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The wind gently rustles the grass atop the party hill. Frodo feels it blow across his face. It’s a nice feeling. It pulls his head out of the clouds, brings him down to earth. He’s always had a tendency to think too much.
His mind’s been running particularly fast today. He’d planned out this little meeting sometime yesterday, when he possessed a boldness that seems to have disappeared sometime last night. Dread had filled him the moment he’d woken up and it seemed intent on following him all day, not unlike Lobelia Sackville-Baggins at a family gathering.
He lets out a sigh as he lays back into the clover. As much as he wanted to, he had to tell Sam how he’d felt. He’d promised himself he would stop being a coward, and besides, it wasn’t fair to the lad to be keeping secrets from him.
And maybe, just maybe, Sam might reciprocate.
He gazes at the field around him, trying to calm his racing heart.
Something catches his eye.
At first glance, it’s just another clover. But as he looks a bit closer, he sees it: a fourth leaf where there should be nothing.
He plucks it from the ground. It’s small and delicate in his hands, yet he feels as though it’s given him new strength.
Perhaps there’s a bigger chance than just “maybe” that this meeting will be the start of something new.
The grass crunches beneath someone’s approaching feet.
Frodo tucks the clover into his weskit pocket.
“May your luck find me today,” he whispers as Sam comes up the hill.