A large crowd, composed of elves, humans, dwarves, Hobbits, and even a small pack of woses, had gathered in a clearing near the center of Caras Galadon. In fact, this was the staging area for the Great Procession and many people were working with feverish excitement to put the finishing touches on the magnificent displays that would be part of the parade. Each country, and even specific cultures, had one of these colourful creations and their was always a number of folks who came to get an early glimpse of the floats.

The land of Mithlond had built a replica of Eärendil's boat, Vingelot, in the shape of a swan. The folk of the shire had a working water wheel on theirs except there was no water flowing over it. Instead, the buckets were converted into seats and a group of Hobbit children were riding around and around. North Harad had constructed a huge Mumakil, of course, and had cleverly rigged it up so the head swung side to side, showing off its gem encrusted triple tusks. From Belfalas was a depiction of their fair coastline, complete with sand dunes and a flock of sea gulls suspended above. They were hanging from very thin but strong hithlain so that the birds tuned and dipped in the breeze, almost as if they were real. Yes, the display was spectacular, yet the crowds observing were notably thinner than in previous years of Mordor Gras. That was because a new event happening just near by had drawn substantial interest.

The assorted folk jostled and shuffled attempting to draw closer in order to get a better view of the proceedings. The Galadhrim and the Wood Elves were at definite advantage as they could easily perch in the Mellyrn surrounding the area and watch from above. The attraction was an unusual contest to choose who among the mortals was the closest in appearance and manner to the rulers of the Kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan.

Arwen was handling it all with her usual cool aplomb, which is to say smiling with charming grace and cursing under her breath, as Lothiriel and Galadriel attempted to get everyone's name and for whom they wished to try out. They were seated behind a large table festooned in buntings of blue and silver, for the colours of Gondor, atop a cloth of red and gold for the colours of Rohan. Above the table, suspended from the branches of the trees, was a beautiful banner in sky blue silk with golden lettering that proclaimed (in Westron, Elvish, and dwarvish):

"Be King for a Day! Mortal Men, Sign Up for Your Chance to Play the Part of Elessar King of Gondor or Eomer King of Rohan! Contest open to all, decision of the judges is final."

It had turned into the very first event of the festival, for wild rumours had spread, thanks to Lindir of Lorien, that the winners would be awarded a large mass of gold coins and a month's supply of fine wine from Mirkwood (oops, I meant Eryn Lasgalen). He had really only been laying a wager with Haldir on which of the Kings would be likely to harm their impersonators if the actors played the part of adoring Royal Husband too well. It was easy to see where this notion came from and most likely was the cause for a great deal of wagering among the collected gawkers, for Lothiriel and Arwen were quickly warming to the task of judging the numerous able-bodied males who dared to enter the competition. It had taken several hours to weed out the least appropriate contestants and Arwen was still having trouble getting rid of one man, who refused to accept his disqualification to the next round and kept bargaining with the Queen.

"But, ah, I could do this. And and I am sure my performance would be well received." He was a small thin man, decidedly on the scrawny side, with a receding hairline and rather wild unkempt hair, large spectacles, and a most woebegone expression. He looked like a junior clerk in an accounting firm who had reached middle-age without ever advancing to a higher position. Or perhaps a balding, beard-deficient dwarf. As he talked, he gestured with his hands for emphasis while his voice, with all the appeal of the noise a mouse would make if one dragged its bottom over sandpaper, rose and fell in a most irritating pattern of inflection. "Picture it, my Queen, the irony of me, ME, playing the part of of the mighty KING of Gondor. It will be a hit, my Lady!"

"I am sorry to say, Mr Allen, that I…"

"Please, your Majesty, just Woody. All my friends call me Woody."

"As I was about to say, Mr. Allen, I can picture it and do not agree with you opinion. While I am sure you are a gifted in your own way, satiric humour and irony are not appropriate to the mood of this play. We shall call you if something else opens up."

"But I…no. It's because I'm short, isn't it. But think of it as an asset, my Lady; just imagine how exquisitely regal you will look beside me. Or I can play Eomer as long as it is just a merry-go-round pony I have to sit on."

"Just step over there Mr. Allen," commanded Galadriel, quite tired of the little man's arguments, and pointed to the growing crowd of rejected participants. With a great deal of owlish blinking, hand wringing, and two double-takes, the dejected comedian skulked off.

"Next!" announced Arwen.

A man swaggered forward, smirking in a decidedly roguish way as he looked the three Queens over. (well, Galadriel is not OFFICIALLY a queen, but…) He was dressed in the garments of a hunter: tight breeches, knee-high leather boots, a simple tunic and vest belted at the waist. A short scabbard was attached there at his hip and tied snugly around his right thigh. He was of average height and average build and his features, though regular, were not remarkable. His rugged life had left a few marks, including a scar upon his chin. Still, with sandy brown, short-cut hair and sparkling hazel eyes, he displayed a certain air of dash and daring. Looping his thumbs in his belt, he rocked up on his toes and back.

"Send them all away, princess," he said to Arwen, making a mocking bow, "your prince charming has arrived!"

Arwen frowned; obviously a vain and boastful man, this one would not be likely to treat her as a rare treasure and bend to her every whim, the way Aragorn did. And really, if he could not tell the difference between a Queen and a princess, what was the point? She opened her mouth to utter a cutting rebuke when the Queen of Rohan interrupted.

Lothiriel giggled and sent the man a playful glance from under her long black lashes. "What is you name, sir, and for which King are you competing?"

"Harrison, your highness, Harrison Ford, and I would be happy to escort both of you lovely ladies to this grand fête." He winked at Lothiriel and puckered his lips, sending Arwen a little tiny air kiss.

"Mr. Ford, do you have much experience playing the dignified role of a world leader?" demanded Galadriel, jealous because the cheeky mortal was completely ignoring her.

"How hard can it be? Clothes make the man, I heard someone wise say. Just give me the duds and I'll handle the rest. Why, these two will end up fighting over who gets to take me to the ball!"

"I do not think he has the right manner to represent Elessar," stated Galadriel, glaring at him. "He would be all right for Aragorn in his early days as a green, inexperienced Ranger, but not as King of Gondor."

"Well excuse me, your ladyship!" Harrison sneered. "I thought the princesses were the judges in this contest, not the Witch of the Golden Wood."

A collective gasp arose amid the spectators and everyone cowered back, fearful of Galadriel's wrath. Indeed, the Lady of Light became rigid in her seat, staring open-mouthed in shocked outrage, pondering what sort of vile substance to turn the man into. Before she could act on her urges and thus ruin the festivities, her granddaughter hastened to regain control of the event.

"We are all judges here, and if you cannot maintain a respectful manner you will be disqualified," snapped Arwen, standing and assuming the elegant, commanding demeanour for which she was well known and properly revered. "You have offended me and our esteemed hostess. I demand an apology!"

"I get it; you want me out of the running so no one will suspect. Admit it; you want me, Arwen," he strutted over, leaned across the table until he was almost in kissing range, and puckered up again. A ringing slap resounded through the trees and Harrison staggered back, rubbing his cheek and grinning with feral anticipation. "Oh, so you like it rough, huh? I can do rough, princess."

"Out. Leave Lothlorien at once!" shouted Arwen, pointing to the river. "And I am a Queen, not a princess!"

"Fine! You'll never know what you could have had. I could make you forget that stuck up old Numenorean throw-back. I would have treated you the way a woman deserves to be treated!" Harrison shouted as he strolled away. "Last chance, princess, take it now or you'll never kiss these lips as long as you live!"

"Thank the Valar! I would rather kiss a Dwarf!" fumed Arwen.

"That can be arranged! Dain Iron-foot III is a friend of mine," Harrison paused in his exit to yell back and then a quartet of Galadhrim wardens surrounded him at arrow point and escorted him from the borders.

"Of all the insolent ruffians, how did he ever get past the borders?" huffed Arwen as she sat back down.

"Well, the festival is open to everyone," reminded Lothiriel with a wistful sigh. "I rather liked him; he would have made a grand substitute for Eomer." Arwen and Galadriel gave her disapproving looks but the Queen of Rohan just shrugged.

"Next!" called Galadriel.

From the crowd emerged a tall, broad-shouldered man with shoulder-length, tangled brown hair. His features were handsome and his blue eyes, alight with the fire of determination and righteousness, gazed upon the Queens boldly. His face was painted with an unusual pattern in cobalt coloured dye yet it added to his allure rather than subtracting from his manly charms. He was scantily clad in a homespun sleeveless tunic that displayed the bulging muscles of his biceps and instead of breeches or leggings he wore a pleated knee-length skirt of sorts. The fabric of the skirt was woven in an intricate pattern of contrasting stripes in blue and grey and showed off his well-developed calves quite well.

Arwen, Lothiriel, and Galadriel gawked, looking him up and down multiple times. The Lady of Light made a vague motion with her hand and the human obliged, turning slowly so they could have a gander at every side. Arwen cleared her throat.

"Welcome to Lothlorien," she managed at last. "Tell us your name and where you are from."

"Mel Gibson, fairr Queen o' Gondorrr. Aeh coom fra tha haeylends o' tha Grrrey Moontens, narrth o' Maerrkwood, aeh mean, Grreenwood," he spoke in a strongly burred accent reminiscent of Gimli's and it took a moment for the three ladies to figure out what he was talking aboot, I mean about.

"Oh, but that must be a place both desolate and cold! Do you not find such attire provides little warmth or protection from the elements?" exclaimed Lothiriel, taking another opportunity to survey the man's physique.

"Nay, my Lady. We men o tha narrth aer haerrty and hot blooded, everr on tha go! Besides, woollen trewes get itchy in the summertime."

"Have you ever played the part of a King, Mr. Gibson?" asked Galadriel. "And can you lose that atrocious accent?"

"Fair enough OK," he nodded and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Now, I'm not a fella what skites, but I have rung in for a famous prince once and won a prize for the yarn of this grouse digger, Wallace." He indicated his own person with a sweep of his hand from head to feet. "You sheilas just give me a fair suck of the sav, and she'll be apples!" Mel smiled brightly, having obliged by discarding his Scottish accent for the native tongue of Oz.

Silence followed. The three judges exchanged glances and Galadriel shrugged, not at all certain what the man had said. Another human sidled up to Mel and leaned in close to clue the actor in.

"You've made a bloody proper galah of it! Look Mel, it's NBG; the mob's like a pick-pocket in a nudist camp! The elves don't savvy Strine, mate."

"Dinkum?"

"Fair dinkum. Yabber like a seppo and they'll be rapt!"

"Ta, mate."

"No drama."

Mel cleared his throat and smiled at Arwen, Lothiriel, and Galadriel again. "What I meant to say, is that I once played the part of the Prince of Denmark, a very difficult role, and won an academy award for my portrayal of William Wallace, a freedom fighter from the highlands of Scotland, depicted by my costume for this corroboree - er, party - and if you give me the chance to act the part, everything will come out just fine!"

"Oh, that is all right then," nodded Galadriel. "Step over there with the other finalist."

"Ace!" Mel sauntered with due pride amid the smattering of approving applause given by the crowd and stood next to his competition, a lean, muscular man with with craggy, darkly handsome features, short unruly hair and long sideburns. He gave Mel a surly frown as the actor approached.

"Whatter you lookin' at, Bub?" the tough character demanded, clenching his fists and thus causing alarmingly long and sharp metal talons to extend from his hands.

"Jingoes! Nothing, mate. Got a name?"

"Hugh Jackman, but you can call me Logan. Now quit yappin', I wanna see who else ends up in this little dance contest."

"Next!" shouted Arwen.

A tall, refined gentleman advanced to the table and presented himself with a graceful and courtly bow. He rose back to full height and shook his shoulder length brown hair back from his face, training his intense, soulful brown eyes upon the lovely Queen. He was dressed in black leather and carried a guitar case, which he set down carefully.

"Señora Telcontar, Reina de Gondor, la que posea belleza más brillante que sol, estoy siervo humilde de usted. Habré honrado ayudar usted con esta aventura." He spoke in sultry yet eloquent tones in a fluid language that conveyed both respect and avid appreciation of the fair elven Queen. He reached for Arwen's hand, and bowing over it, kissed the delicate white knuckles softly. "Permit me to introduce myself, noble Queen. I am El Mariachi!" With that the man unclasped his instrument (no not that, the guitar) and played upon it deftly with his fingers, filling the air with the soft strains of romantic yet thrilling strumming. He finished with a flourish and waited for the clapping to die down, bowing to the crowd. "But you may call me Antonio."

"Ah, thank you, Antonio. Please, join the other gentlemen," Galadriel was smiling warmly and Lothiriel sighed as he also bowed over and kissed her hand, giving her a sly little wink in passing.

"Are there any other contestants?" asked Arwen, quite eager to get on with the final voting. Two more men stood forth, quite opposite from one another in manner and bearing, and eyed each other critically.

"I reckon I'd like to try out, ma'am," said one, nodding politely to all three of the grand ladies. He was slender and wiry in build, somewhat lanky for being tall, with a sensitive, serious face and deep-set blue eyes. His glossy hair was black as the raven and fell to his shoulders and within its strands was fixed a magnificent eagle's feather. He wore simple buckskin clothing, his tunic edged in beaded fringe and his leggings snug about his calves. On his feet were soft leather moccasins and about his waist was belted a pouch and horn. His weapon was a long, thin tube of metal with a stout wooden end; he held it casually in the crook of his arm.

"Daniel Day-Lewis is my name but by others am I also known. Among my brothers, the Mohicans of the Delaware, I am called Hawkeye for my keen sight. Town folks call me Natty or Nathaniel. Mingoes have given me the name 'Le Longue Carabine' in honour of killdeer here," he patted the weapon with affection, "though it is a rifle and not a carbine at all, but what do you expect from those ignorant Iroquois?"

"It is amazing! He looks so much like Aragorn when he first left Imladris to join the Rangers," exclaimed Galadriel. "Tell me, young man, do you have any Numenorean blood?"

"No ma'am. I'm a white man without a cross although I have lived the life of a hunter with my brothers the Mohicans of the Delaware."

"Yes, he is very much like Aragorn," remarked Lothiriel, eager to have the other three to choose from for Eomer's part.

"Indeed," murmured Arwen with appreciation. "Hawkeye, join the others."

"You cannot seriously be considering choosing between these ragged, dirty characters for the role of Elessar, King of Gondor!" announced the final candidate with disgust. He was elegantly dressed in rich fabrics with a short pleated ruff around his neck. His breeches were of blue velvet and his tunic was of turquoise satin, embellished with extravagant embroidery. He was not as tall as the others but had a commanding presence, an air of royalty about him, aided by his impeccable grooming and articulate, aristocratic pronunciation. He wore a sword belted at his side and had the look in his eye of a man accustomed to using it. Short-cropped and the colour of sand, his hair was swept back from his high, smooth brow and he gazed in haughty displeasure upon the contestants from eyes of steely grey. "Perhaps they might do for the King of the Horse Lords, but not for the most powerful leader of the free world."

"Get a load of this fancy pants!" growled Logan. "Can you use that sword, Bub, or is it a fashion accessory?" He showed his claws again briefly.

"Bloody oath! What a figjam," agreed Mel, clapping his fist into the opposite palm as if he wished it might connect with their rival's nose instead.

"Esucpo sobre tus zapatas!" shouted Antonio and expelled a blob of saliva that landed on the actor's highly polished black boot.

"Hugh! I reckon our fitness won't be decided by you!" challenged Hawkeye. "What's your name, sir?"

"Kenneth Branagh," the man announced, drawing himself up and staring down his nose at the other men. "I have played the parts of noble kings and princes and my elocution and delivery are unmatched on the stage. I have been knighted by the Queen of my country for these efforts, thus you have rightly addressed me 'Sir'!"

"No, you haven't been knighted. I would've heard of that," argued Mel.

"Well I should be, and I am sure I will be soon," sniffed Kenneth. "Anyway, I have won lots of awards for my acting."

"Enough!" fussed Lothiriel, angry because this stuffy man thought he was too good to play the part of her beloved husband. "Just get over there so we can proceed with the voting."

Galadriel rose and motioned for the crowd to quiet down. "Friends from all the free lands of Arda! Our choices are here before you yet we leave the ultimate selection to your discretion! At you feet are baskets containing strings of festival beads and with these you will cast your vote. As each contestant steps forward, indicate your approval by throwing the beads at their feet. The man with the most beads wins!" She stepped aside as the crowd erupted in wild cheers and shouts.

Logan was first in line and he stepped tentatively forward. This was not the sort of contest he was used to and he looked around doubtfully for something to slash with his claws. He struck a few manly poses and showed his claws. A few strands of beads landed at his feet.

"Take it off!" someone shouted. Logan was a little started because the voice was definitely male.

"Yeah, show us some skin!" a woman called out.

"Oh it's like that, huh?" snapped Logan. "Well forget it! I don't prance around like a Chippendale stripper!" He stalked angrily away, scooping up his measly six strings of beads amid loud boos and hisses.

Mel was next and he realised what the crowd wanted, immediately turning his back, bending over and hiking up his skirt. He wiggled his arse to roaring cheers, for he was quite bare under there, and several handfuls of beads slapped him full on the cheeks. He righted himself and faced the crowd, raising both hands above his head in victory. He had a large pile of beads to collect and grinned smugly at Antonio as he returned.

The elegant and dashing Mariachi reached down to his guitar case, extracted a large, portable CD boombox, and turned it on. A steamy, sexy Latin rhythm got the crowd screaming as the limber actor gyrated to the music, slowly peeling off one layer of clothing at a time. The beads were falling like rain upon him and the women in the crowd, and some men, were shrieking their encouragement. He got down to his tidy whities and wouldn't go any further, for dignity's sake, and stopped the music. He smiled and waved to the applauding crowd and gathered up his beads and clothes. "Top that!" he challenged the remaining contestants between heaving breaths.

Hawkeye looked dismayed for a moment as he leaned upon killdeer. Then he seemed to come to a decision and turned to prop the weapon against a nearby Mallorn. "All right, I guess it's not so strange to want a full inspection of the goods before buying," he said and stepped boldly forward. Just then, a silent figure glided from the shadows of the trees and sat cross-legged on the ground. It was Chingachgook, the Last of the Mohicans, and he began to beat upon a drum in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. (No, Uncas was not there; he died in both the book AND the movie and thus cannot be revived even in fanfiction. Which is good for Hawkeye because he would not have gotten a second look if Uncas was around.) As he did so, Hawkeye began a dance of deceptively simple steps that nonetheless had the crowd spellbound for the intensity of the emotion held within every motion of his lithe and muscular body.

He pulled his tunic off and swung it over his head, flinging it out into the crowd. A great shout of excitement went up and the beads started flying, but Hawkeye danced on as if entranced, oblivious to the throng of people cheering him on. He had on a sot of leather apron around his waist with a front and back flap. This he tore off and threw into the sea of waving arms frantically grasping to snatch it up. With a gasp the people fell silent for a second or two, for with the apron gone it was revealed that the leggings were just that: the leather covered his legs from ankle to thigh leaving his arse and dangly bits completely exposed. The crowd roared approval and fairly buried the hunter in beads. Haweye's dance came to an end soon after and Chingachgook handed him a spare apron he always carried for just such emergencies, since obviously the lucky person who had caught the original was not giving it back, and helped his adopted brother collect the vast quantity of wampum from the ground.

It grew quiet as the crowd waited to see what the last participant would do. It hardly seemed likely that the prim and aristocratic Shakespearean actor would be willing to engage in such low-brow entertainment. In this they underestimated Kenneth's pride. He was not about to be outstripped by these uncouth common buffoons. After thinking for a moment, he approached Antonio and asked to borrow the boombox. When the Latin lover complied, Kenneth removed the Spanish CD and popped in one of his own (handed at the opportune moment by an anonymous assistant.) He stood with his back to the crowd, head bowed, and then the anonymous assistant pressed the play button. A rocking techno club beat blared out and Kenneth's hips began to sway in time to the music. As the music increased in tempo and fullness, the actor's footwork became more elaborate. From some unseen location, brightly coloured spotlights and beams of brilliant hues began to sweep the crowd and the leaves above in time with the music. By the time the first lyrics filled the air, he had the boots off and was working on the belt and scabbard.

"What is Love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more." the voice from the boombox sang as the synthesised sound filled the air. Just as the music reached a fevered, scull-pounding peak, Kenneth ripped open his elegant tunic and flung away the pleated ruff. More strutting and gyrating ensued to the delight of the rabidly screaming onlookers, who were swaying and moving with the music, too. Then, Kenneth reached down and grabbed his breeches at the crotch, ripping them off his body and tossing the ragged scraps of velvet away. He, too, was sans undies.

The audience went wild, bombarding the actor with beads so that he nearly slipped and fell. He pranced around for a while and moon-walked in his stocking feet until the song finally ended and there were no more beads to throw. While he was bowing, someone slapped his bum and the anonymous assistant arrived with a leaf rake to gather up the mound of beads. Kenneth stood there throwing kisses and taking bows much too long and Galadriel had to shoo him away.

"Thank you people of Arda! Your decision is clear! Hawkeye shall play the role of Elessar and Kenneth shall be Eomer for the day's festivities!" she yelled out above the still applauding throng. Another cheer rose up and more clapping and then the crowd began to slowly disperse, wandering back to observe the float makers again.

"Root!" cursed Mel in disappointment. He turned and stomped away to find some cabers to toss.

"Ah well, que sera, sera," sighed Antonio. He took up his guitar and went strolling through the trees, playing and singing a beguiling ballad as he went.

As they did so, Lothiriel frowned and looked Kenneth over critically. "But his hair is too short and he has no moustache!" she complained, much to Kenneth's displeasure.

Just then a tall, willowy, beautiful elven woman approached, her long black hair swaying as she walked, a very small ellon with a very big grin, and a huge moustache at her elbow. "Oh don't worry, Hon. We can have our wardrobe manager fix him right up," she said. "A wig will make all the difference and Sonny has lots of extra moustaches to choose from." It was Cher and her husband, Sonny, two of the principal entertainers for the affair. (That's right, Cher is a half-Avari, half-Noldorin elf. How else do you think she remains so young looking after so many years? Sonny is also an elf, a Telerin elf related distantly to Círdan -hence the extravagant facial hair- and yes, he faked his tragic death to escape the pressure of being a celebrity. Their real names are Sollen and Chaeron (Solly and Chaer for short) but their agent made them change the spelling, saying Americans would never be able to pronounce the words properly otherwise. Sollen means closed (don't ask) and Chaeron means remote or distant (parents-who can understand what goes through their brains when it comes to naming their children?))

"Sure, babe, we'll make you into a real Horse Lord before you can say 'the beat goes on'," added Sonny. With that, he let Kenneth borrow his sport jacket to tie around his waist and the famous couple led the famous actor away, the Queen of Rohan trailing behind.

As for Hawkeye, Arwen escorted him back to the Royal Talan to find fitting apparel for the King's stand-in, and all was well in Lothlorien as the festival opening approached.