Labadal and Túrin: Names

It seems to one person, at least, I am Sador no longer. Túrin, the small son of my master, watches me in fascination, his grey eyes wide, as I mend and carve, and whittle.  He sees me as I limp about in my workshed, and has dubbed me 'labadal', 'hopafoot'.  From an adult I would take it amiss, as an insult.  But he is too young to understand the hurtfulness of words. In his piping voice I hear, not scorn, but admiration, and perhaps some pity for my pain.

Labadal is not so ill a name as some might think.