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It was at times such as these that Bilbo wished for the sweet satiation that came arm and hand with a full stomach, the rich decadent fullness one experienced after recently chewed bread expanded in their stomachs. Or perhaps the meaty content one felt laying by an empty spick still suspended over a roaring flame; one dwarves and elves were supervulous at creating. Bilbo was a Hobbit, and they worked in their kitchens in their comfy holes over their hobbit-sized ovens. It was never a secret that they loved food, so this is what the burglar of the company of Thorin Oakenshield thought of as they traveled about a tunnel of dense darkness through a forest Bilbo hated a soon as the second day inside it.
He entertained himself with thoughts of becoming a poet of foods, spending his days on the hill rhyming for cheeses, fruits, and honey. This would cause him to laugh just a little, and would capture the stern gaze of Thorin or Dwalin, and would send him right back to that dreaded tunnel, where by now everyone's stomachs crawled with a vengeance. The putrid, charred smell of the burning flesh of a black squirrel over a spurting, pathetic fire one night nearly did him in. He yearned for the syrupy delight of Beorin's dark red wine.
He felt sorry for himself. He wanted warmth and food and a good quill to write with, but more than that he pitied the dwarves. Five nights into that tunnel, light filtering in only in small slivers at once or twice per day, the quest seemed hopeless. Dragons? No, here in the face of starvation dragons appeared pointless; they breathed fire? Well, would the fires roast them a big breasted, juicy bird? If not, then Bilbo cared not. A promise of mounds and mounds of gold? Did the gold taste as sweet as the plums back in the Shire? If not, then Bilbo cared not. They may keep the dwarves from teetering into exhaustion, the promise of jewels and their home keeping a light in their otherwise dull eyes, but the only thing keeping Bilbo from dropping to his knees and begging for at least the sunlight was a sense , an odd sense of duty and dare he say it, possibly loyalty. He needed to help them, so his stomach could serve to be quiet.
On the sixth day he dug desperatly in his pockets, mindful of the ring, but with the fruitless hope at finding at least something to nibble on. Incredibly, his fingers curled around a jar, that when pulled out presented the allure of dried pumpkin seeds he'd forgotten he'd stored a long time ago. He uttered a childish meep of delight, deftly unscrewing the jar in such a haste one would fear he'd spill his precious treat.
It wouldn't have mattered anyways.
One look at Fili and Kili's hunched, young, thin frames broke his need in half and swept the pieces much farther down that filthy path. He handed them over, not caring that they didn't thank him; he saw the gratefulness in their eyes. He was a Hobbit, and Hobbits were nothing if they were not kind, plump creatures. His stomach would serve to cry out for just a little longer.
That night or day, of which he was not certain, but his body pleaded rest so the stars were as out to him as they ever were. He layed by that pitiful sputtering flame, thinking of fruits, cheeses, and breads. Perhaps some meat. Oh how he did love a decent salted fish! Thorin decided to lay beside him, and he would have questioned such an action but his stomach cared not, so neither did he. It was when Thorin held out a small, thin slice of bread that the Hobbit perked to attention. He was confused. Irritated. Hungry. Grateful. He ate the bread in relished silence; he knew it to be the last of what the King had by the look of loss in his eyes. But he did not argue. He layed back down, a little closer to the King then before. Through the light of the fire he could have sworn to see the reflection of a lake, and then further beyond perhaps an exit.
Of course, that could have just been wishful thinking. Hallucinations brought on by thirst. He spared a glance at Thorin, who he found to be gazing in the same direction.
His stomach seemed much, much more quiet.