Jonathan sat up and stared at the strange, opulent room around him. He didn’t recognize the large canopy bed that had red covers, the several mysterious doors leading to unknown locations, and the windows that were closed with white shutters. There was also a wooden divider, vanity with a large mirror, and several other pieces of unfamiliar furniture scattered around the edges of the room.
From what Jonathan last remembered, he had ended his stream, put away his most recent carving, eaten a can of clam chowder soup, and promptly passed out.
None of that would explain why he was here, in a different place.
He settled on three options: he had been partying the night before, he got kidnapped, or he was dreaming. The fourth option—ending up in another world—was something he wasn’t willing to consider, but he thought of it regardless. With his recent experiences, it would be more weird if he didn’t.
Judging by the lack of a hangover, he hadn’t gone drinking and he wasn’t tied up, so he might not have been kidnapped. He wasn’t the type of person to party when upset either. Jonathan sat up and pinched his arm. It hurt, which meant he probably wasn’t in a dream.
With two of three options ruled out, he had most likely been kidnapped. Jonathan wasn’t entirely sure why he would be taken, but it was likely due to his profession. There were a few psychotic fans.
He remembered going to sleep in his own bed. It must have been a kidnapping then.
Jonathan had been trying not to focus on why he had been upset because it wasn’t helpful for him. He did remember now, that he was fully awake, what he had done yesterday. He had gone out with his now ex-fiance in the morning to talk and he knew that he had spent most of the afternoon yesterday looking at the wall over his bed where he still had the pictures up, of better days. All of the ones with his family were ones he took when he left home. The other photos were with his ex-fiance and ex-best friend, the latter being shots of various training and tournament wins. Jonathan rarely practiced his fencing these days.
He wondered when his fiance and best friend had started lying to him and he didn’t notice.
Those sorts of thoughts tainted any sort of peace that he got from those memories.
How many years did he not know?
When he should have known.
He must have known.
Jonathan wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out sooner, or find out at all.
And, yet, none of that really seemed important now. He needed to figure out where he was and run away.
Jonathan felt something around his throat. He reached up; bandages had been wrapped around his neck.
Had he been injured?
Someone knocked on one of the room’s many doors. “It’s Mr. Trival. May I come in?”
Jonathan didn’t say anything, but the door opened anyway.
The gentleman who entered was dressed in a black tailcoat. The look on his face was that of worry, and he seemed unable to brush that feeling away. “My apologies, I had forgotten about your injury.” He had a stack of clothes in hand, each piece carefully washed, ironed, and folded.
Jonathan felt strange just lying in bed, as well as defenseless. If he was on his feet, he could fend off an attack. With his luck, the gentleman was some sort of extraterrestrial or demon. He was caught off guard when he was simply handed the clothes. After a questioning look from the older man, Jonathan realized that he was supposed to go change behind the wooden divider in the corner of the room.
He put on the clothes that had been picked out for him. Jonathan actually liked the red coat with buttons he had been given. The white shirt had too many frills, but he would bear with it. He protested against wearing the hose, but after losing a staring competition with the aforementioned inanimate object, Jonathan accepted his fate and put it on.
There was another knock on the door. “It’s Mrs. Crux.” The woman’s voice—unfortunately shrill due to its high pitch—was half expectant and half impatient.
There were footsteps and the door was opened, presumably by the gentleman in the tailcoat. “Mrs. Crux.”
“Mr. Trival, you seem well.”
“Same to you.” Mr. Trival’s reply was similarly ice cold.
Mrs. Crux huffed and walked further into the room. “Has the wound been bleeding?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” Mr. Trival informed. “However, the bandages should still be changed.”
“Where is he?”
Before Mr. Trival could respond, Jonathan left from behind the wooden divider. He wasn’t entirely sure he had done everything correctly, but it should have been close enough.
Mrs. Crux was an older lady with a black apron and drooping ears. Her shrill voice matched her face, which seemed to be in a constant state of irritation.
Jonathan glanced between the two of them. The older gentleman, Mr, Trival, had been rather casual until the lady walked in. The young man didn’t point out the change of course. He wasn’t dumb.
Mr. Trival straightened Jonathan’s coat’s collar with practiced ease. He buttoned the coat up the rest of the way. After another quick once over, he seemed to be satisfied with Jonathan’s clothes.
Once his inspection was done, Jonathan ignored both of them. He went to the vanity, wanting to check something, and stared into the mirror.
That was not his face.
His hair was still brown, but his eyes were now sea green. His jawline was padded with some baby fat left over from a teenager who had only just stopped growing.
Jonathan’s first coherent thought about his situation was vehement cursing. He did not want to accept that he might have ended up in a different world as another person. He had left that out as an option for what was happening because he didn’t want it to be true.
Mrs. Crux brushed his hair with a soft brush and arranged his bangs. She seemed displeased with the hair cut he had—constantly readjusting it—yet didn’t say anything. Afterwards, she offered him a ring with a strange crest on it. “Your Highness.”
Jonathan stared at the mirror, a defeated look on his face. His luck sucked. There was really no hope of living a normal life if he was a transmigrator, but it was even worse if he was a prince. Doing something like running away from the life he had ended up in would probably require help and resources he didn’t have. “I just hope this isn’t a harem,” he grumbled as he put on the ring. Jonathan also hoped the original prince didn’t talk much, because he was planning to stay as silent as possible with the excuse of his injury.
Mrs. Crux paused. “My apologies, Your Highness, did you say something?” After Jonathan shook his head, she opened the small kit on the vanity. “Do you wish to personally change your bandages again, Prince Roscoe?”
Jonathan frowned and reached for the kit. His new name was apparently Roscoe; he should remember that.
Hope you guys enjoy.
My thanks for editing help goes to: auroracode/aurorapillar, avi, FeatheredDragon, HittmanA, OmnipotentSpear, Phylyra, and Babben. I was very cautious about whether or not to change the beginning and they all gave me valuable feedback.