Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its people are Tolkien's. I'm only borrowing them, and I always try to be extra careful with things I've borrowed.

Author's note: I posted this earlier with some additional material that was nowhere near ready yet. Sorry! It will be back as soon as I get the problems ironed out.

As for Pippin's story, I'm afraid I can't help you. When I wrote that, I was thinking of an old friend from college who specialized in stories that had everyone writhing on the floor in agony, but I never could manage it except by accident in front of the stuffiest sorts of authority figures.

I'm probably going to revise this story before I get to the end, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know.

The Blue Mountains, February 2993

Frár had only been in Lord Skirvir's private audience room for a few minutes before he found himself thinking he could get the same results in much less time by throwing himself down a mineshaft. "I will do my best to deliver any message you like, but I see no way that I can. After everything that was said and done when the others left for Erebor, I doubt any Dwarf of the Blue Mountains would be admitted there."

"That is why I am sending along the jewels that Farin refused to release to those who went to Erebor," said Skirvir.

Frár fought a brief and largely successful battle to keep his jaw from dropping. Those gems lay at the heart of the feud between the Blue Mountains and Erebor. When the larger part of the Blue Mountain Dwarves had set out for the Lonely Mountain, they took all their possessions with them, or had intended to. Those who were staying said the gems were products of the Blue Mountains and should remain there. Those leaving for the Lonely Mountain said the ones who stayed behind would get their halls and their fixtures, so it would be a fair partition to send the portable goods with them to Erebor. In the end, the late Lord Farin had called out his remaining warriors to keep those who were bound for Erebor from taking any of the disputed property. The emigrants had been furious, but the prospect of great prosperity in Erebor finally outweighed their rage at the injustice and they had departed without the jewels.

Dwarves were known among the Free Peoples for their jealousy and capacity for bearing grudges, and that was one rumor about his people that Frár had to admit was not a pack of lies. Some of those gems had been in the hands of Farin's staunchest supporters. Frár struggled to imagine a way in which the jewels could have been separated from the previous owners without ending in enough dead Dwarves to fill all the existing burial caverns. What have I let him talk me into? he wondered, trying to get the words "blood feud" out of his mind. After a long while, he managed to say, "If I've done something to displease you, you could just clout me a time or two and have done."

Skirvir shook his head and said, "If there had been anyone else I thought I could trust with this, I would have done so. This is not the sort of reward I would have chosen for your loyalty." Skirvir leaned back in his chair and stared up at the graceful vaults of the ceiling. When he spoke again, it was in a tone so distant that Frár wondered if his lord even remembered he was there. "We must make an end of this quarrel. It has gone on too long already. Tharkûn is right. The enemy will soon be upon us, while we distract ourselves from the true danger with this pointless squabble. No, we must settle this now and ready ourselves for the real battle before time runs out."

That was a line of thought that he was accustomed to hearing from Lord Skirvir, thought Frár, but one that was deeply unpopular in the Blue Mountains. Farin had resented King Dáin for luring so many away to Erebor, and had spent the rest of his life making sure that everyone else who stayed behind resented it as well. He believed with great dedication that those who had gone to Erebor took with them more wealth than they had any right to. As an added insult, the halls of Blue Mountains had begun to be treated as a backwater after they had been the last refuge of Dwarven culture for so many years.

During the years when Farin had ruled the Blue Mountains, his nephew Skirvir had kept his counsel and watched what was happening in the world beyond the dwarven halls. He had noted the orcs and other evil things appearing in places where they had never been seen before, and carefully sounded out others who shared his worries. He built alliances with the skill and patience of a master craftsman, even if his materials were not ones that Dwarves generally chose to use. Sometimes his lord reminded him more of Tharkûn than any dwarf had a right to. One day, he promised himself, he was going to make up his mind whether he felt more pride or embarrassment to serve such a lord.

"You must leave as soon as the roads are passable. I've gathered a large band of warriors to send off openly, but you will travel with seven others I can trust. I had thought to send a large enough escort with you to fight off any attackers, but there were too few that I could trust that completely. We will have to rely on secrecy and misdirection instead. The seven who will accompany you are all fine warriors, but they will go clad as craftsmen and your party must appear to be no more than that. I have sent word to Tharkûn that you will meet him at The Prancing Pony in Bree. The landlord there is discreet and no enemy to our people. If Tharkûn is delayed, you can safely wait there a few days. He will accompany you the rest of the way to the Lonely Mountain, and once there, he will stay to give you any aid you need to present our case and deliver the gems."

"So it's Tharkûn who will keep the King from chopping me into tiny little bits before I deliver your message. I thought it would take at least that," muttered Frár, only half in jest.

Lord Skirvir frowned a little at the younger dwarf's levity. "Something of that sort, if I am not overcome with the urge to deny King Dáin the pleasure. I chose you to deliver this message despite your youth because out of all the Dwarves left in the Blue Mountains, I thought you were the least wedded to this miserable feud. Don't prove me a fool by making light of anything that is said in Erebor."

Frár stiffened. "When have I ever said these things in public?"

Skirvir nodded. "Just remember that when you reach Erebor. There is too much at stake to risk on an untimely jest." Then the severity dropped away and he added, "And by Mahal, be careful! The danger would be great enough if you were merely delivering a pouch of jewels to Erebor. Farin still has his loyal followers, and I cannot imagine them sitting by quietly while we overthrow everything he spent the last fifty years trying to accomplish. They are almost certain to try to prevent it somehow. The warriors I'm sending with you are seasoned and trustworthy, but there are many leagues of wilderness between here and the Lonely Mountain, and just as many opportunities to do someone harm along the way. Watch yourself."

***

The Prancing Pony, May 2994

It was too soon to be so worried, Gandalf told himself. Frár and his escorts were to have arrived by the end of April, and they had only overshot the appointed time by a day. In such a wet spring, they would have had to make very good time indeed to be no more delayed than that. He was a day late himself, since there had been some concern that the high water might be undercutting the foundations of the Brandywine Bridge, and Bilbo had asked him to have a look at it. Any passing Dwarves would surely have been asked to check it over as well, and even without being set to work as bridge inspectors, it was a long journey from the Blue Mountains. Still, he couldn't get rid of the feeling that something had gone very wrong.

He looked back down the street, hoping they might have just arrived. The cobbles were still wet in places, but most of the puddles had evaporated under the warm spring sun and the people of Bree were taking full advantage of the break in the rain. The street leading around the hill to the town gate was crowded with Men and Hobbits, but not a Dwarf in sight. He shook his head at his foolishness, and stepped into the inn.

He paused for a moment just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.

"Master Gandalf, what a surprise!" said someone from the darkness of the hallway. The voice was familiar but somehow unfamiliar at the same time. "Dad was beginning to think you'd taken a dislike to us. He'll be that happy to hear you've come for a visit again. Not to mention Tilly and Tom and Nob, and well, everybody. Will you be staying long this time?"

He took a closer look and smiled. "Good afternoon, young Barliman." The last time he'd seen the innkeeper's son, the boy had only just begun to help out in the more public parts of the inn. Since then, his voice had dropped an octave, and he was beginning to take on the barrel shape that had been characteristic of Butterbur men for more generations than Gandalf cared to recall. "I'm not sure how long I will be able to stay this time. I'm supposed to meet a party of eight dwarves from the Blue Mountains here, and travel on to the Lonely Mountain with them. Have they arrived yet?"

Barliman eyebrows shot up, and he gave Gandalf an odd look, but only shook his head. "No, they haven't. We haven't seen a party that big since last autumn. A pair of Dwarves came through, oh, it must have been over two weeks ago now, and it's a wonder they could get through at all. They said the Bucklebury Ferry has been out of service all spring because the river was flooded so bad, and I don't doubt things get worse the further you get from civilized parts."

Gandalf suppressed a smile at Barliman's assumption that Bree was the center of the civilized world. "Then it appears that I will have plenty of time for a visit with you and your family."

"They'll be glad to see you again. Especially Tilly. She still talks about the sweets you kept in your pockets," said Barliman, grinning.

Gandalf smiled back, and said, "I suppose you're too old for that sort of thing now."

The innkeeper's son looked a little regretful at the prospect of being too grown up to rifle through the wizard's pockets with the children, but shrugged and said, "I suppose it was bound to happen. I'll just go tell Dad you're here."

Barliman ducked back into the kitchens and reappeared a moment later with his father. Tim Butterbur was a bit grayer than the last time Gandalf had seen him, but still had the same quick, bobbing movements.

"Gandalf, you're back!" he said, grinning widely. "I was beginning to think you'd taken a fancy to the ale at The Forsaken Inn and deserted us. It's been nearly five years."

Gandalf thought back over the last few years and realized that old Butterbur was right. That certainly explained Barliman's sudden maturity. He hadn't made many trips to Rivendell or beyond in the last few years and those had generally been too rushed and urgent to allow for a stop at The Prancing Pony. He hadn't even seen Tim's family the last time he was there. It might not be a bad thing if Frár did arrive a day or two behind schedule. Apart from being a fine brewer, Tim was good, undemanding company. Between his latest duel of wits with Lord Denethor and trying to encourage an end to the feud between the Dwarves of Erebor and the Blue Mountains, talking to Tim would be a distinct relief. The innkeeper didn't have to be cajoled into behaving reasonably, and there was no need to scrutinize every word before it was said. Breelanders were notoriously uninterested in the outside world and might well miss an occasional slip. If not, then discretion carried great weight in the Butterbur family. "Has it really been five years? Then it's past time I stayed for a while."

"How long do you plan to stay?" Tim asked. "Not that I mean to hurry you out the door, but the Tunnelly wedding is week after next and once the Tunnelly relatives start arriving, there'll be no peace for anyone in Bree."

"It's going to be a big wedding, is it?" asked Gandalf. Tim rolled his eyes and Barliman muttered that he was never going to get married, never. "In that case, I think I can find some pressing business at the Lonely Mountain about that time. I'm really not certain how long I will stay. I'm supposed to meet a Dwarf here. His name is Frár, and he's coming from the Blue Mountains with seven others. They were planning to be here by today, but your son tells me they haven't arrived."

"Then there's no better time to sit and visit for a while. It'll keep you from worrying about them being late & me from worrying about whether there'll be anything left of me or The Pony after the Tunnellys are through with us," said Tim. "Here, Barley. You take over for a bit."

Barley looked disappointed and elated in equal measure, but he agreed easily enough and went off to fetch them some beer. Tim led Gandalf to a table in the back corner of the common room. The wizard noted with amusement that it was positioned so that Tim could see though the open doorway into the kitchen, as well as having a clear view of the front door. Old Butterbur wasn't entirely ready to turn over the reins yet, it seemed.

Tim must have noticed his amusement, because he said, "Barley's a good lad, but I'm not sure he's ready to handle everything that might happen at The Pony by himself yet. But here he comes with our beer. Tell me what you think of this batch."

Barliman set mugs of beer in front of the two of them and opened his mouth to say something, but his father hushed him. Gandalf raised an eyebrow. If the Butterbur family didn't take beer so seriously, the expectant looks on their faces would have made him suspect some sort of prank. He took a cautious sip, and then a deeper one. "Tim, you've outdone yourself."

Tim elbowed his son in the ribs and grinned. Barliman ducked his head and grinned back as Tim said, "No, I haven't. Barley has. That's one of his you're drinking."

"Oh? Then congratulations to you both."

Tim gave his son an affectionate swat and said, "Off you go then, Barley, and let Gandalf know straightaway if any Dwarves come in."

"I will, Dad," said Barliman and headed to another table to see if the Breelanders there wanted another round.

"That really is good beer, Tim," said Gandalf.

"It is, isn't it?" said Tim proudly. Breelanders kept their accomplishments to themselves with almost the same dedication that other people gave to hiding their failings, but apparently it was allowable to admit that one's children were talented.

"He has the knack for it," Tim continued, "which is a blessing because of everything he hasn't got the knack for. If those Dwarves come in, odds are he won't remember you wanted to be told, if he remembers he was supposed to watch for them at all. There never was such a one for losing keys and packages and the like. It's odd; he doesn't forget who's drinking what, or when we're running low on flour, but you'd think his shoes could run away on their own as often as he loses them. I thought he'd outgrow it, but it only gets worse."

Tim sighed and shook his head. "He has a hard time of it, being so forgetful, but none of the others can come close to Barley at figuring out how to make Outsiders feel at home. The others do well enough with Breefolk, Big or Little, but Barley can get Dwarves chatting, and even a Ranger now and then. Well, the Rangers probably only talk to make a game of him, but it doesn't seem to bother him and that's more than any of the rest of us ever manage. No, he knows the parts that can't be taught, and I suppose if he marries wisely and keeps a good staff, they can cover for him when he gets lost on the way to the privy."

"Tim, he cannot possibly be that bad," said Gandalf.

"Oh, I was exaggerating, but just you watch," said Tim darkly. "If he doesn't come through here wondering where he left his apron or why he was supposed to keep an eye out for Dwarves at least twice tonight, I'll take back everything I said about him." He shrugged and sighed, "Ah, well. I could have done much worse than my Barliman."

"Indeed you could," said Gandalf, and lifted the beer to his lips again. The mug emptied, he set it down and said, "Beer that good calls for good pipe-weed to follow. Here, have some of this and tell me how things have gone in Bree while I've been away."

Tim picked up the pouch and whistled when he saw the mark. "Old Toby! Then you must think the world of Barley's brewing. I couldn't trade beer nor money nor both of them together for Southfarthing pipe-weed last year." He filled his pipe with a happy sigh.

Before Tim could explain his remark, Barliman appeared behind him with two more beers and a harried expression on his face. "Dad, some of the Tunnellys just showed up. Tilly's distracting them with turnovers while we get the rooms ready."

Tim sat bolt upright, an identical look of dismay spreading across his broad face. "Already? They weren't any of them due in till day after tomorrow! How many are there?"

His son could only shrug. "There's about a dozen so far. They told me they decided to come early because of the bad roads and visit some other relatives before the wedding, and some of the others were thinking of doing the same."

"Confound them! I'd best go check the storerooms and see what we can scrape up to feed that many, and all of them ready to feast the month away, I'll warrant." He got up frowning and said, "I wish I could have talked longer, Gandalf, but this blasted wedding.... Barley will look after you. And Barley, the longer I think about it, the more I think you're right. No child of mine is going to get married if I have anything to say about it. Weddings!"

TBC