"Viggo! Over here!"

"Viggo!"

"How do you feel about this role?"

"Viggo! Viggo!"

"Did you like working with this cast?"

"I love you, Viggo!"

"Viggo! Look!"

"Come on, Viggo!"

"Viggo! Kiss me! Viggo!"

"VIGGO!"

He worked his way down the line. Nameless faces and disembodied hands shoving things in front of him. He dutifully signed his name to each and every one after getting a name from the hand or face in question.

"Viggo! Over here!"

They grabbed at him, hugged him, even kissed him! He signed papers, pictures, books, programmes, magazines, posters and even one woman's breast. Somebody had a painting!

"Hey! Viggo? Can you sign this?"

He just breathed. He was used to this, even accepted it as a part of who he now was. They only wanted whatever small piece of him that he could give. A brush with him that they could take with them and talk about for a long time.

"VIGGO!"

It wasn't painful. It didn't affect his immortal soul or anything. It was bewildering, however. Why him? What about him made these people behave this way? He'd never understood it. To be admired for his work was one thing but the whole sex symbol thing ... well, he just didn't get that bit at all.

"Kiss me, Viggo!"

The age range of the women (and sometimes men) was vast. Teens to seniors turned into fangirls (or boys) before his very eyes! They'd look beseechingly into his eyes, hoping for ... what? A moment? An offer? He didn't know, had never known.

"Hi, Viggo!"

It had all changed so rapidly, too. One day, he could walk the dog, hit the corner store or have a brew at the local bar. The next (or so it seemed), he couldn't look out his window without someone staring back at him.

"VIGGO!"

Well, those days were gone and were unlikely to ever come back. He accepted it. There were benefits. He had money, not just for himself, but money that he could put towards what he considered worthy causes. He could help unknowns get published or help bring the plight of Native Americans to light. He could save the horses or speak his mind where it would be heard ... something that could maybe help save the world. So the benefits were good.

"Viggo! VIGGO! I made this for you!"

The fans were good, too. Mostly. They might be stricken (again, why?) but most of them conducted themselves with dignity. Oh, sure, there was that one site online that appeared to be sex-starved and, maybe, not so dignified in their posts of what they'd do with him. That double post rule where they had to post naked pictures of him in penance was a little out there but they were entertaining. He'd often find himself laughing out loud when he read some of their stuff. Anyway, he had to admit to himself, that anyone he'd ever actually met from that site had not done a single thing they'd promised in writing. On the contrary, they seemed to be able to control themselves quite nicely. That was probably a good thing. Some of the things they threatened ...

"VIGGO!"

"We love you, Viggo!"

"Over here!"

"Just one picture!"

Something hit him in the side of the head. He picked a pair of pink lace panties off his shoulder and swung them around his finger for the crowd to thunderous applause and cheers. Really, he was quite good at this. The panties appeared to be unworn so he tucked them into his suit pocket like a handkerchief. More cheers. He laughed, did a little open-armed bow to the crowd and moved on down the line.

"Viggo! I wrote this poem for you!"

He thanked the lady for shoving the paper in his face, asked her name, told her it was a pretty name and edged along. Someone grabbed his arm. One of the handlers (how he despised having them!) stepped in, extracted him and suggested in his ear that perhaps they should call it a day and go into the theatre. Viggo pretended he didn't hear him.

"Viggo! I want to have your baby!"

Well, that was going a little far but he looked in the direction of the offer just the same, threw her a wink and wondered how many such offers he'd get if he was, say, a welder.

"VIGGO!"

He was starting to get tired but these people had stood here for hours for this and he hated to disappoint even a single one of them. He knew the handlers were getting antsy, though, and he'd have to cut it off soon.

"Marry me, Viggo!"

He stopped on the spot, looked around and gave a sheepish grin. The shouter blushed and gave a little squeal. It really was surreal.

"Over here! Viggo! Here I am!"

It was near the end of the line that it happened. It started fairly innocently. She had something to sign, he signed it. She had something to give him, he accepted it and thanked her. She had a story to tell him. He tried to listen as he signed something for the woman next to her. She became more persistent and the handlers shifted around nervously.

This sort of thing happened from time to time. An over-zealous fan. They felt they had some sort of connection with him. (he understood this obsession least of all) There was a desperation about them unequaled by the majority of his fans. He was usually quite good about dealing with this type of fan but, today, his words and reassurances fell short.

She hopped the barrier and, before the handlers could react, she was all over him. He still could have dealt with it but it had all happened so fast, he was so unprepared that she bowled him right over. She was trying to kiss him and tearing at his suit. By the time the handlers pulled her off of him, his jacket and shirt were almost shredded and his pants were torn in a few places. The crowd of fans turned ugly, screaming insults at the woman as she was hauled off, kicking and screaming. He slowly got to his feet, scratched and bleeding in a few places. He was shocked at what had happened. Nothing quite like that had ever happened before, not even with the most ardent of fans.

He was hurting all over but didn't feel he could leave things like this. He started over towards where they were holding the woman. She seemed to be calming down but then she saw him approaching. She broke free and ran all out towards him.

Aragorn awoke with a start! He grabbed his sword and was on his feet in the blink of an eye, spinning, scanning the forest for any sign of trouble. Seeing none, he sheathed his sword and sank to the ground in a daze, still vibrating, still alert.

It was a dream. Only a dream. But what a dream! The man had his face and some of his mannerisms. He wore such odd clothes, however, and what in Middle Earth did veego mean? What fun it had seemed in the beginning! How horribly it seemed to end.

Aragorn stoked the fire, thinking of the plight of the man with his face and thinking of day ahead that he himself faced. He was grateful, so very grateful, that he had only orcs to face in the morning!