"You are not, Bilbo! Stop being so stubborn and at least drink some broth." She held up a spoon to his mouth, and he gave her a look similar to an indignant child.
"I am NOT a child, I can feed myself, when I feel the need to eat. I just need a bit of rest and some solitude, is all."
"All right, then, you miserable hobbit! Frodo is a far better patient than you are," she said, finally surrendering, but not leaving the room.
"How is the lad, anyway? Has he talked yet?" Esmeralda smiled.
"Only to ask to talk to you." This time Bilbo smiled, and settled down in his bed.
"Now, scoot, and give a weary hobbit his rest!"
Not a day later was Bilbo up and about again, though his throat was still a bit sore. He made it over to Frodo's room, one of his own, at least until he was well again. The lad was sleeping, his dark curls splayed across the linen pillow case and his mouth slightly open. Bilbo's brow furrowed when he realized there were tear stains on the pillow. He tried to sit down quietly, but the old chair squeaked, and Frodo stirred.
"Oh, it's you." Bilbo peered into the grey eyes that stared back at him, eyes that seemed to have aged several years over a few days, but at least they were no longer empty and flat.
"Yes, it's me. How do you feel, lad?" Frodo looked up, his lower lip trembling. "No longer numb, I see." Frodo broke out into sobs and buried his face in his hands. Bilbo came up to his bed and squeezed the lad's shoulder. "No shame in crying, you know."
"I feel...I feel like I have a wound, here," Frodo said, pointing to his chest with his bandaged hand, "and it's a wound that will never heal. You can't see it, but I can feel it, like a black space around my heart."
"Well, Frodo, my lad, that's to be expected. You've lost more than you could knew you had. It doesn't seem like it, but it will heal, I promise you." Frodo's eyes darkened.
"I thought you would understand." Bilbo chuckled, and the lad looked bewildered and hurt.
"Oh, I do understand. I've lost many friends, but they're still here, in my heart, where no one can touch them, not even death." Frodo groped at his chest, feeling for something that was not there.
"I lost the locket, Bilbo. It must have fallen off while I was in the river. First I lost their souls and bodies to the Brandywine, and now the only thing that was truly left of them." With that, he began to cry again, though silently.
"Oh, you mean this?" Bilbo held out the locket, on a new, thicker chain. Frodo began to cry again, harder, but tears of joy mixed in with the bitter grief. "I found it while I was looking for you. That thin chain wasn't made for the rough tumbling of healthy hobbit lads." Frodo nodded and whispered a 'thank you' through his tears as Bilbo handed him the locket.
Soon Frodo was healthy once again, and though not as merry as the other lads his age, depth had returned to his eyes, and he once again had and interest in life. Bilbo returned to Bag End, but visited as often as he could. The wound on Frodo's right hand healed nicely, but it had cut deeply, and a scar rapped around from his first knuckle to the middle knuckle on the third finger. On the days Frodo felt himself missing his parents miserably he would sit and stare at the scar. Scars could be nothing more than a reminder, or they could be something more important, Bilbo had told him. The finger bore the scar as long as the hobbit bore the finger.