I sometimes struggled deciding whether I should organise the food on my plate according to colour, or according to texture.

My favourite meals were the ones you could separate according to both; red cherry tomatoes, brown tender meat, yellow potatoes, green buttered peas... I could put each item on one dedicated place on my plate and it would be of great satisfaction both to my eyes and to my mouth.

This evening's meal, however, was quite difficult. Both the boiled peas and the fried Brussel sprouts were the same colour, but of vastly different consistency. The peas were boiled to such a softness they would melt in your mouth, while the Brussel sprouts were crispy. 

It dissatisfied me.

I separated them according to consistency anyway, but wasn't sure if I wanted to eat them. I stared at my plate for too long, I could tell, because my father nudged me in the side with his elbow. I looked up at him. He smiled down at me. He was big and round with a black beard and kind eyes that glittered, matching the kindness of his soul. I knew he was proud of me, and I knew he knew that he shouldn't be. I didn't behave like a prince. I didn't look like a prince. But my father didn't care. He loved me, despite my many flaws. Honestly, I was just one big walking flaw. 

My mother, thin and frail and hard around the edges, sitting on my father's right-hand-side, made sure to tell me several times a day I wasn't worthy, in case I forgot. She thought I was dumb. I didn't bother to let her know I wasn't. 

She was currently eating delicately, because that's what she thought was befitting a queen, looking out at her court. From time to time, she spoke to my brother Madara on her left-hand-side, who was bigger and more handsome and less strange than I, and thus worthy of her attention and the title of crown prince, even if that was decided by his older age, and his older age alone. She had tried making me jealous of Madara since she realised I wasn't right in the head, but she never succeeded. I didn't seem to be capable of jealousy against my big brother. Despite, I loved Madara even more than I loved my father. And Madara loved me, too.

Spurred on by my father's friendly elbow-nudge, I took a tentative bite of a Brussel sprout. Then, I put a pea in my mouth and ate that as well. The disconnection between the same-colouredness and the consistency threw me off guard, no matter how prepared I thought I was, and I put my fork down. I didn't want the meal. Then, I felt a soft nudge in my ribs again. It was my father.

"You don't have to eat the vegetables. But perhaps try the meat and the rice? Especially with the soy sauce." He winked at me.

I looked down. The meat and soy sauce were both brown. I looked up at my father questioningly. How was I supposed to manoeuvre this? He winked again, and I looked down. Well... I guess they ARE different nuances of brown. I took some meat and dipped it in soy sauce, put it in my mouth. It was delicious. I kept eating. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father finishing his meal happily beside me.

When I had finished, I looked out at the great dining hall. It was extravagant, made of dark wood but open and airy with beautiful, gold-framed paintings and fabrics of gold and crimson. Our court was enormous, and my kind father wanted everyone to dine with us, from his right-hand man to the cleaners. The only ones who didn't dine with us were the guards, who stood armour-clad along the walls. They would dine separately when the court was dismissed, in the privacy of my father's rooms, while he drank a glass of cherry wine and told stories. Most times, Madara joined as the crown prince. I had wondered how those dinners were, but was never asked to join. Which was fine, since I didn't like my evening routines being altered, anyway. 

I had overheard my mother and father argue once when I was smaller, about having the entire court to dinner.

"Don't you think they will see enough of Izuna's... Strangeness already?" She sputtered my name so fast, it was as if she believed it would poison her if she had it in her mouth for too long. "Why garter the entire court for the spectacle?"

"As you say", my father said calmly. "As the court lives here, they will notice anyway. Giving them half an hour extra each day to gaze upon him will change nothing."

"Hmph", my mother said, clearly displeased. "Thank goodness he's gotten his good looks from me. This way, he at least has a chance of marriage. I just wish words of his... Manners wouldn't spread."

"He will one day find a suitable partner that will love him for the person he is, not his looks", my father said.

"I doubt it", my mother said with so much hate in her voice, even I could tell it was abnormal for someone who talked about their own child.

I didn't like the way I looked. I was tall enough, long-limbed with delicate facial features and a pointed nose. My hair was long and black and I held it back with ornamental hair clips I had collected from my travels. I wasn't ugly. In fact, I was quite pretty. But pretty was something you called girls, not a prince. At twenty-three, I was old enough to be wed already, but not so old that it would draw attention to why I wasn't yet. I had had offerings of marriage from all over the world, but when the potential brides had visited, they had always declined. 

"Why don't you just eat your food? Why do you play around with it?"

"Why do you lock yourself into your room for hours each night?"

"Why don't you seek my company?"

"Why don't you answer my questions?"

I always felt relief.

It wasn't as if I hadn't noticed the weird glances the court or any guests from other parts of the country, or even other parts of the world, cast me as I sat beside my family at the main table from their place at dinner. They pointed at me, whispered, sometimes even laughed at my weird demeanour, my down-cast eyes, my hunched back. I just couldn't do anything about it. I had tried, longing for the same love and acceptance from my mother that Madara got, but I just couldn't do it. Today, I won't separate my food before eating, I would think as I separated my food before eating. The one time I had actually succeeded, I had panicked and ran from the table to my rooms, crying. My father had come later with three types of cake, each in a separate colour, pink and brown and vanilla, and comforted me. 

My mother hadn't looked at me for a week.

Over the years, the court got used to my behaviour after a while and didn't look at me anymore. But they payed me no attention. As Madara trained and studied and read with the young boys who worked as librarians or bakers or cooks, I was left to do that on my own. I didn't mind my own company, and rarely felt lonely, but I wished many times that it had been a choice, not something forced upon me. But at least, I wasn't mocked.

I finished dipping my meat in the soy sauce and then waited for the king, my father, to dismiss us so I could go lock myself in my room for a few hours before bed.