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He’s had many names given to him over the years. Some fit better than others.
His first comes from his parents. He arrives in the dead of winter, howling in his mother’s arms like the cold wind outside. His father tells him years later how with pride, knowing deep in his heart that his firstborn had the drive to survive. He is told how his mother, exhausted but delighted, gifts him with two syllables.
Jordan.
It fits well enough, as it is all he’s known. There are no wild treks into the wild beyond here, no scorching heat of lava-filled valleys nor ice cold chill of long dead realms. There is only a farm, and a field, and a small family that slowly grows larger. There is just a boy with a name and bright eyes looking to the future.
He hears his first name in many different shades and tones as he grows. Bright and cheerful, regretful and remorseful, livid and incensed. Each sounds the same, but each are weighted differently. He hears it from his siblings, slurred from learning to speak then clear and ringing through the fields. He hears it from the nearby village when his father brings him to market, welcoming and warm.
It’s in the village that he first feels it. A tug in his gut, quiet but insistent, that leads him to a battered board at the edge of the market. A message board. Weatherworn papers are tacked one on top of another, fluttering in the fall afternoon breeze. Printed in faded inks are words he’s never seen before. Promises of wealth and glory. Calls to adventure and exploration. Maps of vast cities and far off countries he tries and fails to wrap his young mind around. For the first time, his comfortable world with his comfortable name seems too small, too snug. It still fits, but it doesn’t seem as right anymore.
He follows his father to market every month without fail, gazing at the changing papers and dreaming. Dreaming of finding a place that feels right, more right than this unchanging corner of the world. He barters for stories from the traveling merchants, eyes wide as they tell him of palaces carved from ice and forests that stretch for miles and miles. He haggles for trinkets from traders, fingers tracing intricate knickknacks and strange coins hailing from far flung corners of the world. He sits at the foot of the fishmonger’s stall, listening to tales of shimmering water and billowing sails and dreams.
His family tries to understand, tries to figure out what they must do to keep him home. Keep him safe. His father forbids him from returning to the village for market day, sends him into the fields for hours upon hours to keep his wandering heart busy. His mother frets over him at every chance, refuses to let him out of her sight for more than a breath. They tell stories of the horrors of the outside world. Beings with wings wielding swords of fire that can level mountains and fill valleys in a single breath. Gods who walk amongst mortals, hiding shimmering antlers and star-swirled eyes behind a human mask. Creatures that entice and cajole from shadowed forests, their smiles too sharp and their eyes too keen.
They spin tales of war, of destruction, of death and all that, and he only wants it more.
He makes his choice at the end of winter. Wakes before dawn, gathers his meager belongings in a threadbare rucksack, pens a short, somber letter filled with apologies he’s not sure he means and promises he’s not sure he can keep, and closes the front door quietly. (He doesn’t think he’ll ever open it again, and he’s not sure if he’s truly sorrowful or thinks he should be.)
(He’s not. Not about this.)
His second name comes from his own ignorance. After leaving the crushing tightness of his childhood, he wanders. Joins the crew of a merchant vessel and sails away. For years, he works and he watches and he wanders. He sees the vast cities in the frozen south, the dark forests of the fair folks’ domain, the small towns and villages that dot the coastline.
He finds himself comforted by the ocean beneath him. It dances with constant momentum, rising and falling as the bow cuts through the waves. As they sail on, he finds himself enamored by the way they sparkle in the bright sunlight. He says as much to the others, and they laugh. They mock him for his innocence, for his lack of experience, for his wide eyed adoration, and they christen him with a new name for a new life.
Sparkles.
The name is far too tight, tighter than what he had before, and he can’t get rid of it. It sits like a weight around his neck, an anchor that keeps him pinned to the deck. He may be an adult now, but he’s barely one and he knows. So he keeps his head down and he keeps his eyes to the water.
The captain is not kind. A nobleman born and bred, he does not see his crew as people. He treats his favored as kings, and his unfavored as beasts. The unfavored beg for scraps and receive crumbs. Ask for bunks and receive straw. Wish for kindness and receive disgust.
Nothing seems to change, until it does.
He’s not sure when he saw her first, her bright white curls hiding long pointed ears, but he knows he didn’t think much of her. She’s years younger than him, eyes still bright with the call to explore and grin still wide with the promise of the future. The favored doesn’t like her much, much like they don’t like him much, and tell her so. She throws a braid of wooly hair over one shoulder and doesn’t so much as flinch.
Her sharpened gaze turns from the cowering forms to him. The moment she lays eyes on him, she softens and he knows she’s not going to go away.
He’s glad she didn’t.
With Puffy, his second name becomes less a noose, leaving him gasping for air, and more a jacket, the comfort of a teasing poke in his ribs and nights filled with whispered laughter. They sit on deck and talk of the homes they left, the lives they passed, the family they miss. (She tells stories of a brother, here one moment and taken the next. He listens, though he has no stories of his own to tell.) She helps him hem the seams, stitch the tears, make it fit where it once didn’t.
She stands beside him when the seas grow dark and churn with a brewing storm they barely survive. She stands behind him when he refuses to bow to boatswain’s demand he take a third night watch in a row. He stands beside her when she tells him of her years long search for a long gone sibling. He stands behind her when she confronts the captain about his treatment of his men. They stand together when they urge the unfavored to mutiny and succeed.
They drive the captain and those still loyal to him from the ship, stranding them on an island near a well known trade route. The rest, battered and bruised from months of mistreatment, bask in the knowledge that they are free.
He earns his third name then.
Captain.
It fits like nothing else has.
(Though he decides to stay with the ship, he knows Puffy cannot. Her search, like his, is far from over. And though their paths diverge, she makes him promise to meet again. He does.)
(He thinks he’s never meant a promise more.)
Years pass, and he grows into his names. He rarely hears the first, only from close friends and when formality dictates. He grows to enjoy the second now that is more often tinged with awe and admiration. He loves the third like nothing else he’s loved before. Where the first was tight and the second was heavy, the third is clear.
The third feels like wide open blue sky above a wide open blue sea. The third feels like a crisp wind catching in the sail, pulling them to the great beyond. The third feels like the swooping wings of seagulls and albatross and osprey. The third feels like home.
He travels the world. He meets new people. He tours the halls of the vast imperial palace to the south and receives a black feather as a token of friendship. He negotiates with the fair folk and trades faded books of long lost history for scrolls of untranslatable magic. He does everything he desires, and still feels the tug to do more. To find somewhere. Something. Someone.
His fourth name is one he never wanted.
He knows all too well that knowledge of his endeavors have travelled far across populated lands. Tales that spin courage, humor, and wit into a tapestry of a hero. So he’s not surprised when he receives a missive from the Captain’s Council, an invitation to join their number.
He accepts.
The Council is nothing and everything like he expects. He expected the ire of the old blood, of course. Old men in silks and brocades, faces pinched in distaste at the mangy newcomers. Men like them don’t accept change very easily. What he didn’t expect was the new blood. People like him, with the sea in their blood and the wind in their ears. People who want to make the world change, and change for the better. People who he knows.
People like Puffy.
She’s grown just as much as him, standing in her thick coat with a blade at her side, but she’s still vibrant and fierce as the last time he saw her. She stands tall and proud, surrounded by an air of confidence and skill. When their eyes meet, he watches her eyes glitter with that same fire he saw years ago and feels a grin grow on his face that matches hers. He never thought he could keep this promise, but he thanks whatever god is listening that he could.
After the meeting, they retreat to an rundown bar far in town and talk for hours. She tells him about her fleet, ships of people she trusts and who trust her in return. She tells him about her brother, found wandering the streets without memory but with a scarred body. She tells him about everything and nothing, and he does the same.
They talk about plans. Neither says it out loud, but the tugging, the drive to wander, has lessened. Not faded, never faded. But lessened. They talk about putting down stakes, relinquishing day to day operations to their subordinates, training the next crop of seafarers and wanderers. Nothing is set in stone, but wheels turn regardless.
Weeks pass into months and he finds himself enjoying his duties. Until the Admiral, the man regarded as leader of not only their Council, but their country as a whole, disappears. They search for any sign of him: shipwrecks, debris, bodies. They find nothing. Some say he is not dead, merely missing. They cannot attempt to replace him until they find confirmation. Others say they cannot wait to find a new leader. There is movement on the horizon, and a small nation like theirs could crumble like sand sculptures without someone to unite them.
The old blood licks their lips in anticipation. He knows them all to well after these months. All hungry for the title and power, with no care for the duties and responsibilities that follow. He knows that they expect the new blood to fall in line as they have in the past, give up the fight without struggle. He knows it will never happen the way they want.
Because he knows the new blood is just as hungry for change.
(He’s hungry too.)
It goes to a vote. Each Council member is eligible, regardless of their time sitting. The vote takes hours, members whispering in corners and sending needled glances at one another. He sits with Puffy and waits. The vote is called.
(Deep down, he knows what will happen. He just doesn’t want to admit it.)
The council grants him his fourth name.
Admiral.
He understands, but he doesn’t. He has experience in leading, in handling himself under pressure, in navigating troubled waters and logistics with a level head and a clear eye. He’s not old enough to be considered “old blood” but not young enough to act without thinking. He is compromise.
The name fits strangely. It’s not painful, not in the way the second was. It sits on his head like a crown, not unwieldy but always present. It is not painfully tight, but it fits snug around his throat. He’s not sure he’s the right choice, not sure he should be given the honor and duty that comes with it, but he does not try to run away. Something settles in his chest as he takes up the mantle, something he isn’t sure he’s ever felt before.
(It feels closer to what he’s been running towards. But it’s still not right.)
His fifth and final name comes in many fragmented parts from three entirely unexpected places.
The first piece is a young woman, near in age to Puffy, living in the city. She and her family move in to a building near his home soon after his promotion. They open a bakery on the first floor and the smells of warm breads and sweets always drift lazily into the streets, drawing in customer after customer.
Niki is soft spoken and caring, but when he visits he can see the same edge of steel that lines Puffy’s spine hidden in her eyes. And he knows all too well that she’ll grow into a force to be reckoned with should she get the chance.
He never tells them of his position, cherishing the short moment of normalcy as he banters with her father, gossips with her mother. He tells Niki stories of traveling the world over muffins and coffee, of the different things he’s tasted and the places he’s seen. Her eyes gleam, steel and honey brown in equal measure, and he sees the same want that’s driven him for so many years.
No one expects a fever to sweep through their country like a fire, taking hundreds of innocents including Niki’s parents. He consoles her as best he can, but knows he can only do so much. She carries her grief with a strength most find admirable. (He finds it painful. No one as young as her should have to carry on like she has. But she does regardless).
He does what he can, offering a warm place to sleep and food on the table and a shoulder to cry on. He tells her it’s okay to not be okay, to let herself break if she needs to. He offers to help her piece things back together when she’s done. (He doesn’t expect her to accept. When she does, he feels the insistent tugging recede. He chooses to ignore it).
(She gives him his fifth name late at night, months after the funerals. He wakes to her crying at the kitchen table and sits with an arm around her shoulder. In the haze of her grief, she lets the name slip out unheeded. He does not say anything, merely tightens his hold and fights back tears.)
The second piece is a young man. Well, at first he thought he was a young man. The new face wasn’t all that hard to spot: tall, lanky, with pointed ears and two toned hair. He first saw him standing alone and out of place, eyes blank and hands shaking, on a walkway near the bay.
He calls out to the young man carefully, voice soft to prevent startling him. The young man whirls around quickly, chest heaving and fists curled close to his chest. When the Captain first sees his face, he’s struck by just how young he is despite his height. Fear and confusion fill his red-green eyes as he stares at the Captain.
He does his best to calm him, asking soft question after soft question in the hopes of helping. Their country is fairly far from the mainland, a series of small islands clustered together on the edge of a great continent. Unannounced newcomers are few and far between. Newcomers like this are unheard of.
He learns that while Ranboo remembers his name, he remembers very little otherwise. The only things that are solid and stable are brief glimpses of panic, of darkness, and a faint, unfinished melody. He learns that Ranboo has no idea how he arrived. One moment he was standing in a dark room, surrounded by crushing stone walls and pitch black, and the next he was blinking in the bright sunlight at the port. He learns that while Ranboo remembers his name, he remembers very little otherwise. He learns that Ranboo has no memory of family, of home, of anything but static. (He looks at the child, because despite his height he is still so young, and the tugging grows harsher. Insistent.)
So the Captain welcomes him with open arms.
(He doesn’t even consider doing anything else.)
When they return home, Niki takes one look at Ranboo’s shaking form and immediately pounces. The Captain’s heart swells with pride as she talks to him, hands gently guiding their newest addition to a spare bedroom near hers.
Puffy is quick to tease when she first comes for dinner and sees a reluctant new face lurking in the corner of the Captain’s home, but there’s none of the heat or edge she usually carries. She meets the Captain’s eyes with a knowing smirk that he refuses to acknowledge.
(If he barely sleeps that night to check for signs of nightmares, that’s no one’s business but his own.)
(He gives him his fifth name when he joins Niki in the bakery. She is patient when attempt after attempt comes out blackened and shriveled, and the Captain gives him the encouragement and praise he needs to continue. In the joy that follows his first success, he shouts the name with pride. He does not say anything but offers congratulations and pride, warmth spreading in his core.)
The third and final piece is hidden inside a chest, floating in the middle of the ocean. It’s been so long since he’s sailed, since he’s seen the endless blue beneath endless blue, since he’s felt the freedom that comes with his third name. He takes to the ship and the sea with ease, shedding the weight of his title and position if only for a moment. He knows Niki and Ranboo are safe ashore, Niki waving of his concerns with a steady smile and Ranboo offering a bag of only slightly charred cookies as a safe travels gift. (He knows it's not farewell. He knows he’ll return. But there’s still a tug, a need to search.)
The bobbing smudge of brown in the sea catches his attention quickly, and he calls for all hands. They cast their nets into the frothing waves, failing and failing to snag it until finally, finally, someone catches hold and they drag it aboard.
The chest is unlike any he’s seen before, leaping fish and swirling letters carved into pristine wood. He runs his hands over each strange mark, surprised at the way they hum beneath his fingers. Though he’s travelled and explored farther than most, he has little experience with magic. The tugging in his gut turns to pulsing, each beat louder and more insistent than the last. (It tells him he’s found it he’s found it he’s found it the last piece the last part its here.) When he touches the strange lock-like marking in the center, the lid of the chest releases with a hiss. His crew flinches back, muttering about superstitions and curses amongst themselves. He ignores them and pulls back the lid. The muttering, the breeze, the hiss of the water beneath the keel falls away.
There is a child, asleep atop sea green pillows and carefully wrapped in blankets. Soft brown hair falls into sleep-relaxed eyes, a small plush toy clutched in one hand. There is no note, nothing to identify who the child is or where he came from. Nothing to tie him to a home. To a family. The Captain stands frozen, unsure but unbelievably certain. He takes the child in his arms and the last piece clicks into place.
The child never wakes, even as he carries him from the ship to home. The Captain leans his head against his shoulder, feeling the soft puffs of air tickle his neck. Niki opens the door quickly when he knocks, a welcome ready on her lips and Ranboo waiting behind her. When he places a finger to his lips and moves further into the house, their eyes grow wide and curious.
He lays the child down in his bundle of blankets, carefully securing the plush toy (a small bee, yellow fuzz faded and worn from years of attention) in his hands. When he’s certain he’ll remain asleep, he tells the others of the chest, of the markings and the missing note and the strange buzzing magic that urged him to open it. Niki insists on redecorating an old office, left dusty and stagnant for years, into a room. Ranboo worries about how the new child will react to the new space, far too familiar with sudden changes and blank spaces. They gather old clothing, toys, books, and he wonders why he ever thought to worry. (They felt the same urge before the door opened, the pull to complete their little unit, but they’ll never tell him. They don’t tell each other. It goes unspoken.)
When the child wakes, surrounded by unfamiliar faces in an unfamiliar place, there’s no fear. No terror, no screaming, no hiding in corners or running into streets. There are curious blue eyes, careful questions, and cautious optimism. He tells them his name (Tubbo), his favorite colors (green and yellow), his favorite animal (bees), and the last thing he remembers (warm arms and shiny scales and tears filling ocean blue eyes.)
The Captain doesn’t know what to expect, but he finds comfort in Tubbo’s boundless energy. He had feared for nights of crying and days of anger, but there’s nothing like that. Tubbo says he misses his family sometimes, but he loves his new one more.
He attaches himself to Niki quickly, following her and chattering away about nothing and everything. Niki listens with a good natured smile and unprompted questions, basking in the undiluted attention her newest shadow gives her. Ranboo is cautious at first, afraid his long limbs and uncontrolled abilities would harm the younger boy. Tubbo brushes past his concern with the grace of an elephant, clutching clawed fingers as he drags him on some adventure or another. Puffy swings him up onto her shoulders, practice sword in hand as they proclaim their conquest on the whole world. The Captain sits him down at his desk and shows him what he does, letting him trace figures along map trade routes and tell stories of what happens in different parts of the world. (None of them are true, but he listens and reacts appropriately all the same.)
He gives the Captain his fifth name in the middle of the afternoon, hand in hand with him as they wander through the market. Niki is not far behind them, chatting to an old friend over bread and textiles. Ranboo trails behind them, gazing at the bustle around them and fiddling nervously with his shirt buttons. (The Captain thinks back to so many years ago, when he was following his own father to the market, the world small and quiet and comfortable, without the weight of so many names.)
Tubbo sees a stall with honey, bees buzzing around lazily, and tugs on the Captain’s hand fervently as the name falls from his lips beside pleas to go and look.
Dad.
He still doesn’t say anything, but the warmth that spreads as he feels Ranboo’s eyes over his shoulder, Niki’s smile at his back, Tubbo’s hand in his own, lets him know that this name, his fifth name, fits perfectly.
(His fifth name might be his most prized of them all.)
(Soon, he finds himself called his fifth name more than his third. Tubbo finds a friend, a spitfire blond with a starbright heart, and his two brothers and winged father follow not far behind. There’s a ram flanked by a fox and a duck, a barefoot fae with his own ragtag band of misfits, a strange man in a purple rabbit mask, a collective of scholars and architects with a penchant for chaos and destruction, and a man with the voices of gods rattling inside his head. But he doesn’t mind it one bit.
His fifth name always did fit the best, after all.)