Work Text:
It goes like this:
“Damn,” Gil-Galad says. “There’s way too many gators in that fucking marsh. Should we have the battle in the hills instead?”
“That sounds like a good plan,” says Elendil.
---
They lose the battle, and the war, and all hope is lost.
———
....but what if:
They win the battle, somehow, even though the nearby hills are a less advantageous battleground.
It all works out, more or less.
---
“And over there,” says Gollum, many, many years later, “Those hills are full of corpses. Not here though, they didn’t have the battle here.”
“Wow, it sure is convenient that these marshes aren’t full of dead people,” says Frodo, splashing through the tall grass.
“GET DOWN MISTER FRODO,” yells Sam, tackling Frodo into the muck.
“GAUUuUGHHH” croaks Gollum as he disappears in a flash of muscle and teeth, and then there is an alligator draping itself on a sandbar, holding the broken corpse of what had once been Smeagol in its jaw. The gator stares dispassionately at Sam and Frodo as it gives a toothy swallow. The water turns red.
“......this is probably fine,” says Sam, backing slowly away and pulling a dripping and horrified Frodo behind him.
---
They get lost in the marshes, and the best hope of their age dies with them. Sauron rules supreme….
Until an alligator approaches the Black Gate, glutted with power, a ring gleaming golden on one of its claws.
Then the alligator rules supreme, and Middle Earth bows before it.
No one is quite sure how this happened.
———
Or maybe:
Sam and Frodo escape the marshes, evading the flight of the ringwraiths and the gaze of The Eye. They find themselves at the Black Gate… and with no better alternative, they hide themselves, then attempt to make their way inside with the patrols.
They are discovered, and the ring is reclaimed, and the Shire burns.
———
But what if:
Sam and Frodo make their way up the stairs of Cirith Ungol and through the lair of Shelob, through all the trials that await them on their journey into Mordor, casting aside frying pans and hope and cutting their bare feet on the harsh stones of the Mount which they have traveled so far to reach.
And they find themselves on the precipice, standing before the fires of Mount Doom, an unknowing echo of those who have passed this way before-
And Frodo cannot give up the ring.
And Sam cannot give up on Frodo.
---
It could be a lot worse, people whisper, glancing furtively around as they gather in shadowed corners of the cities.
When you trade one dark lord for another, you don’t get any say in the matter, but at least now there is always enough food on the table, and plants grow bountifully in the gardens. Orcs no longer run rampant across the countryside, and the people are allowed to proceed with their lives… as long as they abide by the rules. As long as they pay their tithes, and offer their obedience, and do nothing to jeopardize the security of the land.
Nothing is allowed to harm Lord Frodo. His manservant has made this very clear.
———
Or perhaps like this:
The ring is destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom, and Sauron falls.
The eagles fly to the mountainside, but it is empty, and they return unburdened.
Merry and Pippin return to the Shire, and free their people.
In Rivendell, Bilbo writes his stories to their end.
———
But probably like this:
Despite misgivings, the battle is held at the edge of the marshes as planned, and the marshes swallow the dead.
The gators thrive.
---
Sam and Frodo slog through the broken grass of the marshes, following Gollum’s wandering path through the rising fog, when Sam turns back to say something to Frodo- and freezes.
“Mister Frodo”, says Sam, holding himself very still as the water of the marshes sloshes around his calves. “Did Bilbo ever tell you stories about smaller dragons? Or other lesser scaled beasts?”
Seeing something in Sam’s eye, Frodo stops walking. The reeds rustle around them, the stench of the marshes fetid and cloying. “No, Sam, I can’t say that he did.”
“Oh,” says Sam. “Do you suppose such a beast would be very dangerous if it did exist?” He is staring fixedly at something just behind Frodo, and Frodo very carefully does not turn around.
“I suppose it would, if it were anything like a dragon. Do you think it would have many teeth?”
“Yes,” says Sam, taking half a step towards Frodo, “Yes, I believe it would have a great many teeth.”
Frodo begins moving towards Sam, as slowly as he dares, wading through the muck and trying not to make a sound. It is a challenge. Roots tangle his bare feet, and branches scratch at his clothes, and water sloshes with his every step.
Behind him, something splashes, and Sam pales. Frodo begins to rush forward, but his legs tangle and he begins to fall-
“Foolish hobbits” Gollum cackles suddenly, hauling Frodo upright. “Leave the creatures be! Or they will be having lunch very early today!" He pulls Frodo sideways, into an easier path. "This way, master, very carefully! Follow Smeagol!”
Sam scowls, but follows, allowing Gollum to help him guide Frodo away from the creature.
When they have moved a distance, and Sam and Gollum have slowed their flight, Frodo finally turns round to see what they have been fleeing.
There is a hulking grey body, scaled and muscular, and a long grinning mouth filled with the promise of teeth, wide under a great slitted eye. It watches them through the reeds, bored and unblinking for several breathless moments. Then the creature heaves, slipping powerfully into the water, and the travelers are alone in the marsh with the dead.
Frodo lets himself be guided further away, listening with half an ear as they are cautioned to watch for the creatures, and how to avoid them. To that creature Frodo had been nothing special- just a warm body, and the possibility of a meal in an inhospitable land.
It was almost comforting to be watched like that, compared to the ever-watchful Eye...
Well. They were headed towards that Eye one way or the other.
But it was nice to have some variety.
———
But almost certainly not like this:
“Did you know the orcs could ride the gators?” asks Gil-Galad, staring down a troop of slowly approaching orcs on their well-toothed, if very short, mounts.
“I can’t say that I did!” says Elendil, hoisting his pack onto his back and checking his sword at his hip. He turns a charming smile on Gil-Galad. “Well, it’s been lovely working with you. We should do this again sometime! Maybe in a forest, or on a rolling plain-”
“Get back here,” says Gil-Galad, dragging him bodily back into camp.
“But they have so many teeth!!!” complains Elendil, letting himself be dragged.
———
And not like this either, although I’m willing to roll with it if you are:
Sam rolls up his sleeves. “Get back Mister Frodo, I’ve got this. I’m the best gator wrestler in the whole damn Shire, you’d better believe it!”
And as Sam executes a perfect elbow drop on the creature, shifting immediately to latch on with his legs and pull it into a chokehold that stays strong even as the creature thrashes and flings mud and muck– Smeagol begins to remember his favorite pastime.
“Oh,” he thinks, shaking off the grasping claws of the ring, his mind wholly his own for the first time since he first saw it gleaming wetly in his cousin's hand a lifetime ago. “This is what life is about. Wrestling gators. Fuck yeah.”
---
Sam does not, at first, want to admit he has found a kindred spirit.
But when he and Frodo and Smeagol finally make it back to the Shire, they open up a gator wrestling act that is famous for miles around.
They are very happy together.