Anders. No, Really.
His father loved the Anderfels.
Hence the name Anders.
It really wasn’t complicated, but everyone seemed to think it was.
“What’s your name, boy?” The templar asked, his family’s farm fading into the distance as the wagon rattled down the road.
“Anders,” Anders said.
The templars chuckled amongst themselves at his response.
“Boy must be slow,” One guessed.
“Must be,” Another agreed.
....
The First Enchanter squinted down at him when he arrived at the Circle. He was a wizened old man who must not have been terribly wise, because he also asked, “What’s your name, child?”
“Anders,” Anders said.
“Yes, we know your family was from the Anderfels, but what’s your name?”
“Anders,” He said again.
“Poor boy... Perhaps he doesn’t speak the King’s tongue. Take him to the kitchens and get him a hot meal, would you?”
...
His first teacher was more patient, kneeling in front of his desk while he doodled cats in the margins his book. “Hello dear, what’s your name?”
“Anders.”
“No, dear, not where you’re from, your name.”
“Anders,” Anders frowned. He was getting tired of repeating himself.
“... I don’t speak Anders, dear. I’m Wynne,” She tapped her chest, “Wynne. What’s your name? Your name?”
“Anders!” Anders screamed at her.
His teacher walked away, sadly shaking her head.
...
The other boy climbed up into his bunk without invitation, grinning widely, “Hey! I’m in the bottom bunk. I guess we’re bunk mates! What’s your name?”
Anders scowled at him.
“... Don’t you want to tell me?”
“No.”
“Why not?” The boy asked. “I’ll tell you mine! It’s Karl.”
Anders squinted at him suspiciously. The boy grinned back. “... Anders,” He relented.
“Nice to meet you, Anders,” Karl grinned.
