A/N: Here's another chapter!

Green

The teasing playfulness of their time in Tookborough was washed away barely two weeks later, first by the retelling of the Battle of Azanulbizar, and then by a rain that poured down with enough strength to make their saddles start swelling. Unfortunately, they were well past Bree by that point, and so unable to seek proper shelter. Fortunately, however, they were well past the flooding river. Bilbo withstood the rain stoically, his leather and armors repelling a good amount of it as they had been spelled to by the small, Olde Hobbitish runes carved into them. His bound hair was also helpful, keeping wet curls from his face and eyes and keeping his vision clear, which was more than most of the Dwarrows. Already near-sighted as their species was (Kílí and those few Archers the Dwarves could claim were the exception beyond using 'elf weapons', after all.), the Dwarrow of the Company were unable to clearly make out the distant shapes of any dangers that the thick, gray sheet of rain could hide, and reluctantly allowed Gandalf and Bilbo to lead the way down muddy, mildly treacherous paths and roads.

"This confounded rain is repugnant," Dori groused at Bilbo's side as he squinted unhappily ahead. Bilbo hummed quietly in agreement. "Never have I been so soaked through without the aide of a pool of water," the Dwarf continued grouchily. "I have no doubt that half of our number will fall into some foul illness, and the other half will fall to drowning on land at this point!" Bilbo hummed quietly, mildly amused.

"It is the Shires Storm Season, Dori," he informed the Dwarf quietly. "And this is far from the worst rainstorm we have seen in recent years." Dori huffed, which immediately dissolved into a messy sneeze. "Oh dear," the Hobbit murmured, pulling a handkerchief from his saddlebag and handing it to the miserably scowling Dwarf.

"My thanks, Bilbo," he grumbled, before scowling ahead of the two of them at their Wizard. "Here, Mister Gandalf!" He called clearly. "Can't you do something about this deluge?"

"It is raining, Master Dwarf!" the equally cantankerous Wizard snapped thunderously, sending a soggy glower over his shoulder at them. "And it will continue to rain until the rain is done! If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another Wizard." Ori, miserable and soaked as the rest (perhaps more-so, with his preference to wool and yarn) piped up from behind Dori and Bilbo, Nori trailing farther back for once, so he could talk with Bofur.

"Are there any?" the young Dwarf asked, ever curious.

"What?" Gandalf replied; Ori raised his voice to be better heard, though Bilbo had no doubt that the Wizard heard him just fine.

"Other Wizards!"

"Hmph," Gandalf grunted. "There are five of us, Young Ori. The Greatest of our Order is Saruman The White," he answered, and Bilbo absently tuned the Wizard out, allowing his eyes to trail away to stare out into the forest, uninterested. He had no doubt that, whatever other Wizards there were, they were equally as meddlesome and strange as Gandalf was. Mayhaps in different ways, but meddlesome all the same.

So, he did not listen to the Wizard and young Dwarf's chatting, but instead to the sound of rain against the good, green leaves and thick, packed soil. He listened to the sound of the trees, creaking and rustling in the rain, drinking the water and thrumming with the life it provided. The plants of the Kindly West were thirsty things, always ready to take what the Valar saw fit to flood them with. Even after the Fell Winter, there was barely any loss of trees during the following spring, only those that had been cut for firewood and to fix damage to those few wooden constructs that rested within the Greenlands.

Thoughts on the Fell brought thoughts of his parents, and with them his Garden.

...He missed his Olive.

He missed being able to sit there beside her and his parents and tell her about his day. Talk about the weather and tease her about the butterflies and bumblebees that flocked to her flowers. Stroke his fingers across the petals so very, very tenderly. Sit in the early morning dew and smoke a quiet pipe as he watched the sun rise slowly over the Hills.

Lay in the grass with his fingers clutched in the Gardens earth and weep as he forced himself not to tear the fragile grasses and roots up, so overwhelmed with emotion that he was left choking on nothing.

Staring bleakly out into the gray-scale surroundings, Bilbo felt what little amusement he'd been clinging to thanks to the Dwarrows around him drain quietly away until he was just as cold and empty as the rain that was pouring down. Noises muffled, became fuzzy and distant, under the pounding water, and Bilbo felt himself slump forward slowly, until he could rest his head on Myrtles soaked mane and just... Stare.

His chest was heavy with the same familiar weight of too-much-too-little emotion. His shoulders felt bowed, arms slipping from where they'd held the leads to hang quietly on Myrtles shoulders, limp and heavy and still. And Bilbo let himself just...

Drift away...

Dori cast a sideways glance at the Hobbit, eying his posture and position, before gently nudging his own pony over. Quietly, he reached down and gathered Myrtle's lead in his hand, holding them with his own, and otherwise did nothing. Ori flashed a worried look over his shoulder, but immediately turned back to continue pestering the grouchy Wizard at Dori's small head shake.

Bilbo's downward drop into listless and blank expression was quickly picked up on by the rest of the Company as it bore on for several days, but, after making a point to be fussier towards the Hobbit than usual, Dori was left with his care. A word or two from Nori to those who seemed likely to mock the Hobbit, and big, sad eyes from Ori to those who sneered, were more than enough to keep the more judgmental and traditionalistic members in line. The Ur Trio were the only ones allowed to get too close. Bombur made a point of give Bilbo a larger portion of their dinnertime stews, if thinned out to more of a soup than usual. Bifur took to sitting on the Hobbits free side whenever the Company stopped to rest, silently whittling a thing or two as he did, and never hesitating to allow the listless Burglar to quietly slump against him whenever Dori had to leave his side.

Bofur, however, was the more obvious of the three. He would sit so that Bilbo was at his back, and just happily chatter away about anything and everything, teasing the Hobbit about small things he'd noticed while they were in the Shire. Bofur did everything he could to get a response from the Hobbit, to get him to engage in a conversation or at least respond with a movement of head or shoulders. Dori watched, quiet and calm, knitting his latest project and providing tea in the sturdy oak cups he'd brought with him. Bilbo would occasionally just lean forward and lay his forehead against the space between Bofur's shoulder-blades, and the Miner would chuckle and tease him about falling asleep mid-conversation.

"Bifur used ta get li' tha'," the Miner confided on the fourth day of Bilbo's low mood, him and Dori having been chosen for third watch. "Righ' after 'e got tha' axe in 'is head. Would spend days at'a time, jus', y'know, starin' at nothin'. Not sayin' a word, just... Los' in 'is own head. Ma and Da did everythin' they could ta get 'im ta come out o' it. T'was Bom' 'n me, though, tha' got through. Hard ta ignore a good soup an' some'un chattin' yer ears off," he chuckled, but the quiet, sympathetic glance he'd shot the sleeping Hobbit was more than enough and, suddenly, the tightness in Dori's shoulders that had been building since the Miner started getting Bilbo to respond, finally loosened.

"'Course, now a'days," the Miner continued easily, "best way ta get Bif' ta calm down is ta jus' 'ave those he's mos' comfortable wif sit, quiet-like, wif 'im fer a bit. Likes 'is quiet, our Bifur. Less noise ta confuse 'is thoughts." Bofur reached over and patted Dori on the shoulder with a mitten-covered hand that covered the swollen, scarred knuckles and fingers of those in his profession. "Yer doin' more'n ya know, Dori, jus' bein' there fer him. You 'n yer brothers both. Family, its important, when some'un gets li' this." With that, the Miner wandered to the other side of the camp, to sit next to his sleeping brother and cousin and whittle, and Dori carefully tucked his half-made scarf away (it would have been done by now, if the confounded rain had been inclined to stop.). Instead, he pulled out a tightly wound ball of wool, dark gray with bits of silver wound through, and got to work.

A week later, after they had settled at a dilapidated, burned down farmhouse, Bilbo, once more back to himself, watched curiously as Dori handed the new, finished mittens over to Bofur without pausing in their discussion about types of Shire tea and how they were prepared.

"He gave me some wonderful advice a little while ago," Dori told the Hobbit simply as the two of them settled next to one another, Bilbo setting in to oil and tend his weapons and armor after the long rain.

"The kind that earned new mittens?" he asked; Dori nodded, pulling out his scarf.

"Sometimes," the silver-haired Dwarf informed him, "people need to be reminded that their words matter. That they matter," he added, meeting Bilbo's eyes pointedly. "And that the things they do affect others, and that what others do can affect them." Bilbo's ears pinked as he dropped his gaze to continue rubbing a specialized sap into his bow. "Bilbo," Dori said quietly, leaning forward, "I apologize if this comes out as too pushy or fussy or whichever name you or others would put to it, but I want you to know that I am here for you, understand? If you ever feel like you need to just sit quietly, or perhaps be distracted from your thoughts? Well," he smiled slightly, as Bilbo glanced at him from under his lashes, "I believe that I am quite at your service." The pale pink of his ears darkened, but Bilbo didn't look away, instead raising his head to hold those silver-gray eyes with his own for several quiet seconds.

"My thanks, Dori," he finally said, voice soft. "And, much the same for you. Should you ever need something, I am at your and your family's service." Dori bowed his head quietly, and, after another moment of serious, gentle eye-contact, the two went back to what they had been doing.

An hour later, and Bofur was handing Bilbo two steaming bowls of stew for the Princes', new mittens and all.

"Take this ta th' lads fer me, will ye, Bilba me lad?" The Miner asked cheerfully, flouncing away as soon as the bowls are in Bilbo's hands, to take the ladle up and smack his brother around the head with it, scolding the rotund Dwarf playfully in their Dwarf Tongue. Bemused, Bilbo shrugged and got to his feet carefully, leaving Dori to his knitting as he did, knowing that his friend would hold onto his own dinner until he returned. He planned to continue their discussion on the medicinal properties of Willow Bark tea, and the different ways they could prepare ad sweeten it for little ones, after he fed the Princelings.

Plans, however, changed quickly upon learning that two of the ponies had been taken. And they changed even more as Bilbo, Fílí , and Kílí peered through the foliage into the Troll Camp.

"That's four, now," Bilbo murmured as one of the three trolls carried two more ponies over to the makeshift paddock they'd built. One of which was his own sweet Myrtle, something that had the Hobbit's eyes narrowing and the familiar black rage beginning to slither into his heart.

"We've got to do something," Fílí murmured. "Uncle is going to be furious..."

"Unless he doesn't find out!" Kílí hissed, eyes darting over to Bilbo quickly. "Bilbo can just steal them back!" Bilbo scoffed softly, not even looking at the dark-haired Prince, eyes locked on the trolls.

"And when the Trolls decide that they can just come back to the rest of the ponies," he grumbled scathingly, "what will we do then, hmm? Can't just steal them back and forth, like some game of keep-away, Kílí ." The younger Prince flushed, and his eyes dropped, and Bilbo reached over to gently pat him on the knee. "Eat your stew," he ordered softly, softening already even as his muscles grew tense with the Rage. "You just let old Bilbo take care of this," he added, and, without another word, slipped away.

Hobbits, as it has been mentioned before, have a special type of Magic. They can travel, unseen, heard, or smelled, if they so wish, as long as their feet are upon the Good Earth or the Things that Grow there. Much as Dwarves were made to Hear the Singing of Stone, Hobbits could Hear the Whispers of the Green. And they could Whisper back, make themselves seem like nothing more than the swaying of grass, the sigh of leaves, the creak of trees. It is because of this Magic that few Outsiders have ever actually seen the Shire, let alone the Hobbits that live there.

(Was it any wonder, that Thorin got so lost and confused, when such an unfriendly manner was enough to make instinctive protections rise around the Hobbits Smials? No one wanted to be greeted by such a frightfully scowling person, after all!)

Bilbo's Rage was as consuming as a wildfire, as cold as the Fell Winter, and as sinisterly clinging as a plague. It turned his mind black and red, swamped him in its hold, and wrenched from him his empathy. He had lost Too Much, to ever wish to lose anything more, and, though it may seem silly or queer, Myrtle was a sweet pony and she was his. He would not let these Trolls have her.

Rage made him vicious, made him cunning, and so he slipped through the camp, unseen and unknown, and carefully, coldly, slipped a specific cloth pouch into their stew while they argued. Slipping just as neatly away, Bilbo carefully circled to the back of the makeshift paddock, pulling out his hunting knife and neatly sawing through the thick ropes. Myrtle was there to greet him immediately, whickering at him as she lipped his temple. A soft, near-silent trill had the other three ponies' ears perking, before they quietly fell in line behind his precious Myrtle and, with nothing more then a soft cluck of the Hobbit's tongue, slipped into the trees, Bilbo's Magic coiling around them, softening their hoof beats and scents, melding their coats with the shadows of plants and earth.

"Oi!" One of the Trolls cried, gagging after they tasted the soup. "Wot 'choo done to th' soup?!"

"Nuffin!" The other cried as the third tasted it, immediately gagging as well.

"Oh, ugh, it's disgustin', tha' is!" he cried, scraping at his tongue as his eyes watered.

"I di'in't do nuffin diffe'nt t' th' soup, I tell ye!" The final one shouted angrily, before taking a big spoonful for himself, only to choke and sputter, gagging as well. The troll that had first tasted the soup was already vomiting, having collapsed to the side. Within ten minutes, the three of them had all collapsed into pools of their own vomit and waste, choking and gagging weakly. A further five minutes found them dead, to the stunned stared of the Dwarves who had only moments before surged into the clearing. Bilbo, returned from returning the ponies, eyed the seen with cold satisfaction.

"What did you do?!" Ori breathed, awed and a little green as the stench of the Trolls grew repugnantly strong. Bilbo cast a considering eye over the whole group, noting the wary stares of Gloin, Dwalin, Thorin, and Balin, before pulling a palm-sized cloth pouch from his pocket, tossing it idly in the air and catching it with the same hand a few times.

"Hobbit arrows are poison-treated," he informed them simply, easily. "We're immune to any harm caused by plants, and so we can both digest those poisonous plants as well as animals tainted by them. As a result, we prefer quick-acting poisons and carry with us preferred mixtures." He caught the pouch again and didn't toss it, staring back at the Dwarves seriously. "Had the Trolls been simply Man-sized, they would have died within thirty seconds or so after digesting my particular cocktail. Unfortunately, being so large, it took longer for the poison to affect them, and so it was a much slower death than I usually prefer."

"What kind of plants did you use?" Nori asked, a sharply calculating, yet very approving, gleam in his eyes as he considered Bilbo's cloth pouch with keen interest. Bilbo smiled, a sharp baring of his small teeth.

"I use a mixture of castor oil seeds, manchineel apples, hemlock, rosary pea seeds, and Angel's Trumpet," he informed them coolly. "They're steeped in boiling water, like a tea, and the arrows are soaked overnight, so the wood absorbed the poison. It's very effective."

"I'll say," Bofur scoffed, eying the dead Trolls with bemusement. "Remind me ta never get on yer bad side, Bilba me lad." Bilbo chuckled, feeling mildly sheepish as he shrugged, eyes pulled unerringly towards a, so far silent, Dori, only to find the silver-haired Dwarf had been watching him the entire time, something like pride and the same dark approval of his younger brother in those ash-colored eyes, before they lightened, and the Dwarf offered him an inclined head and a quick half-smile.

Bilbo's heart beat faster, Rage swept away by an emotion that was almost like joy and embarrassment combined, making his stomach flutter and his ears heat up.

Luckily, before he could embarrass himself in anyway, Gandalf chose that moment to dramatically break a rock in half and turn the vomit-and-worse covered corpses to stone.

"...A bit late, there, Mister Gandalf," Dori remarked dryly as the Company stared at the Wizard, who stared right back. "Just a bit." And, for the first time in what felt like years, Bilbo threw his head back and laughed.

A/N: Here you go! HEADCANONS!

The one thing that always irritated me in Hobbit fics and stories and such was the scene in Mirkwood where Bilbo is the only on who can somehow see that damned boat, when before that he couldn't see his own damn hand in front of his face. So, Headcanon is that Hobbits are naturally Far-Sighted in dim or dark lighting, such as moonlight, have 20/20 in sunlight or bright lights, and have absolutely no vision in pitch darkness (New Moons are HELL for Hobbits). Dwarves, however, are Near-Sighted in bright lighting, and their vision gets steadily clearer towards 20/20 the darker it is, because they were literally made for the deep-dark caverns. So, when they reached that bridge, some of the natural light from the full/near-full moon was bright enough to shorten their range of sight, but greatly lengthened Bilbos own, hence why only he could see the Boat!

Hobbit Magic is Awesome.

All the plants named in Bilbos Poison Tea Pouch are from the list of Top Ten Deadliest Plants.

October 25th was my 25th birthday, everybody! ^-^ Squeee~!

(Grow will be updated next!)