Frodo awoke with a start. There was fire in his dream, dragon's fire, and a small army of dwarves, 13 of them. He wiped his eyes and called out,
"Bilbo!" There was a thump or two, a few curses and some shuffling before Frodo's round door creaked open.
"What is it, my boy?" He asked.
Bilbo was older now, at least he looked it. He was roughly 80 now. He sat himself in the stout wooden chair plopped next to Frodo's bed.
"A bad dream..." Bilbo sighed with a soft smile. He brushed the curly fringe out of his dear nephew's eyes and chuckled softly. Bad dreams were almost a joke to him after what had happened with the dwarves. Frodo blinked at his uncle, he seemed off in his mind again.
Frodo opened his mouth to question his uncle's queer behavior when Bilbo's old, tired voice began to sing.
'Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale...'
Bilbo's voice cracked and broke. Rubbing his tired face with his calloused hands and took a deep, shaky breath and finished the line:
'...enchanted gold'
(...)
After that, it became a habit of the two hobbits. Whenever Frodo had a bad dream, Bilbo would sing. It was always the same song, just a difference verse. The more Bilbo sang, the more Frodo swore he could see three dwarves behind his uncle. Two young ones with violins and an older, grander one with a golden harp. They played the tune to match Bilbo's singing.
(...)
It went on for weeks, the images of the dwarves became clearer. Frodo wanted to ask Bilbo if he'd ever seen the dwarves before, but could never work up the courage before falli asleep.
One night, Frodo took Bilbo's sleeve before he started to sing.
"Bilbo... I keep seeing ghosts. Three dwarves-" Bilbo sucked in his breath. His eyes filled with tears as he bowed his tired, old head into his shaking hands.
"My dear, old friends..." He murmured, a smile forming on his lips as bitterly sad tears flowed out of his eyes and down his face.