Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Mablung, Damrod, Bill, and Stybba.  I own the fanmail and the remains of the cart.

A/N: Well, here we are in the second chapter!  This is the chapter where you get to find out when our "intrepid" heroes will wake up again, whether Damrod will kill Mablung for getting them into this mess, and just how long the ponies will put up with these idiots before they run off to greener pastures.  Personally, I would just leave them, but Bill and Stybba have a sense of duty—what would the Men do without them?

Cathelm: Yeah, I've never seen a story like this either, but in a section this big one must assume that most ideas have been done before.  I do have a few different ones I'm hoping are original, though...Thanks!

A: Thanks!  What would I do without you to review my new stories and make me happy?  I finally updated one, so there!

Meir Brin: Thanks so much for reviewing!  I'm greatly enjoying "Hogwarts Fanfiction Academy" and "Master Suelove" and it was a very pleasant surprise to get a review from you.  Yes, my notes are much too long.  I've thought of just having a separate chapter for them every three chapters or so like some people do, but that would take all the fun out of commenting on the plot.

Yilantri: I'm glad you like this—I love "A Loss of Authority".  Would you really recruit people to read this?  For me?  *puppy dog face*  Thank you thank you thank you...

Marooned

Damrod opened his eyes and groaned.  He must have imagined what had just happened.  That was it—he had been dreaming!  After all, Mablung would never crash the cart into the side of a house in real life...would he?

Deciding he didn't like where this train of thought was going, Damrod groaned again for good measure and lay still for a moment.  Apparently he was all right apart from some large bruises and scratches and lasting psychological trauma, so he slowly got up and surveyed the wreckage of the cart with dismay.  Splintered beams, axles, and wagon wheels were strewn all over, making it hard to see anything else, but he thought he could make out the forms of Bill and Stybba, those long-suffering equines, under some nearby two-by-fours.

To his relief, Damrod saw as he got closer that both the ponies were breathing regularly, apparently unhurt for the most part.  With that worry off his mind, Damrod's thoughts turned to his companion, whom he had momentarily forgotten.  Where was Mablung?  Starting to feel a little frantic, he looked under every matchstick within twenty feet hoping to find his friend, but to no avail.  Mablung was simply nowhere to be found.

At last, he gave up in despair and sat down on the remains of a wheel, burying his face in his hands.  Sure, he had been annoyed with Mablung sometimes, even wanted to kill him, but this was different!  To think that he would never hear his annoying wisecracks again or suffer his pranks...

"Hey, Damrod!" called an amused-sounding voice.  Damrod jumped, then turned slowly to look back up the hill they had so disastrously descended a short time before.  "What's wrong?" asked Mablung, lounging on the only patch of grass that remained unmangled after their little mishap.  "Did you miss me?"

For a minute, Damrod didn't trust himself to speak.  He just stood and stared up at his friend, jaw working.  At last he got control of himself enough to say, "Mablung, if you ever make me think you're dead again, so help me I'll kill you."  Mablung grinned at him and made his way down to join him.

"Don't you think we ought to rescue Bill and Stybba now?" he asked, carefully changing the subject.  Damrod scowled at him for a few seconds longer, then nodded in agreement.  Together they pulled the wreckage of the cart off the ponies, who seemed perfectly fine if a little annoyed by the episode.

Panting and puffing, the two sat down to rest at last.  Damrod occasionally shot dirty looks at Mablung, who ignored them and the fact that all of this was his fault.  In between glaring at his friend, Damrod was attempting to hatch a plot.  The plot involved alternately wondering how they would explain this one back at headquarters if they made it that far, making plans to construct makeshift saddles and ride away as quickly as possible, and trying to remember all his training for surviving in the suburban wilderness.

Suddenly, Mablung poked Damrod in the shoulder.  "Hey, Damrod," he said.  "Would you look at that."  Damrod turned to look in the direction Mablung was facing.  His mouth dropped open in astonishment and horror at what he saw.

Sitting innocently in the midst of the devastation and ruin were the five bulging sacks of fanmail.

All was quiet for a moment as they both stared at the sacks with a mixture of surprise and horror.  Then Damrod sighed, an explosive sigh that took the place of many words he would have liked to say but knew he should not.  "I do not believe this," he said through clenched teeth.  "I absolutely do not believe this."  Mablung nodded in agreement with the sentiment but said nothing, perhaps fearing to bring the wrath of Damrod down on himself for the second time in ten minutes.  All in all, he felt he had taken quite enough risks for one day...

Slowly, Damrod picked his way through the pieces of their cart to the bags of letters.  His jaw set, he simply stood over them for a few seconds, shaking his head slightly.  The fanmail sat impassively, apparently untouched by the force of his hatred.  Eventually, Mablung came to stand beside his friend and put a consoling hand on his shoulder.  Damrod shrugged it off irritably.

"This—"  His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed.  "This...fanmail..."  He spat out the word as though it were the foulest of curses and shuddered.  "It's evil!"

"Oh, come on," Mablung scoffed, but Damrod wasn't listening.  His grey eyes were still fixed unblinkingly on their erstwhile cargo, apparently trying to stare a hole through it.  It wasn't working.

"I'm dead serious, mate," he said without turning around to face Mablung.  "Think about it and you'll see.  Okay, first we were with Captain Faramir—"

"That's Steward Faramir to you," interrupted Mablung with a satisfied nod, proud to have found a way to get a word in edgewise.  Damrod continued without deigning to acknowledge his comment.

"First we were with Faramir and everything was okay, right?"  Mablung opened his mouth and Damrod turned on him fiercely.  "Don't you dare interrupt!  But then we got stuck with this job."  He kicked the mailbags hard, and Mablung hid a grin.  Yes, Damrod was in fine form today!

"So," Damrod went on grimly, now pointing at the sacks angrily, "we start this ridiculous fanmail delivery route and look what happens!  We've had nothing but bad luck since.  I mean, first actually running into some girl putting her letter in the mailbox—"  Breaking off, he shuddered again at the memory of the encounter with the teenager who was firmly convinced that they were relatives of King Elessar and wanted to "go out" with one or both of them.  That had certainly been unfortunate...

Mablung nodded, reluctantly agreeing with him.  "And then this."  He elected not to mention that it was, in this case, not the fanmail that had brought misfortune upon them but his own reckless driving.  Somehow, he didn't think Damrod would be pleased by this observation.

A long and uncomfortable silence followed, in which Damrod glared battleaxes at everything within twenty feet and Mablung tried to avoid his gaze.  At last Mablung asked in a rather small voice, "What do we do now?  I mean, there's the cart..."  He gestured around them with a sweeping gesture.  "And here we are.  And, you know, I have a feeling that they're expecting that mail back at headquarters."

"Of course they are, you idiot!" Damrod snapped to cover the fact that he didn't have the least idea what to do either.  "They don't care that we're hungry and tired and cold and miserable and borderline psychotic—"

"Speak for yourself," Mablung muttered, but he didn't dare say anything aloud.  If Damrod needed counseling, that was his problem, not Mablung's.  Although, technically, it might be very much Mablung's problem if Damrod plunged over the edge and into sheer madness...

"Noooo," Damrod continued.  "No, all they want to know is if we get the fanmail in on time.  'Oh, Damrod, could you speed up the delivery a bit next time?  Gaurwen writes to dear Legolas every week and, you know, he so hates getting behind on his correspondence...' " he mimicked in a high voice, no doubt trying to imitate Éomer, who was their supervisor and very picky about details.  Mablung stifled a snort of laughter and shook his head, thinking that Damrod really needed a vacation if he was bored enough to do impersonations of Éomer.

Damrod sighed and glanced around him as if truly realizing for the first time that they were stuck in twenty-first century America without their only means of transportation.  "Well," he said more calmly.  "I guess we camp for the night."

"We what?" Mablung demanded.  "We camp?  No, my friend, you've got it all wrong.  You see, I don't camp.  I drive the cart.  Or drove," he amended.  "You take care of the dirty work like food and firewood and everything.  I'll watch the ponies and you can build us a shelter or lean-to or whatever your heart desires." 

Folding his arms, he leaned against a tree and waited to see whether Damrod would explode or take control of the situation and do all the work.  The good thing, he thought, about having a coworker like Damrod was that he would much rather do things himself to make sure they were done right than leave it to "some idiot like Mablung," as he referred to him at least once a week.

"Fine," Damrod replied, turning his back on Mablung and starting to explore the wreckage.  "I'll camp and you can sleep right there and keep an eye out for the coyotes."

Mablung blinked.  "The what?"  The downside to knowing less about modern-day culture than Damrod was that he could never be sure whether he was joking or not.  "What are...coyotes?"

Damrod shrugged.  "Oh, nothing much.  I expect you're too tough and stringy for them—they'll probably leave you mostly intact.  Maybe a chewed arm or leg, but don't worry, they only attack when their territory is invaded."  Mablung swallowed.

"Is this...is this coyote territory?" he asked, fearing the answer.  He had a nasty suspicion that Damrod was about to tell him something he really didn't want to hear—something like—

"Of course," Damrod said seriously, cocking his head a little disapprovingly at Mablung.  "Haven't you been listening?  If I mention coyotes, don't you think there's a good reason for it?"  Normally, Mablung would have made merciless fun of Damrod for being so sure of himself, but at the moment he was none too sure of anything.

"Yes, Damrod.  Of course I was listening.  But what exactly are coyotes?" he asked patiently, hoping for and dreading an answer.

Damrod thought about it for a while, looking meditatively into the sunset.  "Well," he said slowly, "d'you know what wargs look like?"

"Mmm-hm," Mablung replied shakily, hoping desperately that he didn't know where this was going.

Offhandedly, Damrod explained, "Well, coyotes are a bit like wargs only smarter.  And faster, too," he added as an afterthought.  "Much faster."

Mablung stared bleakly at him, then let out his breath in a long sigh.  "Well then," he murmured half to himself, wondering why he always got himself into situations like this.  Reaching for one of the larger bits of canvas that Damrod had managed to salvage from the wreckage, he sighed, "All right.  Guess I'd better get started pitching the tent, then?"

Damrod smiled.  The way it was going, he thought, this business might not turn out to be so bad after all...

A/N: In honor of Meir Brin, this author's note is very short (for once).  See you next time on "Pony Express"!