Most Epic Hero Ceremony 2022

Photo Credit: Grant Walker @bruce_trek

The sun sinks below the horizon on a rocky and rugged landscape, the sky awash in purple and blue.

A beacon fire blazes in the darkness shedding light on the wilderland and the massive, rapt audience that has assembled for this, the final ceremony of the 2022 Silmaril Awards.

A tall, rugged-looking man in a princely cloak climbs up the hillock and stands before the audience. The crowd gazes up at the man and a rumble of confused whispers ripples through the crowd. For it is Boromir, not Aragorn, who now stands before them.

“Greetings, friends,” Boromir intones, his voice ringing out over the snow-clad night. “Thank you for gathering here in this lonely spot to celebrate the heroism, courage, and grit of the most heroic among us, as chosen by you, good audience.” Boromir raises a massive horn to his lips and blows a series of sharp blasts upon it.

From behind the hill, a veritable army of heroes emerges and the audience can now see that all the nominees have been recalled for this most solemn occasion. A young boy flies overhead, a golden speck of light and bells flitting close by. Not one but two cloaked figures wielding scythes emerge from the shadows, the two versions of Death stare at one another awkwardly, like attendees of a costume banquet who thought surely their costume would be unique. Billy Bannister whose eyes burn like those of a dragon, looking awkward and a little intimidated, lurks behind King Bran ap Brychan, who wields his Welsh long bow with casual ease. There is a bard with a bandage over his eyes, as well as an enormous creature who looks like a cross between a wolf and a bear hanging out with several other heroes who bear strange and shaggy forms. I recognize Nick Beasley’s monstrous shape among them. There are grim-faced men, and tall elven princes who gaze about at the audience with eyes that betray deeply tortured souls. There are young men and old, kings and farm boys, officers of the Watch, a great lion, and even a marsh wiggle. A few of these heroes wield wands. Most have swords.

In silence, five step forth to kneel before Boromir like knights awaiting their shields.

Boromir smiles down upon them. “Has there ever been a more noble gathering?”

“I think not,” another voice replies, and a man in a rough cloak climbs up over the side of the hill, his face rugged with several days’ growth of beard. He flashes Boromir a grin. “Thank you, my friend, for your aid. I was not certain I would make it in time.”

Boromir greets Aragorn gladly and clasps his forearm. “I worried when the beacon lit and you had not yet arrived. I am glad you are here now. The ceremony is yours.”

Aragorn leans heavily on the end of his bow stave. “Nay, friend Boromir. You seem to have things well in hand, and you are certainly qualified to present this award.”

Boromir gives him a searching look. “You have brought it?”

Aragorn brings a silver box out from beneath his cloak. “It is safe.”

Boromir nods. “Very well.” He turns back to the kneeling figures.

“Of the epic heroes among us, we are here to specially honor five, and bestow the gift of a Silmaril upon one. It was a hard-fought battle, and none would give ground. We have right at the beginning of this ceremony, a tie!”

There seem to have been a lot of those, I think to myself from where I’m standing off to the side. Yes, I am here, but the heroes have got this covered. They do not need me. I’m keeping my eyes on the sky… there have been a lot of shenanigans and I’m a little bit worried that InterFiction cheaped out a bit on the security forces for this year’s awards. I don’t really want to get flame-broiled here in… I glance around, puzzled. Where exactly are we?

Aragorn seems to be questioning this as well, for he is looking about with an expression of consternation on his face.

Boromir is still speaking. “…Yes, a tie for fourth place. Rise, Curdie and Taran of Caer Dalben. Worthy heroes both, you are much-beloved by your readers.”

Both young men, one somewhere in his late teens, one closer to twelve, rise and turn to wave at the audience. They look a little dazzled by the honor.

“In third place…”

“Boromir,” Aragorn interrupts. “Where are we?”

Boromir turns. “Ah, yes, I am sorry. I should have explained for our audience. We are here in the vast wilderness that exists as the border between Rohan and Gondor. Our encampment this evening is directly between the Firien Wood and Druadan Forest.”

Aragorn’s eyes narrow. “Is this not the place…?”

Boromir gives him an easy grin. “Aye, it is the place.”

The audience leans forward, curious.

Boromir turns to them. “It is not a tale that Bilbo or Frodo included in their tales, though Thorin did relay it to Bilbo just before they fell into the lair of the Goblin King, it never made it properly into the book. This is the spot where Aragorn and I first met, many years ago. I… helped him out of some slight trouble he was having with a certain homeless dwarven prince.”

“Slight trouble?” an offended voice cries out. “I was thoroughly thrashing him, as I recall.” Thorin Oakenshield steps out of the crowd, a gleam of… amusement… shining in his eyes. “You, young lad of 12, on your rite of passage to manhood stopped our fight and turned us to friendship.”

Aragorn chuckles low in his throat. “Ah… yes. I remember it well.” He waves a hand. “But this is not the time to reminisce.”

I thought that was just a legend… but there is not time for me to ask questions, for Boromir is moving on.

“In third place,” the hero says, “we have young Will Treaty, the Ranger’s Apprentice!”

The young ranger stands and gives a jaunty wave. Aragorn makes eye contact with the boy’s mentor and the two exchange a nod of utmost respect.

“In second place…”

But Boromir’s voice is drowned out suddenly by a sound like a hurricane sweeping low overhead. A blast of fire blazes through the night, followed by a deafening roar. A score of mighty dragons sweep down over the rocky ground, alighting in a ring around the audience.

“I am fire! I am death!” A well-known voice rings out, striking fear into every heart like an icy blast. “And I will have my prize! A Silmaril for my hoard!”

“Why doesn’t he understand that he already has one?” I mutter fiercely under my breath (from where I am currently cowering behind a boulder). “That’s the whole point of him being a presenter! What, does he need a new one every year? I’ll bet it got buried under that mountain of gold he sleeps on and he forgot about it. Just like the Arkenstone. Greedy dragon.” I shake my head, but I’m not about to go charging out there to confront a live, angry dragon. I’m not an idiot.

“Stand fast, dragon!” Boromir shouts, drawing his sword. “You shall not have the Silmaril, it belongs to the Most Epic Hero.”

“I am FIRE!” Smaug roars. “I AM DEATH!” Clearly, he thinks we’re all a bit hard of hearing. Well… I suppose we are now.

“Archers, at the ready!” Aragorn yells, drawing his own bow.

Legolas, Halt, Will, and King Bran ap Brychan join him, arrows trained on the ring of dragons surrounding them.

An enormous lion roars, and even the dragons shudder slightly at the sound. A thin, Korean man steps forward, his eyes flashing with excitement, his lips curling back. A girl tugs at his arm and whispers fiercely into his ear.

“Give him the Silmaril,” one of the other dragons urges, I can’t see which one is speaking. “We have elected Smaug as our leader. He has promised us ALL Silmarils if we help him get one of his own.”

“Nay, fiend,” Boromir replies, his sword steady in his hand. “You shall not have it.”

The dragons rear back, fire crackles behind their great teeth.

“Now!” Aragorn yells, and a storm of arrows flies through the air.

Brant and Oraeyn (experienced as they are at fighting both against and beside dragons) lead the charge as the arrows clatter upon hardened scales, their swords flashing in the firelight. The golden Fang Blade shimmers in the darkness. King Arthur and Billy Bannister join them, brandishing twin Excaliburs. The other heroes surge forward, and an epic battle ensues.

 
 

Long minutes pass, and neither side gives ground. I begin to worry that this may be the end of us all… when suddenly, a door like a rip in the fabric of space and time suddenly shimmers into existence and I glance down to see my InterFiction badge gleaming like a falling star.

“Into the doorway!” I shout. “Push them back!”

The dragons are ferocious and huge, but they are vastly outnumbered (it seems only the dragons who might have any inclination toward evil followed Smaug on his rampage). Although many of the heroes are injured, they fight on, closing ranks on the mythical beasts with relentless fury, pushing them back with sword, axe, and arrows toward the shimmering door. One dragon gets too close, and is pulled through, leaving behind only a startled echo of a roar. Heartened by this, the heroes push forward once more, and soon all that is left is Smaug. Howl shouts something and the dragons are suddenly covered in a sticky green gloop… which does literally nothing other than add to the chaos. Dustfinger twirls flaming swords. I see Bastien Dennel leading a charge with other heroes who seem to be carrying more unconventional weapons… they don’t stand a chance.

Emboldened by the heroes and their courage on display, I climb up onto the rock I was hiding behind and hold up my InterFiction badge. It lights up the area around me.

“Smaug!” I shout, my voice suddenly magnified a hundred-fold (I glance over at the hero-wizards and nod my thanks… they are on the ball!) “Either fly through that doorway behind you right now and return to your cave, or you will never be allowed to set foot near another Silmaril Award Ceremony.”

Smaug rears his head back. “Puny human! And who will present the Most Magnificent Dragon award if not I, most magnificent and mighty and marvelou….?”

“There are plenty of other dragons who would be willing to behave themselves,” I snarl, cutting him off. “Six of them have already won Silmaril Awards and are therefore qualified to present the award. And ALL of them would be better behaved than you!”

Smaug glares at me, his eyes simmering with anger like molten lava and I glare back, matching him glower for murderous glower. I surely would not feel quite so audacious if I were not standing with Boromir on my left, Aragorn on my right, and all these other epic heroes ringed around me with weapons drawn and magic at the ready.

“I want my own Silmaril,” Smaug mutters, clearly unwilling to let the matter drop. “If I cannot have the Most Magnificent Dragon… which, of course, I surely deserve, then I shall have another.”

“You already have a silmaril,” I hiss in exasperation.

Smaug blinks at me. “I… what?”

“We presented it to you back in 2016, when we came to formally ask you if you would be willing to present this category. Don’t you remember?” I ask.

The fire in Smaug’s eyes dims slightly. “I… uh….”

“We told you that as the Most Magnificent Dragon in all the realms, the masterpiece of the great bard, Tolkien himself, you were the obvious and only choice to do the honors. Then we presented you with the very first of these new-fashioned Silmarils and you said you would guard it in a place of honor in your hoard for all eternity. Clearly, all eternity didn’t mean very long.”

A glimmer of something like embarrassment flits across Smaug’s face. “I… ah. Yes. Of course. Now that you… I think… well, you see…” The most fearsome of all the dragons now glares at me in haughty outrage. “Of course I remember,” he snaps. “I just wanted to make sure that you did.”

With a mighty flap of his wings, he flits through the doorway and disappears.

A slender woman with olive skin, silver hair, and a flowing dress with wide sleeves that flutter in the gentle wind stands where the doorway once did and I give her a look of annoyed gratitude.

“Thank you, Shiori,” I say.

“My pleasure,” she replies.

“But you really shouldn’t be here,” I can’t help but add. “You’re not published yet.”

“Ah,” she gives me a mysterious smile. “But I am written, dear Author.”

 
 

She waves a hand, and disappears through the doorway. I blink after her for a moment, a little bemused. Then I shake my head. I’m glad she showed up, even if it does break the rules a bit. I’m not sure what we would have done without the Archidian’s assistance. I didn’t really want the heroes to have to slay the dragons….

Thankfully, the audience has settled down fairly quickly. There do not appear to be any fatalities, thank goodness. Just a few minor wounds.

“I am so sorry about that,” I say to the waiting crowd, my voice still unnaturally loud. “I am going to have a serious talk with InterFiction about better security measures next year. Please, Boromir, continue. I apologize for the rude interruption.”

“Not to worry, fair hostess,” Boromir says, taking my hand and bowing over it, making me blush slightly. “Is it not well that you had such strength of men gathered here? Is this not exactly what we were written for?”

The audience and the assembled heroes give a hearty cheer.

“Now,” Boromir continues. “In second place, may I congratulate Eustace Clarence Scrubb from the Chronicles of Narnia!”

Eustace stands, to a deafening applause.

“I’m glad I wasn’t still a dragon just now,” he jokes. “I wouldn’t have wanted to face us!”

The crowd laughs heartily.

“And finally,” Boromir smiles. “The winner of this year’s Epic Hero Silmaril is none other than young Janner Wingfeather!”

A young boy rises and the audience rises with him, stamping their feet and shouting and clapping in a standing ovation that goes on and on. His younger brother and sister push him forward, grinning from ear to ear.

As Janner approaches, Aragorn flips open the box and lifts out a dazzling jewel of deepest midnight blue. The gemstone shines as though a fire flickers at its heart, and sparkles brighter than any star in the night sky above.

Boromir takes the jewel and slips the ribbon over Janner’s head. The boy stares down at it, his eyes filled with wonder.

“Congratulations, lad,” Boromir says softly. “Thou hast earned it.”

 
 

And thus ends another season of Silmaril Awards.

I hope you all had as much of a blast as we hosts and hostesses all did! It is always a delight, bringing these awards to your inbox. And thank YOU so much, dear Readers, Fearless Adventurers, for your participation: for your nominations, your votes, your comments, your enthusiasm… YOU are the reason these awards exist and continue. Without all of you, they would fade from memory and pass into shadow.

Don’t forget to enter the giveaway before you leave! I will announce the winner next Monday, right here on the blog!

Also, huge thanks to Grant Walker over at Bruce Trek for providing the picture for today’s blog banner. Please check out his Instagram for more epic photos and inspiring scenery!
BRUCE TREK

Silmarillion AwardsJenelle Schmidt22 Comments