The princess was a bit weird.
She'd heard people say that. She'd also heard them say that it was a polite way to put it, though it didn't seem very polite to her. How could anyone say anything so inaccurate? 'A bit'. She shuddered. So imprecise. So meaningless. Her life was made up of facts and rules, ones that didn't change and that made sense. That was orderly. That was polite.
It was 19 steps from her bed to her door, for example. 348 from her door to the breakfast table each morning. Her mother always glanced at her no less than three times each morning while she divided her food into four sections on her plate. All of her clothes for the first day of the week were blue. The last day was green. The other days didn't matter, except for Holy Days, when she wore white, because it seemed like the proper thing to do. The ribbons in her hair were a gift from her father and no one was allowed to touch them or take them out. Her handmaiden always knocked twice, unless she was tired.
Those were the rules. There were a lot of others.
She had to end a journey somewhere with an even number of steps, even when it meant backtracking a little. She washed her hands before and after every single meal. She got in on the same side of the bed every night, and never left her shoes on the floor.
Some rules she had not created, but she followed them anyway.
Every morning for four hours she was to study the history of Hyrule, its laws, and its people. Every afternoon for two hours, she was to practice her embroidery, her manners, dancing, or another court function. Every evening for one hour she got exercise with Impa, who was the only one who waited for her to count all of her paces and touch all of the laces on her workout clothes before they started.
Some rules were secret.
Sometimes, she stole things to put in her secret box, where they'd be safe. Her father's old quill. Her mother's glove. A small painting of a grandmother she'd never met but was named after.
If she was introduced to anyone, it was best to count her steps inside of her head, not tell them how many colored threads were in their collar, and say as little as possible. It made her mother less likely to cry when she put her to bed at night.
Once a month, during an embroidery lesson that her instructor always fell asleep during, she tiptoed out, snuck to her parents' closet, and tried on the crown that was to be given to her on her 16th birthday. It was always little less big each time, and though she would have liked to measure for accuracy, she settled for looking at herself in the mirror and imagining being crown princess of Hyrule.
It was still exactly 7 years, 9 months, and 17 days away, but Zelda didn't mind counting down the days.
She was good at that.
