Frodo is thankfully, or worryingly, not like the other Hobbit children. He is quieter, solemn, almost lonesome. Lost in his own thoughts most of the time, and when he's not, he studies his surroundings with rather unusual, almost wary, intent.
He had wondered, at first, if they were merely manifestations of trauma - losing parents, at any age, was a devastating blow. But then Frodo starts dreaming in the nights, screaming from his nightmares, and yes, he had seen his parents' deaths with his own eyes but that had been a boat sinking in a stormy lake, and not a fire raging through their home, flames so hot they melted brick and bone.
'It burns, help us, put it out!' The boy cries out, night after night, and the words make his blood freeze and the gold in his pocket burn with a dull throbbing heat. But each time he races to the bedroom to try and rouse his ward, the cries would stop and the small form would settle, and never once do the nightmares actually wake him.
"Was it a dragon? In your dreams?" He asks one day, when they're both reading in his study. But Frodo only replies with a frown and a slow tilt of his head, and a bemused question: "What dreams?"
Frodo turns thirteen on a balmy September day, and just like that, he stops dreaming.