An alternative ending to LOTR where things involving Eagles don't quite work out. Tolkien rewritten in a style suspiciously reminiscent of Terry Pratchett's Discworld. A drabble born out of a dark mind.

Work Text:

In the sky over Mordor…

An alternative version of the closing events of LOTR. This is a product of the author's horrible mind and is not meant to be taken seriously. But some things about tolkein's visualisation of Eagles have always bothered me...

The three Eagles flew on in silence, occasionally flapping a wing for the look of it, but otherwise content to ride on the thermals generated by the intense heat below. Occasionally a bit of air turbulence bumped one of them down by a hundred or so feet. With a muttered word, of a sort not normally uttered by the Guardians and Messengers of Manwë, Landroval flew back into the formation.

Meneldor, the Young and Swift, broke the silence. "We're going to get into trouble for this, aren't we?" he said, nervously.

Gwaihir tilted his proud head and fixed him with a single beady eye. Coming from the oldest and wisest Eagle and undisputed Lord of the Air, it was un-nerving.

"I'm saying nothing." Gwaihir said, at length. "Just that I'm not proud of you two, and it would never have happened in Thorondor's day, OK?" Landroval and Meneldor exchanged guilty looks. If ever an eagle could be said to look sheepish, it was Landroval.

"Well… we can just tell Mithrandir we got there too late?" he suggested. "Lava streams and all that. Intense geological activity, right? Get your flight pinions scorched off, you're no good for anything. Grounded. Walking back to the eyrie."

"Hopping." Meneldor corrected him, helpfully. "Yeah. Hopping. Sparrows would laugh at you. Not dignified. Besides, down there, getting grounded is not a good idea."

"We can tell Mithrandir they got swept up in a pyroclastic flow." Meneldor suggested. "Huge deep cloud of volcanic ash at several thousand degrees. Anything it touches – toast."

"I mean. Flying non-stop from the Eyrie. That's best part of a thousand leagues, right? And against an east wind. Turbulence. We did well to meet the ETA over Mordor. Then fighting those bloody flying lizards. I mean. Lizards are meant to crawl, right? Down there. Prey resource. I'm not having the buggers growing wings, getting ideas above their station."

"Takes it out of you, does that." Meneldor agreed. "Calories expended. And doesn't Mithrandir talk to Radagast? I mean, the Brown Twitcher? He could have told Gandalf any bird species needs to consume its own weight in prey every day just to stay alive. And, well, guys, for us that's a lot of weight!"

Meneldor twisted in flight and picked a shred of meat out of the corner of his beak with a talon. He looked at it thoughtfully then ingested it.

"You get hungry is what I'm getting at." Landroval continued. "It's all very well being sentient, right. But you get hungry, instinct takes over."

"Two small helpless creatures on a rocky outcrop in the middle of a sodding volcanic flow." Meneldor said, flatly. "You're an Eagle and you're hungry after a tough morning. That's prey."

"They were unconscious." Landroval pointed out. "Breathing in fumes and stuff. That's merciful, kind of!"

Gwaihir grunted, resignedly. "As long as you can regurgitate that box and the shining jewel thing." he said. "You know how to do it, you've fed chicks.(1) Tell the Grey Pilgrim it's all you were able to salvage, power of Galadriel keeping them safe from the heat, sort of thing. And we'll go with the volcano story, right?"

The three Eagles flew on, West, towards Gondor. At least they were flying on full stomachs… the wrath of Wizards would be easier to face on a full stomach.

Landroval coughed, nervously.

"Maybe we could... you know, fly over the Shire in a day or so. After we've digested. Mark of respect, you know? That way some of them makes it home..."

(1) Gwaihir is identified as male. It doesn't mean the other two also have to be.