In a forest far, far away, the early morning birdsong and quiet rustlings of small creatures in the undergrowth are interrupted. For down the secret paths of this forest comes the marching of many feet. The sounds of laughter and excited talk grow as men and women, boys and girls file through the trees. There is little in common with these folk—except for one thing. The books. They each carry novels, strapped to their backs or waists or carried in their hands. They are readers, every one of them.
At last these many readers tramping down their many secret paths meet together in a wide glen surrounded by trees. White flower chains are strung between the branches. At the far end of the glen stands a wooden stage, and spread before it are hundreds of chairs, half of them ready and waiting. The other half are already filled by nearly a hundred and fifty heroines.
The readers take their seats, murmuring in anticipation. For today dawns the beginning of the Silmaril ceremonies… and they are about to discover who will receive this year’s award for Most Epic Heroine.
A girl with a blonde pixie cut and a long grey cloak climbs onto the stage and smiles at the crowd.
“Welcome, fellow readers, to the fifth annual Silmaril Awards!”
The crowd cheers.
“My name is Tracey, and it’s my distinct pleasure to introduce our hostess for this morning—but before I do, allow me to say that I’ve never been quite so inspired as I have been the past few weeks. Housing one hundred and forty-eight worthy heroines in one’s home has a way of doing that to you. Ah, the stories they told me! The bravery, grace, wit, and wisdom of these ladies would light a flame of courage in any heart. But alas, only five heroines could proceed to the voting round.” She sweeps an arm toward the audience. “And now the time has come to see which one found the most favor among all of you!”
Tracey clears her throat and continues. “But that is an announcement for someone else to share. I now welcome to the stage the White Lady, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, daughter of the house of Eorl, who for a time went under the alias Dernhelm and slew the Witchking. I give you… Lady Éowyn!”
A tall woman with golden hair rises from the front row and takes the stage to the sound of even louder cheers. She beams. “Welcome, friends. It is an honor to stand before you today, and an even greater honor to present a Silmaril to this year’s winner. I wish to—”
At this moment, thunder rumbles in the distance. A bank of low, dark clouds rushes to cover the sunrise. The audience stirs nervously as a sudden wind whips through the trees.
