2023 Most Majestic Ruler Silmaril Award presentation

The time has come to present the 2023 silmaril for Most Majestic Ruler. There are heroes who save the day and villains who attempt to thwart them, but then there are leaders. It takes a special kind of character to lead and inspire his people, to bring them through hard times or keep them safe from invading enemies. Leadership is a burden not fit for all shoulders. So today, we descend into the elvenking’s halls in the forest once known as Mirkwood, to discover who rose above all other rulers this year to earn the title of Most Majestic.

The silver box

The elvenking received the silver filagreed box into his hands. One of his waywatchers brought it to him, as was usual. But it came without a key, which was not.

When he inquired of the missing key, the waywatcher produced a letter. This too was customary. The names of the rulers to be honored in the ceremony. But, no, there were no names upon the parchment this time. Only the following words in bark brown ink:

Be wary. Of late, dark forces are at work, seeking to oppose the bestowing of the gems. Arrive at the Gladden Fields by September 25th. There the five will be revealed. We dare not do so beforehand lest the enemy seek to waylay them. Worry not for the missing key. It shall await you there, along with unexpected company.

It wasn’t signed. The letters never were. But he knew by the waywatchers from whence they came. The Istari. Though they were ones neither Gandalf nor Radaghast knew. Despite their blue raiment, they were not the two who had gone over to the East, never to be seen again. Yet they gave not their names and brooked no questions when asked. But that was to be expected. The ways of wizards are as unknown as the watery courses which run through the rocks of the world.

But even without the letter, the elvenking would have known what rested inside the box. He felt the living power within even through the silver encasement. He had a special affinity for gems and precious rocks cut from the earth. But it took no skill or keenness of perception to feel such raw, unbridled vitality. 

Through the woods

It was a silmaril. A thing worthy of captivating even the eyes of kings. And he would set his eyes upon it soon. He did not deny that his heart was drawn to such a thing. The memory of the other stones he had given away played in his thoughts long after they were gone. 

The elvenking brushed aside such reminiscences and gave the order. “Tell the captain to ready a party of ten of the eternal guard this time, and twenty of your own waywatchers.” Seeing the question in the elf’s eyes, he added, “Though the ring is no more, it would appear that other enemies range abroad. Greenwood will be safe whilst we travel. It is the stone which needs our protection.”

The following morning they marched forth from the cavernous halls of the elvenking out into Eryn Lasgalen, the Wood of Greenleaves. Though the leaves had not yet begun to turn, the ebbing of summer added a certain scent to the air which he knew all too well, portending the coming of autumn. After so many seasons under the stars and sun, he could not fail to note the stirring.

The elves sang as they went. Though darkness might lay ahead upon their road, they refused to let it rule their hearts. These were the woods they loved and they had been safe now for many years, so they knew no fear.

They traveled down the Old Forest Road, passing the Old Ford at the River Anduin in the moonlight. The king’s thoughts turned to Elrond and the Last Homely House, but he would return there some other day. This day, his feet turned southwards as his company ventured along the banks to their destination.

Darkness closes in

The trees came down from the Misty mountains in those places and the elven party had not been long following the Anduin when there came the padding of wolf paws through the underbrush.

“There are many. Far more than there are of us,” the captain of the guard said.

“And they are not wolves, but wargs,” the chief of the waywatchers said.

“It is as the Istari warned,” the elvenking said. “A pack of such creatures has not dared show itself since the ending of the War of the Ring. Yet I hear no pounding of orc boots among them. Could it be that they move alone?”

“Indeed. And they move too swiftly for the bearing of riders. They shall overtake us by nightfall.”

“Then we take to the trees. They cannot reach us there. The sting of our arrows shall be enough to drive them away.”

With practiced ease, they took positions within the great firs of those woods and waited. Darkness was not long in coming and with it the howling snarls of the wargs ran through the eaves.

Spawn of Carcharoth

Long were their flanks and black was their fur, so black that even elven eyes could not tell their number. Yet the darkness did not hinder their aim. Especially that of the waywatchers, who could send off two arrows where the guard sent off one and scarcely one in fifty missed the mark. Only the elvenking’s arrows flew swifter and truer.

The wolves frothed and clawed, but could not reach beyond the lowest branches. Their carcasses soon heaped so high they forced the elves to move further up into the trees, yet still they came on.

Soon the quivers of the king, his ten guards, and the twenty waywatchers were empty.

Though few now in number, the wargs refused to leave. They scraped away the bark of the base of the trees and howled with fresh fury.

“Their howls mask the sounds, but I hear orc boots coming now,” the chief of the waywatchers said.

“Yes. They have us pinned here like wingless birds. We cannot wait until they come. Even wingless birds may dive one last time. We have no choice but to face them with our blades,” the elvenking said.

The words spoken, the elves fell upon their enemies, swift and sudden. Perhaps they could not fly, but their spears and double knives and the sword of the king ripped into the flesh of the wargs with deadly precision. Though the waywatchers soon fell back, wounded, the elvenking’s and his company vanquished all but one of the foul beasts.

Only the largest of the pack remained. It held its ground and indeed had yet to engage the elves. This was their leader, the chieftain of the wargs, and it was said that the blood of the great Carcharoth ran in its veins.

The errand fails

As their spears closed in, the mighty warg made a sudden leap. Thinking it outnumbered and themselves with the advantage, it took the elves by surprise. The warg leapt over the circle of spears and straight at the king. Though he dealt it a savage blow to one of its eyes, the warg knocked him from his feet.

The elvenking’s life would have ended there had not the chief waywatcher rushed in from the darkness to skewer the beast from the side with both his knives. Still, the warg kept its feet, and grabbed the elf in its jaws and hurled him against a tree.

Dazed and weak and unable to rise, the elvenking was helpless to lift his sword in defense as the warg turned back upon him. The spears of his guard came at the beast from either side, but too late. The warg pounced, but instead of tearing the elvenking apart with its fangs, it swallowed up the box holding the silmaril which had fallen from the king’s satchel when he was thrown to the ground.

Perhaps the gem came free inside the beast, or perhaps the warg felt the holy light of the gem even through the casing, but it howled in rage as the silmaril burned inside. It fled into the night, a great shadow melding into the trees.

Though the king’s heart darkened as the howls faded deeper into the woods, his thoughts went to his people first. The waywatchers wounds were grievous, yet not unto death. Even the chief waywatcher survived the warg’s teeth, for he had fought in the Battle of the Five Armies and for his valor and deeds, the elvenking had gifted him a suit of mithril which turned aside the worst of the attack.

The Gladden Fields

Somber and crestfallen, they journeyed on. No songs now touched their lips, for they knew that peril lay close by. The elvenking grieved the loss of the silmaril, for it had been entrusted to him to guard and bring safely to the Gladden Fields.

“Yet still we will go on,” he said. “Silmaril or no. We must at least deliver the news of its loss to those who have traveled even farther than we.”

They saw many signs of the warg’s passing as they went. Trees were felled and everywhere about that land the terror of the wolf sent those who dwelt there into hiding.

The orcs never caught them. Whether because the gem was already taken or from the swiftness of the elves, it cannot be said, but the company arrived at the River Anduin some days later, just where it met the River Gladden on a bright, though misty morning, September the 25th.

A new heaviness settled upon the elvenking as they veered to follow the River Gladden into the wetlands. Amidst the soggy marsh and damp reeds, the remnants of an old village still clung to a dry patch of field. Though the roofs had long since decayed, in some houses the frames yet stood and at the largest one a round and rotting door lay tilted against the frame.

Unexpected company

In the middle of what must once have been the town’s commons, a wrinkled old tree yet stood and around it a band of merry hobbits picnicked upon the bare earth. There were twenty or more of them and as soon as they caught sight of the elves they rose and greeted them with much enthusiasm.

“Greetings, oh, great King of the Woodland Realm,” said the tallest and plumpest of the hobbits. “Unlike the great hobbits of the past, I’ve never had the occasion to see any elves and I must say, it’s quite…” He lost his thought for a moment amidst the splendor of the elves in their tunics made to look like woven leaves and under their peerless gaze. “As I was saying, I’m Nevil Bolger, Mayor of Hobbiton and I welcome you to our humble little party, such as it is.”

“Would you like some refreshments?” asked a sunny-haired young female hobbit.

“Oh, yes, you must be famished from your long journey. I am and I’ve been here three days.”

“We are fine. We ate of lembas at dawn, which is enough for us,” the elvenking said.

“Ah, well, suit yourself. Galinda’s apple punch is not to be missed, though. And we’ve sweet meat pies!”

“Don’t forget to give him the key.” Galinda nudged the mayor.

“Oh, yes, why, I’d quite forgotten.” The mayor produced a finely crafted silver key from one of his many vest pockets and handed it to the elvenking.

It fell heavy into his hand. “I fear I have ill news. The silmaril is lost. We have no prize to give this year.”

“Oh, dear! What awful news!”

All of the other hobbits had by now gathered around and their faces grew long and fretful.

A pale hobbit

“When will the rulers arrive? We must at least show them what honor we can while they are here, even if their journey proves in vain.” The elvenking surveyed the clearing, but even his eyes could not penetrate the thick mists.

“Now is always a good time,” said a mousy voice. A white furry face detached itself from the mists. Though at first those gathered took the stranger for some sort of very pale hobbit, for the fellow was about that size, they soon understood him to be an over-sized, man-shaped rabbit with a jacket, knickers, and even a sword girded at his waist.

With a rush of propriety, Mayor Bolger fished a paper from his pocket and donned his spectacles. “You must be the one called Smalls.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Smalls said with a nod. “I came as quick as I could. Though my kingdom is in great need so I cannot stay long.”

“Did you see any of the others on your way?”

Two unlikely companions

“We are here, both Rendar and I,” said a shaggy, gray-haired man of some age, but undiminished vigor, who appeared out of the mists from another direction. “Gwydion at your service.” He gave a half-bow. Like Smalls, he wore a sword about his waist though it was understandably much larger.

“And, as he said, I am Rendar. We are pleased and humbled to have been called to this place.” The other who spoke was an elf with silver-white hair. Though he had the appearance of one of the elvenking’s kin, a light in his eyes told that he might have been something more. For it was a light akin to that upon the faces of Galadriel and the other Noldor, those who had seen the light of the two trees before the breaking of the world and from whence had come the light of the silmarils. He alone of the rulers present bore no weapon.

A thick warrior emerged behind them. He wore a round steel helm and rough padded armor. A great sword hung from his side also. Where Gwydion had laughing, joyful eyes and Rendar and Smalls a pleasant keen interest, this man’s eyes were gray and grim, like the sea before a storm.

A ready blade

“I am Beowulf,” he said. “Though I know not these lands, I understand well enough why you have called me and I thank you for summoning me for so great an honor.”

“Welcome to Middle-earth, all of you,” the elvenking said. “We lack but one ruler yet. Mayor, who are we miss—”

The elvenking never finished his question, for out of the mists came barreling down upon him the great chieftain of the wargs, black and howling, eyes aflame with the agony of the holy stone that burned inside him.

Only by Beowulf’s quickness was the elvenking’s life spared, for he thrust himself before the onrushing beast and its claws raked across his chest and cast him down.

The hobbits scattered into the ruined houses as the warg rampaged on. Gwydion and Smalls stood firm against it, both landing hard blows on its flanks with their swords, but to no avail. They were thrown to the ground and did not rise. 

The elvenking’s guard and waywatchers formed a barrier around the unarmed Rendar, but all were driven back to banks of the River Gladden and many fell to the beast’s claws and fangs.

The elvenking pursued from behind, but Beowulf was slow to his feet and so fell back, along with Smalls, whose feet could not keep up with his courage.

When at last the elvenking deemed the warg had turned its back, he rushed in and slashed with his sword. Dark blood he drew, but the creature, howling with agony more from the silmaril’s fire turned and struck down the elvenking, pinning his arm so that his sword fell from his grasp.

The horse and the rider

For a second time that day, the elvenking was saved, but this time not by Beowulf’s hand. For out of the mists came riding an armored knight, with silvery sword bright as noonday and high as a banner amidst the fields. His gray steed feared not the black wolf and he swept in, hammering down his blade again and again with cries of “For England, and for Camelot!”

“King Arthur,” the elvenking said to himself, for he had met him before.

Yet still it was not enough to overcome their foe. The creature fell back wounded into the waters of the river, but would not go down. From there great smoke billowed forth so that the great warg was no more than a dark shape with fiery eyes and the elves and the others could see no more than a few paces to either side.

The knight waded into the water atop his steed, pursuing the shadowy shape, hoping to put an end to its ravages.

Wounded and slowed though the warg chieftain was, it charged back toward the banks, driven on by an unquenchable rage. It bowled into King Arthur and threw him from his horse and his blade was lost in the waters.

More unexpected company

There came a thrashing and a splashing and Arthur and the warg must have wrestled each other then. The elvenking roused himself to come to his aid and Beowulf, Gwydion, and Smalls came too. But it was not by any of their power that the knight was saved.

No, for out of the lake came a bright light which rent the mists asunder. And clear as day came striding out of the depths a tall warrior in shining mail, peerless and fell, as if a mighty ship of the sea. Winged was the helm he wore and the white tree of Gondor was etched into his breastplate.

He turned aside the beasts jaws with one blow and down came his sword, swift as lightning and just as bight. He smote the beast to the very marrow and it staggered and fell upon the banks where it stood.

Everyone rushed to free Arthur out from under the beast and know if he yet lived, but before they could reach him, the warg’s body burst into white flame and it was utterly consumed by the holy fire of the silmaril.

Nor did the silver box survive. The deep violet stone blazed bright under the sun and made the marshes of the Gladden Fields glisten as though covered in the dust of diamonds.

“A jewel fit for a king…” murmured the rabbit Smalls, clutching the large emerald he wore at his neck.

Arthur’s fate

Yet the great light which had eaten the warg’s body away held no heat and King Arthur emerged unscathed save for some wounds upon his side where the warg’s fangs had pierced his armor.

“Is the brave knight all right?” came the voice of Nevil Bolger as he and the other hobbits scurried over. “Will he live?”

Rendar knelt and removed the knight’s helm. He examined the wounds with a knowing eye, his face growing grave.

“There is some poison in these wounds, I fear. A cure must be given, and swiftly, if he is to survive.”

The bright warrior who came out of the river knelt down beside Arthur and Rendar. He laid the matchless sword he bore beside the wounded king.

“I believe this belongs to you. It surpasses even Narsil in keenness.”

“You saved me,” Arthur said and even though stricken and in pain, his voice bore a kingly air. “For that I thank you.”

“It may be, though that is not yet certain.” And his voice was deep and loaded with many burdens.

The elvenking watched the stranger with searching eyes and thought he knew him, but said nothing. The Istari had mentioned unexpected company, but until then, he had thought they meant the hobbits.

“There is a place where I may yet be healed,” Arthur said, his voice growing weaker. “But I know not the way from these strange lands.”

Lady of the river

Beowulf and Gwydion came then upon either side.

“We will not find it staying here,” Beowulf said. “I thought I saw a figure through the mists just now. A lady, it was, and she beckoned. Perhaps there is some spirit in these waters that might bear you up or cleanse your wounds with healing waters.”

“I saw it, too,” Gwydion said.

“Then let’s be off,” Smalls said.

“Perhaps she means to take us to the Summer Country.”

King Arthur’s eyes brimmed with a faraway light. “No, to Avalon. Yes, you must follow the lady to Avalon. She will know the way.”

“Ah, well, so much for our ceremony,” Mayor Bolger said, his toes scuffing the grass. “And we made extra meat pies, too.” This last was said half under his breath, yet with far more heaviness than was strictly warranted in the face of such dire events.

The Gondorian’s tale

“Will you go with them?” the elvenking said, regarding the tall warrior.

“Yes, I believe I shall. My work here is done.”

Arthur laid a hand upon the man’s arm. “’Eere we go, I would know the name of the one who came to my aid. At first I bethought you were Lancelot, but I see that is not so. Yet you fought as worthy as any who ever held a place at the Round Table.”

The man’s face turned grave and his brow dark with thought. “I am called Isildur. And here, far from crown and castle, in these waters long ago I met my end. A ruler I was, like all of you, but I failed in my duties, for I gave into the ring of the Dark Lord. But it would have had no power over me had I not put my personal glory above that of my people. May none of you ever share in that same folly.”

The elvenking’s guess as to the man’s identity had proven true. “My father fought alongside you in the Dagorlad and there fell. One third of our warriors never returned. It saddened me to learn of your loss after the Last Alliance ended. Yet you have redeemed yourself this day, Isildur, son of Elendil,” he said, “And that was more than worth the long journey and the peril of the road.”

Isildur’s face grew ageless then and its former nobility and wisdom was renewed.

“Such words are gift enough for my own lengthy journey.”

Through the mists

“But who will take the elven stone?” Galinda said, her eyes lost in the wonder of the jewel, despite the somber air which hung over the river bank.

“Yes, yes, such a priceless treasure is far too great to stay with the likes of us.” Mayor Bolger hastily produced an envelope from one of his vest pockets. “It says here that…why it’s none other than King Arthur himself that was selected to win the prize!”

“Oh, dear,” Galinda said. “I daresay he deserves it after all that. I only hope he lives to enjoy its beauty.”

“May its light guide your way to Avalon, as it once guided Eärendil of old,” the elvenking said, gazing one last time upon the stone’s piercing light. An image of its violet radiance glittering a thousandfold within his halls came rushing before his eyes, yet he let it pass. “I must remain Thranduil, and return unto my people,” he told himself.

The gem was laid upon Arthur’s breast and made his armor shine as though newly fashioned and softened the pain carved lines upon his face. To the others it brought a peace as though the warg attack and indeed all perils of the world were but a distant memory.

And so the strange party bore up the wounded king and trod into the mists of the Gladden marshes. The radiance of the silmaril cast the whole of that land into a violet sheen. The elves and hobbits watched them go until the mists swallowed them, though the light from the gem could be seen long after.

At the last, just before Isildur turned and raised his hand in farewell, the elvenking thought he saw the form of a beautiful lady in a gown of white, as though fashioned of mist itself, come forth and beckon Arthur onward.

And he knew then that Arthur was not lost, but would return again to his kingdom one day, the once and future king.

All’s well that ends well

Thank you for joining us for these unique and fantastical awards. I hope you enjoyed this return to Middle-earth. The nominees were truly excellent this year. I certainly enjoyed getting to imagine how such legendary rulers would bear themselves in a journey to unknown lands. I hope you enjoyed reading it as well.

If you are curious as to how the voting went, this was our most lopsided victory in quite some time, with the vote breaking down as follows.

King Arthur – 45.51%
Beowulf – 19.23%
Gwydion – 13.46%
Rendar – 13.46%
Smalls – 8. 33%

So, yes, King Arthur received more than twice the votes of anyone else and Gwydion and Rendar tied for third.

Of course, we still have another full week of awards ahead so be sure to visit the host sites as a new award winner is revealed each day. I can’t wait for tomorrow’s award, Most Faithful Friend—which is my favorite of them all!

And if you missed any of last week’s epic shennanigans, go back and visit them as well.

Here’s the full schedule

Week 1

Monday, September 18: Most Magnificent Dragon – Jenelle Leanne Schmidt
Tuesday, Septemeber 19: Most Nefarious Villain – C.O. Bonham
Wednesday, September 20: Most Devoted Couple – Samantha Benedict
Thursday, September 21: Most Wayward Soul – E.E. Rawls
Friday, September 22: Most Silver Tongue – The Grim Writer
Saturday, September 21: Most Epic Heroine – Catherine Hawthorn

Week 2

Monday, September 25: Most Majestic Ruler – DJ Edwardson
Tuesday, September 26: Most Faithful Friend – J.L. Mbewe
Wednesday, September 27: Most Mischievous Imp – Grace Taber
Thursday, September 28: Most Epic Hero – Merie Shen
Friday, September 29: Wisest Counselor – Sarah Pennington