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The first thing that Link is aware of is the sound of the waves. The soft, repetitive, and even shushing of the sea.
At first, he doesn’t think that anything is wrong. He has a single moment of hope that his boat survived the storm after all, that he must have slipped and hit his head or something, knocked his own ass out while trying to fight the wind.
Which is all very funny and all since he has apparently lived to never tell anyone that particular tale.
And then he moves. A hesitant shifting of his arms, not eager to bolt upright until he’s sure nothing’s broken (made that mistake before) and feels not rain-slicked wood beneath his fingers, but sand.
Link’s eyes snap open in a jolt. Yep. That’s sand. Soft and white, and reflecting the bright-ass sunshine directly into his eyes. He’s laying prone on the sand, waves rolling gently somewhere behind him, and soaked to the fucking bone.
…okay, so maybe his boat didn’t last through the storm after all.
“On your way home—well, on my way home, there was a storm,” Legend tells him. “I was shipwrecked.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity—No. No, not yet. He doesn't know for sure that it’s the same, he has no proof. A million little things that they’ve changed, that they’ve altered. There’s no way that it was the same storm, the same route, the same island.
Just because it happened to Legend, doesn’t mean it will happen to Link. That’s the mantra that he has been telling himself for years, lest he go mad with the idea of predestination.
“Hey!” A voice, a familiar voice comes from farther down the beach. Link has never been so happy to hear that voice in his life.
He scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly as a sudden round of dizziness washes over him. Wind must see him wavering, because his quick walk shifts into a run.
Link—wait, if Wind is here then that means he’s Lore, not Link—manages to stay upright just long enough for Wind to grab hold of his arms, keeping Lore steady as his knees shake.
“You okay?”
Now, Lore would really like to say something articulate here. Like ‘oh yeah totally fine,’ or ‘nice to see you,’ or ‘please tell me the portal dropped Legend in the ocean that would be so funny.’ Instead all he manages in a rough, cracking voice, is “Wind?”
Way to go, Folklore, real smooth.
Wind frowns, shifting his grip to slide one arm around Lore’s waist, hooking Lore’s own arm over the sailor’s shoulders. “North by northwest, but I think you’ve got other things to worry about.”
Lore manages a dry chuckle. Fuck, his throat hurts, how much sea water did he swallow? “Very funny.”
“Is it?” Wind raises an eyebrow sideways at him, and starts carefully leading him forward. “So let’s add ‘delerium’ to the list.”
With a snort of amusement, Lore lets his head loll. He’s tired, he’s so tired, but it’s okay. He can relax, Wind is here. The others are nearby, then. No matter what potentially world-ending catastrophe the Chain’s presence heralds, Lore can sleep this off before dealing with it. Nine other Heroes can mostly fill in for him while he gets his shit together.
Wind leads him, using his own body as a crutch, step by careful step up the beach. Lore wants to catch up. He wants to ask how long it’s been for them, for his brothers scattered across time (always together, always leaving him behind). But his throat really does hurt.
The sand shifts to firmer soil, shade filters over Lore’s eyelids. He sighs in relief, melting even further into Wind’s support. “Thanks,” he croaks out.
“No worries,” Wind laughs. “It’s only fair I drag your waterlogged ass into town, after all, Marin had to do it for me.”
…That name sounds familiar. Why does it sound familiar?
Wind continues, “What’s your name, by the way?”
Lore’s eyes pry themselves open. He goes very, very still. “Wind, that’s not funny.”
“Oh!” The sailor laughs. “Wind is a person, then? That makes more sense than you asking about the weather.”
This better not be time shenanigans. If this is time shenanigans, Lore is gonna—
“I’m Gale, by the way. And you are…?”
What a question. Is the Chain here? Is there a second Chain to go with the fact that there is a second Legend (him) and a second Four and sweet Nayru now his head hurts!
“Folklore,” he settles on, “you can call me Lore, though.”
Not-Wind beams him a sideways grin. “Well, Lore, congrats on not drowning.”
He can’t help it, he laughs.
“And welcome to Koholint.”
Looks like Legend was right again. Lore laughs once more, this time with just a touch of hysteria. He ignores the sideways glance of concern from Gale—not Wind, apparently, for all that he’s fucking identical to the guy, and forces a shaky breath.
He’s so fucked.