A delivery of Southern Star leaf kept him busy for a while, after which he settled up with Widow Gibbly for the laundry; he gave her some friendly, paternal advice as to how she should be bringing up her bairns and she took umbrage, of course, as all the villagers were wont to do when Butterbur tried to show them how things should be done. The Sage of Bree determined to try again in a day or two, for it was obvious that the Gibbly boys were heading down the wrong path and he owed it to the village to nip such delinquency in the bud. If not him, then who? he reasoned to himself with a heavy sigh. Just because he had never married, that didn't mean he had no opinions on marriage and child rearing, did it? He hadn't murdered anyone, after all, but still he knew murder was wrong. So there you were.

Confirmed bachelor Barliman Butterbur had long ago given up on love as something talked about, sang about and cried over, but a thing foreign and unfathomable and not for the likes of him. Still, at times the bed in the upstairs backroom could be a lonely little sanctuary from the troubles of the world.

Checking the clock on the mantle, Butterbur decided there was just time for an hour's nap in the back parlour; the fat little innkeeper sat himself down in the big cosy armchair and before long was dreaming of bags of pipeweed and steak-and-kidney pies and of glossy curls on pretty heads, which was all very agreeable.

Waking to the reality of a long list of chores still to be tackled, Butterbur levered himself from the armchair and went off to check that all the guest rooms had clean linen and candles. Then he sent Nob down to the cellars to root out the rats that had been scratching at the potato sacks and nibbling at the lines. If he ruled the world, rats would be vanquished to some far flung island, every last one…

It was time to open the doors to the customers at six o'clock and he was soon busy pulling pints and half pints and settling arguments as to who said what when and where and with whom. Really, the Bree folk needed a firm hand if fights weren't to break out and friendships rendered willy-nilly. Sometimes, Butterbur wondered why he had been chosen to be arbiter, why he had been graced with such unerring judgement and patience. It was a burden, but one he was willing to shoulder as there was no one else in twenty miles who would, or could, take it on. If only people would listen!

So far, it was just another ordinary day at the Prancing Pony. Until, that is, at about half-past six, with the night starting to close in and a heavy rain falling, in came an infrequent visitor and one of whom Butterbur was always a little wary.

Strider, it was, a big chap but big not so much on account of his height or his breadth but more in his demeanour and the way he looked at a person as if he could tell the exact shade of his heart and how many beats were left to it. Still, he had always paid his bill and never caused any trouble and he certainly never was hard on the ears, seeing as he barely spoke a word from coming in to sitting down in the corner, his hood drawn down over his face and only his pipe to illuminate that there was even a living creature in the shadows at all…

Just as he had gotten used to the presence of the Ranger in his inn, along came four hobbits fresh out of the Shire.

Now, Butterbur had hobbits in his hostelry all the time. Hobbits had lived in Bree for years without number and Butterbur personally liked them. Some more than others, but to his way of thinking, the same could be said for men and dwarves, too. Elves he'd heard of but never had he met any, so he couldn't say one way or the other.

Four hobbits. Wet and cold and anxious, to Butterbur's eyes, and their leader trying to be brave and almost succeeding. The landlord found himself most impressed by him, his dignity and presence - and he was certainly a pretty fellow, with his pale skin and soft hair. Oh, but he obviously needed looking after and who was to do it, Butterbur asked himself.

As if that wasn't enough, the innkeeper found himself scratching an itch in his memory, trying to bring to mind why the name Underhill should be familiar. Of course, there were Underhills living in Bree, good hobbits all, but this one professed himself not to be related to any of them as far as he knew, so it could hardly be that. And his companions, the three hobbits who all pressed close to him, partly out of fear and partly out of love, it seemed to Butterbur – they looked at him a little uneasily when he uttered that name... Innocents abroad! If he had time, Butterbur could tell them exactly what they should be doing, when and with whom; he could take them in hand and give them the benefit of his wisdom. But time was at a premium, like dragon's droppings, so they said in Archet – hard to find and even harder to turn into a decent stew. But then again, the Archet crowd were a strange lot, Butterbur had always thought.

They sat, the four hobbits, the only hobbits in the inn that night, and drank their half-pints and whispered together. The leader – the blue-eyed one, Mister Underhill - kept glancing around but trying to appear not to be doing so.

Butterbur pulled pints and bustled about, aware of everything and everyone in his house that evening – and one eye particularly devoted to the hobbits - the master of his own little domain and friend to all. As he passed the hobbits' table, he found his attention drawn once more to the little master with the big bright eyes, who enquired, "Excuse me, that man in the corner, who is he?"

The innkeeper was quick to explain. "He's one of them Rangers. Dangerous folk they are, all a-wandering in the wilds. What his right name is I've never heard but around here, he's known as Strider."

Mister Underhill whispered the name, Strider... as if it were a talisman, a new sound he needed to play with. Butterbur found himself staring at the hobbit's lips as Mister Underhill mouthed the word Strider. Handsome tall, enigmatic Striders should be taken to the same island as rats, taken to an island many leagues hence and bound hand and foot, tied to stakes, left out in the elements, brought low and never able to disdain ordinary folk again or seduce young hobbits that had lashes like spider legs…

No! Where had that come from? Butterbur was perplexed. He had naught against the Ranger, save from a perfectly natural suspicion of his kind. To think of harming him just because Mister Underhill spoke his name as if it were a prayer, was quite unsettling. Unaccustomed to such thoughts, Butterbur took a step back from the pretty hobbit; there was something untoward about this young chap, that much was as plain as the nose on his face. Not that the nose on his face was plain, because it wasn't, not at all…

Butterbur. King of Bree. Yes.

Butterbur. King of Breelanders. Boss of Bywater and all the Shire. The Green Dragon, yours. And The Ivy Bush, the Golden Perch. All yours. And all the people yours to manage, with love… all of them… men and hobbits… all

Looking down, from what now seemed rather a great height, Butterbur saw that Mister Underhill was fingering a ring, stroking it with his bitten hobbit nails, caressing it with his filthy pretty soft grimy hands, loving it and hating it and loving it. It was beautiful, despite its plainness, far too beautiful to be the property of a halfling, even one as special as this Mister Underhill.

The King of Bree can have anything he wants… wages for his time and love…

Butterbur screwed his eyes shut for a moment.

Baggins. Baggins… Butterbur

It was the younger hobbit, the one called Master Took, at the bar, regaling the men there with tales from the Shire. He was a handsome little fellow and had a twinkle about him, so the men were happy to listen and egg him on. "Sure I know a Baggins. He's over there, Frodo Baggins. He's my second cousin once removed on his mother's side and my third cousin twice removed on his father's side, if you follow me."

What happened next was something of a blur to everyone in the common room of the Pony that evening.

Mister Underhill jumped up and ran to towards Master Took at the bar, a look of pure horror on his face. Before he could reach him, however, everything seemed to slow down and bend, somehow, as if Butterbur were looking upon it all through a distorting glass. He saw Mister Underhill reach out with his hand towards his companion. Then Mister Underhill's feet went from under him and he was falling.

There was a gasp from the men in the common room, as the comely hobbit fell flat on his back. The Ranger, Strider, was up on his feet in an instant, and rushing towards him. The two hobbits at the table jumped up, also, and Master Took joined them, his face a sickly hue and all joviality fled.

The hobbits reached down and helped their friend to his feet, one in particular most distressed by this turn of events. "Are you all right, sir?" he said, brushing down Mister Underhill's coat and checking anxiously for cuts and bruises. Mister Underhill had a pained expression over and above that associated with falling flat on his backside. He began to shake, looking this way and that, his hand clutching at his neck and then delving wildly in his jacket pockets. "Where is it?" he cried, over and over, then "It's gone!"

The Ranger, Strider, took a rough hold of the hobbit's arm and growled, "Where is the Ring?" The hobbits crowded around their leader, protectively, but Mister Underhill seemed to barely notice. "I do not know! I felt it in my hand, it was compelling me to put it on… but when I slipped, it slipped from my grasp…"

"It must be found, quickly," Strider spoke, his face grim and determined. He looked about at the men, all curious at the fuss made over a missing trinket, as if trying to read their very minds.

The hobbits all looked up at the tall grim man and then at each other. They had, after all, never been introduced. "What do you know about it, anyway, Longshanks?" demanded the one called Sam, jutting out his chin defiantly.

"A good deal," replied the Ranger, coldly. "Things have gone badly awry this night, Frodo Baggins."

Mister Underhill reacted to the name with a start and seemed for a moment as if he would challenge the interloper, but then his shoulders sagged and he replied in a defeated tone, "They have gone amiss, and no mistake. I don't know what came over me. But how do you know me and what do you know of my burden?"

The Ranger beckoned the hobbits over to the corner, so they could discuss matters in a little more privacy than was afforded to them where they stood. The Breelanders soon lost interest, turning back to their pints and pipes and talk. The clock ticked on the mantle.

Then, "Parched, I am," said old Tud Brakeshot, banging his empty pot on the bar. "Service! Hoy, landlord!"

"Where's he got to? Tud's companions wanted to know, all of them desirous of a refill and no barman to be seen. Soon the babble increased and glances were thrown at the Ranger in the corner with the little folk, as if they might be keeping the landlord from his rightful business. Then speculation grew that Butterbur had been waylaid on the way to the privy by one or more of the unsavoury characters, southerners for the most part, to be seen in Bree of late. So Nob went off to check but came back shaking his head and shrugging.

"You serve us, Nob," cried the men but Nob knew he had no business behind the expanse of gleaming oak; that was the landlord's domain, Butterbur's own kingdom, and Nob knew his place too well to risk a kick in the pants from him for trespassing where he had no business…

King of Bree

All was white and silver and strange in the land beyond Bree, beyond the Shire, beyond any part of Middle Earth that Butterbur had ever seen. He was in a place composed of shadows yet the shadows were white and the light dark. He could see the common room and men he had known all his life; he could discern the bar and the lamps, the pumps, the spittoons, the horse brasses and firewood. Yet all was in flux as if he – or they – were underwater. He heard Tud's words and those of the others, yet though he stood less than three feet away from the old man, Tud looked through him as if he had no substance. Butterbur almost called out to him, almost said, "But Tud, I'm here, you old fool!" But something stopped him.

King of Bree and master of Buckland. Mayor. Keeper of the Peace. Lawgiver. Loved by all. A journey east. Knowledge shared in the east, then home again. Loved by all. King of Bree.

The Ring that he had caught miraculously upon his very finger when it flipped out of Mister Underhill's clutches as he fell, gleamed dully in the half-light of the shadowlands. Butterbur held up his hand and beheld the Ring's majesty and knew that he was taller than before, taller and stronger and wiser. All the good he had ever wanted to do, he would do.

Loved, he would be, and not as a fat innkeeper but as a great thinker and lawgiver. Loved by all and the all starting with the one, the one who must be prised from the clutches of that hulking arrogant Strider. In the Shadowlands Butterbur would reign, but not alone.

His heart was singing as he made his way unseen to the corner where the great oaf was ensconced with the halflings.

"… and so I came at once, Frodo. We cannot wait for Gandalf but must hasten onwards to Rivendell. Yet to do so without the Ring… Cursed is this day, if it gives our Enemy his victory. The Ring will bend to its will any foolish enough to claim it."

Butterbur smarted a tiny bit at that last bit but dismissed as idle talk the words of the wanderer. What was he, after all, but a Ranger? This Strider, friend of Gandalf?

Gandalf.

King of Bree

Gandalf, for years a friend, always welcome in the Pony.

Uneasily, Butterbur glanced again at the Ring upon his finger and then at the hobbits. Mister Underhill looked wretched, his hands working convulsively at his pockets and his wide blue eyes roving about the room as if that which he had lost might suddenly reappear as if by magic.

Well, it wouldn't, Butterbur knew. As long as he kept it on his finger, it was safe and secret and his good works could begin. He would explain to his friend, the wizard, that it was all for the best, ordained and sealed and meant to be. Gandalf would understand. Whatever mighty plans Gandalf had in mind for this Ring, and Butterbur had no inkling what they might be, he would surely be content once he knew it had been claimed by Butterbur, King of Bree.

"… evil, Frodo. A great evil. All the world under a second darkness, the people miserable slaves. If only you had taken more care…"

King of Bree

"Hoy, landlord! You have thirsty customers here, what have coins to pay for your beer. Shall we go home, then?" It was old Tud and his friends. "Enough's enough, innkeeper!"

Gandalf thwarted. Second darkness. Miserable slaves. Blue eyes forlorn and downcast, love given only reluctantly… not love at all.

Boundless knowledge and unimaginable power and the majesty of rule were all very well.

But there were paying customers waiting and beer to be pulled. The best beer in Bree and for miles around, better by far than that at the Forsaken Inn. Beer that he and his family had perfected over the generations, and that was naught to be sniffed at.

Butterbur found his feet taking him behind his bar, felt his hand reaching for the pump, his fingers curling around the wornsmooth ceramic handle that was as much a part of him as the eyes in his head.

There was a gasp as the Breefolk realised the handle was moving of its own accord, then a pulling back from the bar as the men sought to escape this devilry in their midst. The handle stopped abruptly, then just as suddenly their landlord was among them once more, appearing as if from thin air. Butterbur had a sheepish look upon his homely features and in his hand was a band of gold.

"Now then gentlemen, order please! Tud, yours a pint, I take it?" Butterbur said loudly. "As soon as I've returned this trinket to its rightful owner, I shall be happy to serve you."

Mister Underhill, or Mister Baggins, as Butterbur now knew him to be, leapt to his hairy feet and hurried to the bar, closely followed by Strider.

"I think this belongs to you," Butterbur said quietly, placing the Ring into Mister Baggins' open hand. "Take good care of it, little master."

The look of relief and gratitude on the hobbit's lovely face was enough for Butterbur; though if he had looked closer he would have seen resignation and fear there, too.

Strider, whose hand had strayed to the hilt of his sword, gave the innkeeper a questioning look. Butterbur shrugged, then said, "I never was one for airs and graces. Why should I want to be King of Bree? Sounds like a lot of hard work, kingship does. Why anyone would want to be a King defeats me!"

The Ranger looked a little bemused, as if he had not the faintest idea what the landlord was blathering on about. Butterbur cared not.

He was back in his own realm, the King of the Prancing Pony and that was good enough for him, as it was his to start with, handed down through the generations and a thing of pride, freely given. No second darkness here, no miserable slaves – except, perhaps, Nob - only good strong beer!