For the next few chapters, I will leave Thera's story be for a while, and focus upon another character whom she will meet in the future. I am not starting a new story.

Also, I went to see Star Wars VII last night. Mwahahah! But I won't go to the dark side and spoil it for you.

-----------------------

Far away, in a land across the sea, a young man of fifteen stared at the bright and shimmering ribbon of water on the horizon. All his life, he had lived on the flat plains Dalrura continent.

Now seeing the ocean for the first time, and smelling the salty breeze, he beamed a smile before heading down the hill in the direction of the port city.

After showing his papers, which said his name was Barley, he was ushered in with all the rest of the people.

This town was brimming with life. It was lively with children running about in the streets, and the cries of the stalls shouting their wares filled the air with a constant conversation.

Men stood in their stalls, selling fish of all kinds. Women stirred large pots of chowder at open-air eateries, careful, lest they burn.

There were several bars, which doubled as inns for the old, stiff sailors who drank their beer and told their tales with hoarse, salt-roughened voices.

When Barley arrived at the marketplace, it was even more crowded with bustling people. Fruits from overseas were sold at high prices. Men shouted to make way for the carts filled with barrels of ale, or crates of food or bolts of cloth.

His eyes roamed over the scene. It was the first time he had ever seen it, and already it felt like home…home? Wait, why did it feel like home? He frowned, as he tried to pinpoint what made him think such a thing.

Unfortunately, he did not have so much time, since he was jerked from his reverie by the sight of a group of several dark-clothed men chasing another young man around the marketplace with swords.

The young man dodged and ducked dexterously through the many stalls and carts, deflecting their weapons if they ever came too close.

He kicked one man hard off the pile of crates he had jumped onto. The unfortunate man fell into a cart pulling a large load of manure nearby, successfully incapacitating him.

Another unfortunate man was thrown into a barrel of fish guts, where his legs wriggled as he tried to escape the smelly, disgusting prison.

Still yet another man was kicked by a donkey which the young man had aggravated in passing.

Observing the scene, Barley noticed that the young man was headed in Barley’s general direction.

There was something about the black-clothed men that raised a never-before-known rage within him. He suddenly had an intense desire to help the man out, not for his sake, but just to spite the men following him.

Looking around for something he could use, he noticed a cartful of large wine barrels close by, held up by a single bar of wood, and sprang into action.

As the young man streaked past him, he kicked the bar, and dodged out of the way as the huge, seven-foot high barrels rolled out in front of the black-clothed men, smashing into the first few, and successfully stopping the rest of them.

Barley noticed that even the young man had stopped to look behind him at the scene when he heard a loud and hearty laugh.

Barley rolled his eyes and pushed the young man, motioning to run. “Let’s get out of here before the guard arrives!” He said, a grin on his face.

Whoever those black men were, the stall people were sure to enact their revenge upon them, if he knew stall people. Huh? This was his first time in a port city. Why would he know stall people and their behavior?

Barley shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for that. He ran faster, and urged the young man to run away through several streets, until they found a horse stall, where they could hide away and catch their breath.

Sure enough, after they left, the black men stared at the barricade of wine barrels hatefully for a few moments, and then turned to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A large, muscular man said.

“Ye’ve shattered all of my pots!”

“And tipped over my cabbage cart!”

“You’ve spread all the fish intestines over the ground near my stall!”

“Aye, and ye’ve ruined my perfect pile of manure!” This last one came from the owner of the manure cart.

The muscular man cracked his knuckles. “I think a little remunerations is in order.” He said.

The men in black began to sweat.

---------------------------------------------------------------

“Hah hah, hahaha! That was the most fun I’ve had in ages!” The young man laughed while gasping for breath.

“What is your name, my fine fellow?”

“Barley. Yours?” He asked, panting from the run.

“Ah…You may call me John.” The young man replied, scratching his head.

“Who were those people, and why were they after you?” Barley asked, having finally caught his breath back.

“Don’t know who they are. An awful lot of people want me dead, though.” (John)

Barley was beginning to feel like he had helped someone troublesome.

“Not because of anything I’ve actually done, you understand. It’s simply because of who I am.” John hurried to explain.

Barley laughed. “Hah! Nice clothes, excellent swordsmanship, not to mention a horde of assassins after you: if I didn’t know any better, then I’d say you were a prince in disguise, or a rich merchant’s son.”

John froze for a moment, then he laughed. “Hahahah! Good one! I’ll have to tell that to my father, when I return.” He laughed once again as he waved a stylish goodbye. “Well, see you around, Barley!” And with that, he ran off.

Barley’s eyebrow twitched. Oy! Could that have been any more obvious! Even a sea dog like me can tell that you’re faking, if my name isn’t Keith O’ Malley! He sighed as he leaned against the wall.

Then he froze. Wait. Keith O’Malley? I am Keith O’Malley? But, no, I can’t be! My name is Barley! Barley crouched down, holding his aching head in his hands as the memories from his past life poured into his brain.

Yes, he was previously Keith O’Malley, a man who had made his fortunes trading buying things off of auction sites, fixing them up, and reselling them for twice their previous price.

That’s right. He had bought a boat The Harbinger, and fixed it up really nice. But instead of selling it, he sold all of his belongings, amassing a small fortune, and spent his days out at sea, helping the fishermen of his town.

Then one night, as he was filling up the gas tank, a bunch of black-clothed thugs had put a gun to his head and taken him prisoner.

He was only ever brought out to confirm the fact that this was his boat, and that it wasn’t stolen. Even then, they had always been cautious by aiming a gun at his head from a building with a vantage point.

Barley grit his teeth. He knew that once they were done with him, they would kill him. So he tried many times to escape. His last attempt found him slashed at by a sword-wielding sicko as soon as he had stepped one foot out of the door.

As he slumped to the floor, he remembered the sicko saying “Pitiful meat sack. He died too quickly.”

Sweat dripped off of his forehead as he took a deep breath, and calmed down, relaxing the hand that had clenched nail-marks into his palms. All of that had really happened, then this would mean he had been reborn?

He inwardly hoped that sicko had been stuck through the heart by someone. If it was a girl that offed him, even better! If it was a girl, then he would find her in the afterlife and marry her.

He realized that the whole time, he had been sort of half-muttering to himself. He stood up, stopped muttering, and earnestly prayed: If someone killed that sicko with the sword, then whoever you are, I am eternally grateful, and forever in your debt!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thera sneezed into a handkerchief that she had grabbed just in time. “Ah, pardon me!” She said.

“Are you all right?” The General asked.

She waved her hand. “I’m fine. Someone’s just talking about me. That’s all.”

The General scratched at his beard. “Girl, you just won the highest honor a noble could get. Everybody’s talking about you. But I always did wonder about that superstition. If you really did sneeze every time someone talked about you, then you wouldn’t be able to stop sneezing for months.”

“You’re probably right.” Thera said, looking out of the carriage that was taking them to the mansion. The royal carriage rolled through the countryside, which was a stark contrast to the cobblestone streets they had rattled through only ten minutes earlier.

For the hundredth time, Thera missed the invention of the automobile as the carriage jolted its way through the ruts in the road.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later on, after Barley had come to terms with his past, he pulled himself together enough to try and find what he was looking for. Looking down at a scrap of paper in his hand, he muttered to himself as he counted down the houses.

“Number 119, Number 119, Police please. Yes, I would like to report myself as a lost person. 119, Number 119. AH!”

(Author: For those who don’t know, 119 is the Japanese equivalent of 911, so he is joking about calling the police.)

He stopped before a shabby- looking Blacksmith’s shop. 119 was painted in faded white paint on the door lintel.

“…Maybe it’s the next house…”

After fifteen minutes more of searching, he was back in front of the Blacksmith shop. Heaving a big sigh, he musters his courage and opens the door. The bell rang.

Honestly, it looked far more respectable on the inside with its polished wooden counter-top and floors. Perhaps they just didn’t have the time to fix up the outside of the building.

The store itself was filled with things from swords to whaling spears to fish hooks. Horseshoes, nails, hoes, shovels, candlesticks, box hinges, chains, locks, pots and pans. It had a lot of things.

“Welcome! How might I help you?” A bald man said from behind the counter.

“I’m looking for my uncle, Robert. Is he in?” Barley asked.

The bald man pointed a thumb at the door next to him. “He’s out back making nails. I’ll tell him you’re here. Feel free to look around, though. It might take a while.” And with that, he disappeared through the door.

Barley took his time looking at all the things that were made.

By the time his uncle was finished, Barley had moved to the cooking section of the store. He was holding a large cast-iron frying pan in his hand, and swinging it like a sword.

“You know, if you’re looking for a weapon, the swords are over there. That’s a frying pan.” Uncle Robert joked.

Barley concentrated on the pan. “I don’t know. I think a frying pan could be a good weapon, too. It’s useful as a club, a shield, and it can cook twenty-seven eggs at once~!”

Robert laughed. “It does at that. Until someone finds out the fatal flaw and cuts your fingers off the handle. But enough of that! Come here, let me look at you!”

Uncle Robert clasped him by the shoulders and looked him over at an arm’s length away.

Barley was a handsome young man, with skin tanned from hours spent out in the sun, and black eyes peeking out underneath dark brown hair.

“Well?” Barley asked.

“I feel old. The last time I saw you, you were only knee-high to an anvil!” He replied in his joking manner.

“Do anvils even have knees?” Barley quipped.

“They will when I’m through with them!” He winked. This was an old joke between them, and one which was likely to be played out every time they saw each other.