Lady.'

The crowds were having the most pleasant of days, with so much of an episode unfolding before their eyes. Many had stopped to look on, after a choke, a sword-point chat and then finally apologies, to where the richest person in town was kneeling to a disheveled woman - what better amusement could there have been.

'Please Jack!' Ophelia exclaimed, pulling him up, 'I haven't come trekking to Theronsia! I am lost! And pray tell me it is January twenty fifth today!' She was not finding anything funny now.

Jack Lucas first waved away the crowd, somewhat irritated, and then he turned back to her, looking confused. 'It is twelfth February, Princess Ophelia.'

She had been unconscious for nineteen days.

Nineteen days. Nineteen days.

Ophelia was feeling delirious. 'How...' she ventured.

'It takes a nineteen day long voyage from Idgard to Theronsia. And I do know you are not here for trekking, Princess. You must have a serious reason for such a grave step. You must know, first of all, that once you come to Theronsia - to the east such as this - there is no return? No way to go back to Idgard?'

Blow after blow, Ophelia staggered backwards. 'What?!' She demanded, 'WHAT?!'

Jack looked confused himself. 'These are the lands of no return, Princess. Only the Theronsians know how to navigate between the ports. We have to give all our records to them, of the trade - and we are merely middlemen here. Their ships, their helmsmen, their voyages - our goods. That's how we trade. The profit is good, the country is good.' And then he spoke something else, in the language that she didn't know - the language they had mastered.

'But there must be some way!' She pressed, 'I have no idea how I am here, I have no idea why I am here - and I do not want to be here!' Ophelia exclaimed, 'please tell me there is a way out!'

'There is not.' He said, gravely. 'There is no way out, Princess Ophelia. And as to what you are saying ... I am afraid I do not understand you.'

'Jack Lucas, swear what you say.'

'I swear,' he said, rather calmly, but his eyes calculating. 'I swear, there is no way of returning that I know of.'

'Then what do I do?!'

Jack stared at her for a whole minute, trying his best to understand what could have happened. And Ophelia let him, for she desperately needed help. At least there was a Jack Lucas here. And at least they had run into each other. Or how would she have known that three weeks had passed, that she was doomed, that she was lost and destitute.

It was all so foggy, so misty - and so unbelievable - that Ophelia made no effort to think of anything other than the present. A part of her steadily wondered how this could have come about, but that part was silenced and in doing so, each time she proved that in face of danger, Ophelia was much like her mother.

'For now, Princess Ophelia, the only logical option I can think of,' Jack began, tilting his head in an accepting manner, 'is that you grace my residence with your presence until we make head or tail out of this situation.'