Finrod Ar-Feiniel
May 12th, 2003, 10:22:46 AM
There's a certain trouble with names. Oh everything's fine and dandy if you have a plain, normal name, like Jake Jones or Sarah Simms. The trouble comes if you're a Thornycroft Banderbee, or Bellenfoot Jiggernaut. Or Finrod Ar-Feiniel. Yes, names are troublesome things.
"'Ello Finrod! 'Ow are you t'day?"
The unfortunately named little boy ignored the calls of his schoolmates and kept walking down the bustling path. He was perhaps nine, with a crew cut and delicate frame who today wore a very prominent scowl. It wasn’t his fault that his father’d had such an odd and out of place last name. Nor was it his fault that his mother had named him on the spur of the moment, her inspiration coming to her in a dream. After all, had he been around at the time of the decision, Finrod certainly would not have allowed it.
“’Ey…Finnyrod…Dun’t walk away so! We only wan’ t’ play!”
He ignored them, the lucky stuck-up kids—Ron, Davi, Jerrett…normal. This was a daily routine and though he had grown accustomed to it, it still hurt. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me…what a load of bullocks. Words did hurt, and Finrod was constantly battling them. Sometimes he wondered about his parents.
“Naw it’s not p’lite t’ jes’ walk away like tha’ Finrod! I’ve got a mind t’ teach y’ a lesson!”
The boy quickened his pace but it made little difference. A rock was flung from behind and struck the back or his head, cutting it. Finrod gasped and put his hand over the small wound. It stung fiercely and he broke into a run, the other boys in quick pursuit, looking for some safety anywhere. His current residence was still some distance away and he’d never make it. Breathing quickly with fright, Finrod dodged pedestrians, his school satchel banging against his knobby knees. Just when he was about to give up a man opened a door and exited a restaurant of some kind. Finrod took the opportunity and ran inside.
His school uniform was a mess. The blazer was dirty; the blue and gold tie askew, and the navy shorts were covered in dust and grime. Finrod didn’t pay much attention though; he’d always hated the uniform. It looked awful on him, like it didn’t quite belong. He felt like that often. Never quite in place with everybody else. Finrod had been in foster care for as long as he could remember and he couldn’t count the number of times his foster parents had innocently remarked how different he was.
“Fairylike, ‘e is. A real odd one.”
One foster-mother had said. Whatever that meant.
Panting, the young boy looked around, trying to find a place to sit. For some reason or the other, Ron and his cronies hadn’t followed him in. The place was crowded and it didn’t look as though he would find a seat. Sighing, Finrod put his black leather satchel on the floor and sat on it. His head was throbbing but it seemed as though it had stopped bleeding. No doubt the short spikes of white-blonde hair were matted with the thick dried blood.
Yes, names were troublesome things.
"'Ello Finrod! 'Ow are you t'day?"
The unfortunately named little boy ignored the calls of his schoolmates and kept walking down the bustling path. He was perhaps nine, with a crew cut and delicate frame who today wore a very prominent scowl. It wasn’t his fault that his father’d had such an odd and out of place last name. Nor was it his fault that his mother had named him on the spur of the moment, her inspiration coming to her in a dream. After all, had he been around at the time of the decision, Finrod certainly would not have allowed it.
“’Ey…Finnyrod…Dun’t walk away so! We only wan’ t’ play!”
He ignored them, the lucky stuck-up kids—Ron, Davi, Jerrett…normal. This was a daily routine and though he had grown accustomed to it, it still hurt. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me…what a load of bullocks. Words did hurt, and Finrod was constantly battling them. Sometimes he wondered about his parents.
“Naw it’s not p’lite t’ jes’ walk away like tha’ Finrod! I’ve got a mind t’ teach y’ a lesson!”
The boy quickened his pace but it made little difference. A rock was flung from behind and struck the back or his head, cutting it. Finrod gasped and put his hand over the small wound. It stung fiercely and he broke into a run, the other boys in quick pursuit, looking for some safety anywhere. His current residence was still some distance away and he’d never make it. Breathing quickly with fright, Finrod dodged pedestrians, his school satchel banging against his knobby knees. Just when he was about to give up a man opened a door and exited a restaurant of some kind. Finrod took the opportunity and ran inside.
His school uniform was a mess. The blazer was dirty; the blue and gold tie askew, and the navy shorts were covered in dust and grime. Finrod didn’t pay much attention though; he’d always hated the uniform. It looked awful on him, like it didn’t quite belong. He felt like that often. Never quite in place with everybody else. Finrod had been in foster care for as long as he could remember and he couldn’t count the number of times his foster parents had innocently remarked how different he was.
“Fairylike, ‘e is. A real odd one.”
One foster-mother had said. Whatever that meant.
Panting, the young boy looked around, trying to find a place to sit. For some reason or the other, Ron and his cronies hadn’t followed him in. The place was crowded and it didn’t look as though he would find a seat. Sighing, Finrod put his black leather satchel on the floor and sat on it. His head was throbbing but it seemed as though it had stopped bleeding. No doubt the short spikes of white-blonde hair were matted with the thick dried blood.
Yes, names were troublesome things.