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It’s funny, sometimes, hearing their real name. When it is out of the mouth of the postman, and they are all collectively giggling at the look on Sky’s face as yet another wad of letters is thrown into his arms whether he wants them or not. Or when they fill out the guest book at an inn, and varying scripts and fonts spell out the same syllable nine times over to the ever-increasing befuddlement of the proprietor who most likely thinks that they are playing some kind of prank.
It’s confusing as well, at times. A name shouted across a market has nine heads turning, nine people scanning the crowd for someone known, for some friend or family member in an automatic response regardless of what era of history that they all know for a fact that they are in. Or when someone asks if they ‘know Link’ or have ‘seen Link’ and those present for that conversation have to stop and ask clarifying questions (or just make the world’s worst vague jokes about it, thanks, Time).
Other times, it is a vague discomfort, as some person that one of their brothers has crossed or wounded or done some wrong to rages about ‘that boy Link’ and how he should know better than to show his face around these parts again. It is the shattering of hope as some loved one yells their name and comes running, and the other eight of them realize that they were not the one being spoken to, that the love in that voice was not meant for them, though it wrapped around their name as well.
It is a bitter jealousy, whether they like it or not. When one of them gets to be Link and the rest are relegated to a moniker, a mere epithet. It’s different when it is equal, when they are all on the same level. If no one is Link then they all are, and they know this. But when it is one of them, just one of them, that gets to lay claim to their name, there is an impulsive curl of the lip. There is an instinctual possessiveness. There is a selfish displeasure that what is theirs instead becomes one of theirs in the universal squabble of brotherhood.
Though, to be fair to brothers everywhere, most siblings (by birth or bond) do not share the same name.
And sharing can be hard. It can be difficult. It can be next to impossible, some days. But the thing about family is that they are called upon to do the difficult, impossible things for one another again and again and again, and in this little temporally fragile family, the call of labor on each other’s behalf is never left unanswered.
So they learn not just how to share this, their name, their most intimate possession, but to give it freely. To use it as a well-applied tool, as something else in their collective inventory.
It is a word of caution.
“Link, careful there,” Sky says, grabbing Warriors by the scarf as his foot slips over the edge of the narrow cliff-side trail.
It is a verbal emphasis.
“There is no way, Link,” Wars scolds, but fails to hide his smile, as Wind tries to desperately convince them all that they can, in fact, bring a kitten with them on their quest through time. He puts up a good fight, the Sailor—Link—does, but it’s not enough for victory. Not so severely outnumbered.
It is a threat.
“Link, shut the fuck up!” Wind screeches, tackling Wild to the floor after the third round of teasing today alone about how he’s crushing on his Captain. Tetra picks her head up from the navigation charts she was pouring over, sees the two boys rolling around on the deck laughing, and leaves them to it.
It is a manipulation tactic.
Wild bats his eyelashes like a child, pleading like a small fragile thing. “It was an accident.” Four arches an eyebrow, not impressed at all with the tone, with the handle of the broken blade. Wild’s pout deepens, and he sighs, “Please, Link?”
Like a house of cards, the Smithy folds. Another project starts at the next town, where their name isn’t thrown around by anyone but themselves, like all these other odd in between eras.
It is an expletive.
“Link,” Four says, not managing another word as he pinches the bridge of his nose, staring down into the pit in abject disappointment. Hyrule sits at the bottom, unbothered and laughing, which is a totally normal and sane reaction to falling into a hole.
It is a prayer.
The Traveler’s hands are redder than the tunic they are laid against, shining wetly in the light of the magic he pours out of them. The Vet himself is pale, so pale that it is terrifying, but Hyrule does not falter, does not stop. He just gathers up every drop of magic he has and pushes muttering in a constant murmur, “Come on Link, come on. Not yet!”
It’s an olive branch.
Legend fidgets, at the edge of camp. The others aren’t ignoring him, so much as he has isolated himself and one too many sharp words and defensiveness where there ought to have been gratitude. He can fix this. He knows he can, he’s done it before. He just has to make the effort. “Link,” he says as casually as he can manage, dropping down to sit cross-legged next to Time, on his blind side.
The Old Man quirks a tiny smile and leans toward him, knocking their shoulders together. All is forgiven, and Legend can breathe again.
It is an inside joke.
Left alone with the wolf is a rare position for any of them but Wild to find themselves in, and yet here Time is. “Come on, Link,” he says casually, starting down the trail back toward the others. “Can’t leave the others waiting all day, you know Wild’s in a mood.”
There is a twist of magic in the air behind him and Time turns, managing not to laugh at the utterly flabbergasted expression on Twilight’s face.
For about three seconds, that is.
It is a promise.
“On your feet, Link,” Twilight says, holding a hand out for Sky to take, to haul him back up to standing. “We’re ain’t quitting yet.”
Sky grins back bloody and heaves himself up, other hand wrapped securely around the hilt of his sword.