Disclaimer: Do not own Lord of The Rings. -tear-
A/N: If you've read some of my other stories, you'll notice that they always have really long Author's Notes at the beginning, so in order for a nice change for my readers, this story shall have no Author's Note! I- oh wait...damn.
Well, since I've already started, might as well use the A/N to make a few notes. Jesus, I write a lot of LoTR stuff, don't I? Oh well, I don't hear people complaining. -beams- Anyway, every character is pretty much very OOC in this story; hence the "What if?" theme. Also, I tend to make fun of how long the movies were...a lot. I only do that because once I watched all three movies in a row with a couple of friends. Holy crap, LoTR is great and all, but my eyes NEARLY DIED. Anyway, enjoy!
P.S.: A cookie to anybody who can spot the obscure reference to one of my other fics. ;)
"Yes! It's over!" Aragorn punched the air as the Dark Tower crumbled.
"Frodo! Frodo!" Merry screeched in pure joy, causing most of his fellow fighters to cover their ears.
"Finally, after 9 hours of undiluted trilogy," Gandalf wiped his brow with a blindingly bright and immaculately clean white handkerchief. "Even I was starting to get tired of the films."
The company all turned away just as Mount Doom exploded in a magnificent show of fire and ash. The last of the eruptions engulfed a Nazgul, its dying shrieks echoing over the wasted landscape. The Black Gates clanged shut with a deafening boom, but the ignorant warriors' backs remained stubbornly turned.
"Well." Gimli cleared his throat. "Shall we break for Rivendell now? I -am- awfully tired, after all the carnage and life scarring events."
"Yeah, let's go," Aragorn said in a very chipper voice, suddenly brightening up. "I sorely miss my babycakes." The rest of them shuddered; lately, having to put up with Aragorn's insidious nicknames for the Lady Arwen Undomiel was becoming increasingly difficult. They suddenly all understood why Lord Elrond disliked the Ranger so.
"Yes, let's bring this film to a frickin' close already," Gandalf finished, leading his troop back in the direction whence they came.
---
A few weeks later...
The dining hall rang with the din of merrymaking and laughter. Elrond sat at the head table, glaring proverbial daggers at his daughter and Aragorn, who were talking to each other in baby voices (and earning quite a few nasty looks from other party-goers). Somewhere along the wall, a scowling elf-maid inched along, trying to keep her tray of pasties upright amongst the stumbling drunkards. Gimli was teaching a tipsy and giggling Eowyn how to properly braid her long hair to avoid yanking it out every time she removed her helmet.
Gandalf sat at another table, his white sandals resting up on the surface next to the drooling, unconscious face of Pippin, who seemed to have had one mug of ale too many. He sighed contentedly, huffing away at a pipe and blowing his elaborate smoke rings which were not really technically smoke rings because they were more like the shapes of ships and trolls and such.
"All is right," he said under his breath happily, the racket of the party drowning out his comment to all but him. But suddenly, the noise quite abruptly came to a halt. The sound of heavy wooden doors scraping across a stone floor rang through the large mead hall.
The crowd of stunned people drew aside to reveal a very dirt-smudged, bloody and stormy-looking Frodo at the doors at the back of the hall. Sam was lying face down next to his master, so tried by exhaustion that he could speak nary a word.
Gandalf broke the terrible silence. "Aw shit, I knew we forgot something..."
The End - finally...