An uncharacteristic grimness overtook Oliver's features that morning. Only it wasn't Oliver, not really.
The day had begun the same as any other. The morning had seen Arthur to a freshly printed newspaper and a calming cup of tea. Arthur had made himself comfortable in an old but well made patio chair overlooking his immaculately kept rose garden, his cup and scones resting on the little round table beside him.
The man took a long sip of his tea, momentarily setting down his paper. His eyebrows knitted in irritation as his well-practiced eyes surveyed the garden. There was no doubt about it. Something was missing. Someone-or something- had uprooted a fair portion of one of his thyme plants.
He sighed, resolving to ask Mint Bunny about it later, see if any of his little friends were responsible. It wouldn't have bothered him so much if this had been the first time. As it was, he had begun to find all manner of things misplaced, if not gone all together. Ad to think, he was usually so organized.
Maybe the fairies really were responsible. He certainly hoped that, if that was in fact the case, they weren't up to any great mischief. Regardless of such suspicions, he wouldn't let his mind linger on such matters for long. After all, he had more important things to worry about. Such was the life of a nation.
Besides, he'd been on fairly good terms with most the fair folk for near as long as he could recall. The sprites had never inconvenienced him with more than a harmless prank or two, and even if a true supernatural threat were to arise, he had plenty confidence in his ability to effectively deal with it.
Maybe he had felt a little to confident, in that moment. Just a little to proud. Perhaps it was, even subconsciously, what one might have called 'tempting fate'.
Whatever the case, the morning had passed normally enough, the afternoon following in suite.
That night, when Arthur went to sleep, all was as it should be. His sheets were freshly ironed, his pillows crisp and white, his embroidered silk green blanket tucked neatly over his chest. He could hear the steady ticking of the wall clock; smell the residue of his evening tea from where the porcelain cup rested on his polished oak side table.
The walls were papered with their familiar pattern, in interchanging shades of white, and muted green and brown. Two bulky wooden bookcase lined the right wall, a sturdy green armchair trimmed with gold and old square lamp in between- making for an ideal, secluded place to read. Had the lamp been on, it would have bathed its cozy little corner in a warm, homely glow. As it was, the only light in the darkened room emanated from the city lights below.
This was the scene our good old Arthur fell asleep to. Familiar. Comfortable. Arthur felt right at home amongst the earthy hues and the musty smell of aged paper. Overall, the room offered itself a refined, if a somewhat reserved and stiff atmosphere- much like its sole resident.
Arthur didn't even have to open his eyes the following morning to sense something was wrong. Very wrong.
The man groaned groggily, teetering on the edge of awareness. Even as his dreams faded into the background, his nostrils began to vaguely register a peculiar odor. No, not the tea. Jasmine Tea couldn't even compare to the mysterious smell. It was sweet. So very, very sweet. Almost sickeningly so, as a matter of fact.
Arthur cracked his eyes open, only to be momentarily blinded. That's odd, he could have sworn he'd turned the lights off- His thoughts immediately ground to a halt, any lingering haziness dissipating with a jolt as he blinked, taking in his new surroundings.
'My door... wasn't white', he thought, somewhat dumbly, as his mind worked to process the room's more outlandish features. One of the first sights that greeted his eyes were the walls, predictably. They wouldn't have even been worth noting if they hadn't been covered with enough pink to make his head spin. Well, to be perfectly specific, pink and blue- in alternating stripes of delicate floral print. If it weren't for the garish, sharply contrasting colours, he might have thought such a design would have been fitting for the room of some sweet old lady. As it was, it just mad him feel nauseous.
The rest of the room wasn't much better, either. It seemed to share much the same colour scheme as the walls. He pushed the covers aside, and pulled himself into a sitting position.
"Brilliant. Just brilliant," he murmured under his breath, noting with a hint of disdain that the bed, while sharing a similar design to that of his own, was done up in entirely in pink and white, sheets and headboard included.
Instinctively, Arthur turned his attention to the window- only to find himself staring blindly through the blue curtains. Smog. More of it than he'd seen in longer than he cared to remember. If he squinted, from where he was, he could barely make out a couple faint shadows in the distance- but that was about it.
He stole a glance at the wall clock-a delicate silver thing- only to see find that that it was seven o' clock in the morning. If it hadn't been for the timepiece, he would have never been able to guess.
The man's rather pronounced eyebrows twitched in irritation. It was as if the room was mocking him. The window had been right where he had expected it to be. The same could be said for the bed, and even the side table or desk. Except it wasn't his room, and besides the fairly familiar layout, any similarities were nonexistent, or superficial at best.
Shakily, he brought himself to his feet- cringing just a little when he found that he was wearing, of all things, pink pajama pants and T-shirt emblazoned with a big red heart. Shaking the thoughts of someone not only forcibly moving him somewhere else, but CHANGING HIS CLOTHES in his sleep, he focused his attention on what he assumed had been the source of the sweet aroma.
There, in the left corner of the room, was a silky little dark pink loveseat holding two neat little throw pillows stitched with roses. And right next to it, sitting innocently on tiny, dainty round table, was a platter of cupcakes.
Curiously, he walked over to them and took one in his hand for closer inspection. Peeling back the pink cupcake paper, he found that they seemed to red velvet, or something similar. The icing on this particular one was blue- but just as many were topped with a bright a pink. He took an experimental sniff, before placing it back where he found it.
Arthur was by no means stupid. He wasn't just going to eat some strange food he found lying around in... Well, who knows where. Yes, that was a rather good question. Just where the hell was he? And why did it look so bloody familiar?!
Now, Arthur was no stranger to the unusual. Hell, even the supernatural hardly ever fazed him. It was no secret the he was an avid fan of the occult, and was well versed in many of the more arcane arts. But this... This was a new one. It looked as if he had fell right into the middle of some demented child's sugar induced fever dream.
The man took a deep breath, brows knitting in concentration. 'Right. First things first.' He could figure out the 'how' or 'why' later. Hell, for all he knew, it might by some sort of prank. An illusion spell, perhaps. Or maybe the bloody frog had dropped by and decided to do a little interior decorating at his expense. (The very thought of France undressing him was enough to make his blood boil.) Whatever was behind this, right now, he felt he should be most concerned with the 'where'.
Arthur turned around. It was then that he saw the mirror.
He nearly jumped. As it was, he barely caught himself half way through falling backwards.
Arthur took a tentative step forward, struggling to regain his composure.
That sealed it, then. He definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore, he thought, dryly.
The man in the mirror looked like him. He had the same thick eyebrows, the same delicate facial structure, and the same slim build. Yet, at the same time, he didn't.
First off, his hair, though thankfully still blond, possessed something of a strawberry tint. He wasn't quite sure what to classify the particular hue, to be perfectly honest. It was unique, to be sure.
His cheeks were noticeably peppered with a sprinkling of freckles- which, he noted after an experimental rub, were very much real. They'd also very much not been their before, he was certain.
But mayhap the most striking of all were the eyes.
He was quite close to the mirror, now- only a few centimeters away at most. Absently, he brought a hand to its surface, verifying that it was, in fact, there.
Arthur blinked, and blue eyes blinked back. They were the colour of a clear spring sky-so very different when compared to his own emerald depths.
Oliver's face twisted into a mask of uncharacteristic grimness as Arthur stared into those eyes. The eyes of a stranger.
So lost in thought was he, so captivated by the impossibility of the image in before him, that he almost didn't hear the door swing open.
Almost.