"Here." Thorin cradled the unwrapped portion of honey cake carefully in his palm, unwilling to risk losing even a single crumb. The vast misery of Mirkwood still stretched some unknown distance before them, and though generous, their supplies from Beorn had begun to grow scant. Their rations, likewise, were meagre; this bit of cake, smaller than his palm and barely two fingers thick, was half of Thorin's own allotment of supper. Perched on a partially rotted log, with his feet drawn up off the mucky earth and arms wrapped around his calves, Bilbo looked curiously from the offered cake to Thorin's face and back again.
"Oh, I've already had my share tonight." Curling forward, the hobbit rested his impossibly smooth chin on his knees, and smiled despite the obvious weariness creasing his face. "But thank you."
Thorin did not move, except to raise his brows. Their burglar was fading more each day, and little as he was, there was far less of him to lose to the pangs of hunger than even young Ori. "I know. Take it; I can do with half."
"What?" Sitting up straighter, as though he'd been prodded by a thorn, Bilbo goggled at the food offered. After another moment spent floundering, his gaze darted around at the rest of their company, as if some other grumbling dwarf might have an answer for him. Night was swift approaching, however, and the others were busy with their own meagre suppers, or seeing to the necessary preparations.
"Take it, I said," Thorin repeated, allowing a sliver of impatience to sharpen the words to an order. "Eat it now, or save it for tomorrow— it hardly matters— but take it. You'll be no good to us wasted away to bones."
If anything, Bilbo seemed to bristle under the command, rather than cow to it as Thorin had half-expected. He was learning, however, that one of the only safe expectations to hold about Mister Bilbo Baggins was that he would often surprise you, sometimes even spectacularly so.
"I'll have you know," the hobbit said, one finger jabbing the air between them. "That I was called a fat bunny by good Master Beorn not a week ago, and the fit of my trousers stands testament that not all that much has changed since. We're all of us peckish, but if our options are quieting my belly or keeping your sword arm strong in these horrible woods, I know what I'll choose. Eat your own rations."
In all that nattering argument, one small detail shone brighter than all the rest, and Thorin could not help but latch onto it like a beggar grasping a glinting coin. "He said— a fat bunny?"
Eyes widening, even as his mouth twisted in displeasure, Bilbo dropped his forehead back down onto his knees with grunt, bouncing his head a few times like the knocker on a door. "I didn't— I hadn't meant to mention that. Would you keep your voice down, please?"
He could have, entirely by rights, simply dismissed Bilbo's objections and insisted the food be accepted. He was leader of their company, after all, and that afforded him some measure of authority (the precise amount of authority he wielded depended upon the moods of his kinsman; they were unswervingly loyal, but also headstrong, as good dwarven men should be). This was a fine opportunity, however, to avoid bringing such weight to bear over a ridiculous argument.
Stepping closer, angling himself to afford them a bit more privacy from the others, Thorin lifted the cake before Bilbo's nose. "I swear I'll not speak a word of it, if you take this. If not, then I'm certain Bofur will be glad to spend these next weeks composing a tune or two in honour of our Mister Bunny Baggins."
"You— For goodness sake!" Plucking up the cake, Bilbo glared at it before tearing the thick, nutty slice in twain and pushing one piece back into Thorin's hand. "That is absolutely all I'll take, mark my words."
The small portion was gone in three neat bites, leaving Bilbo sucking moistened crumbs from his fingertips, and after a moment's consideration, Thorin conceded with a huff. The cake was dense and pleasantly sweet, not cloying, but all that truly mattered was the tiny fraction of his slowly mounting hunger that the morsel managed to fill. Careful rationing of their supplies meant the growling and grumbling had begun early into their trek through Mirkwood, but Beorn's cautions had proven entirely true— there was no sign of fruit, nor edible mushrooms to be seen anywhere along the path, and an attempt to roast one of the forest's few chattering squirrels had yielded only bitter, sickening meat. Still, Thorin knew famine very well, and he greeted the ache in his gut with the respect due an old, intractable enemy. It had not bested him yet, not through the long trek from a ruined Erebor all those years ago, nor in any hard time since— and of those there had been many.
"Oi, lads, listen." Across their chosen patch of twisting path, just large enough to camp for the night, Dwalin was on his feet and tense as a coursing hound in sight of a hare. "You hear that?"
The others fell silent, almost as one, and Thorin held out a hand for Bilbo to stay put. The forest around them seemed as still as a tomb, without a single note of birdsong or flutter of insects, and the great, ghostly cobwebs had begun to drape thicker through the trees as they delved deeper along the path. Thorin's arm strayed towards his sword, not content until the weight of the grip was firm against his palm, and strained to hear whatever ill-omened sound had caught Dwalin's attention.
Were it not for the unnatural stillness, the distant rushing of water would have gone quite unnoticed.
"Water," said Kili, just as Fili grinned crookedly and guessed: "The enchanted river?"
"Perhaps." Dwalin cocked his head towards the faint noise, then turned to Thorin. "Should we make for it before night hobbles us entirely? We've not much daylight left."
"Sound travels oddly here, among these cursed trees," Balin murmured, peering into the gloom. "If it is the river Beorn spoke of, it could still be half a league off. And beyond that, I've no wish to try my hand at clambering over some bewitched stream in the pitch black."
"We'll camp here tonight," Thorin agreed, no matter how his feet itched to move forward now that one small goal seemed nearly in sight. There had been too many days of monotonous trees and terrible eyes in the dark, and no sense of progress. "And make for the river at first light."
They did not need to be reminded to huddle near as evening gave way to night; not one of them was alone when the darkness sank like a shroud, blotting out the world. Tucked into the crook of Thorin's arm, as he had slept every night since they'd entered Mirkwood, Bilbo settled quickly into a light slumber. Under his hand, Thorin could feel the steady thrum of the hobbit's heartbeat, and the rhythm kept him company as he drifted between sleep and waking, watching the blackness around them late into the night.
