A/N: I don't own the characters that were made by Tolkien, I do own Thomas, his grandparents and his mother. This story has been in my mind for some time now and this is a nice place to let others read it.

In later chapters there are going to be some characters you would only know about if you have read 'Lord of the Rings'. Well, here we go…

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Lost and found again

1.

The sun stood high in the sky, it was hot and humid outside with the summer season well underway. Even the chickens had sought out the shade and were trying to stay out the direct sunlight in their chicken-house. All was quiet around the small farm. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of a broom swishing back and forth while someone was sweeping a floor.

A small building stood apart from the main house, for safety reasons only. The thatched roof of the main house in close proximity to said small building, a pottery with working kiln, would be a fire hazard. The swishing sound came from the interior of the pottery.

Thomas rubbed the sweat of his forehead with his arm and looked around the workplace of the pottery. Everything was in place and cleaned off as well as he could manage. The wooden floor was dustfree for the moment and the clay used for the pottery was stacked away in the basement. The work in the basement had not been bad actually. The temperature there was fairly constant and on a hot summerday it was quite cool there.

Work in the pottery being finished for the moment, Thomas stored away the broom together with some other miscellaneous items he had used and made his way to the back if the house. There was still some laundry to do and his grandparents would not be happy if they noticed him doing nothing for more then a few moments.

Pleasing his grandparents was difficult to accomplish, as nothing he did seemed to be good enough for his grandmother Meagan and his grandfather Brendil. Their silent disapproval was enough to put a damper on the work he did around pottery. Even the things he enjoyed doing, like sorting out the different glazings and handling the finished pieces to their respective buyers, soon lost their appeal. To say nothing about his additional work in and around the house.

The work he did kept him quite busy and seemed never ending. Though Thomas did work hard, his grandparents did their share as well. Not as much as they used to, as age began to take it's tole on their bodies after years of working. Another point there of unvoiced bitterness, as far as Thomas could label the emotion. His grandfather, at the time suffering from some ailment to do with older age, had called him a halfbreed some years ago. When the then fourteen-year old Thomas asked what he had meant by that, the response was less then favorable. All he got were a glare, a snarl that he should look at his reflection in the water more often.

Like he had never done that before!

He had once seen a little painted picture of his mother, shown to him by his grandmother. His mother had long dark hair and dark-brown eyes. The small picture was enough to mark her as an average person, someone you wouldn't really notice in a crowd. She had died giving birth to him and he was almost certain that it was the reason his grandparents acted like they did. The realisation was only something of the last three years, the years before that were filled with outlandish and childish fantasies.

His mother's picture was enough to ascertain Thomas' looks came from his father's side. His own blond hair and blue eyes set him apart not only from his deceased mother, but also from his grandparent. The other...feature that came from his father, were his ears. Thomas was ashamed of them and hid them below his hair. They were not round like everybody else's, but they were a bit pointed. That, aside from his looks, did set him apart from not only his grandparents but also from the other people in the village. Recently, restless feelings of 'not belonging' had begun to rise. Not knowning how to handle the feelings and no real close friends to discuss his concerns, made him turn a blind eye on it. Hard work took his mind of things and filled the day until it was time to go to bed and start work the next day early.