The day is bright and warm as you make your way across the green expanse of the Pelennor Fields. In the distance, the white walls of Minas Tirith glint in the fierce light of the sun. Around you, droves of people and creatures move in the same direction—toward a high grandstand erected in the middle of the field.

As you approach, the crowd narrows into lines winding up the stairs to take their seats before the ceremony begins. Flags bearing the White Tree snap smartly in the brisk breeze, and the air echoes with an undercurrent of excitement.

You finally find a place, squeezed between a knot of loud dwarves and a Gondorian family. Behind you, an elf mutters about “gluttonous beard-growers”, but you’re too busy scanning the area below to pay much attention.

The grandstand extends in a half-circle, and your place in the middle affords an excellent view. What looks to be some sort of maze is cradled in the grandstand’s arc. It’s hard to tell whether it’s of natural or magic make.

A figure stands at the center, dressed in royal garb, a silver circlet upon his dark hair, his back straight and a smile on his rugged face. Aragorn, Master of the Ceremony.

Five figures emerge from somewhere beneath the hollow bottom of the grandstand and make their way to different openings around the maze. Two young boys, a quiet-looking man, a mouse walking on its hind legs, and what appears to be some sort of beast, also walking upright but dressed in human clothes.

The crowd’s buzz dies to a murmur as trumpets sound. Aragorn raises his hand and his voice rings out: “Let the ceremony begin!”

* * * * *

Everything is dark. For a moment, panic crawls up Janner’s throat and memories flood his mind of a black, suffocating space. Then sharp light washes away the darkness. He’s standing at the entrance of the maze he’d been told about.

Alone in silence.

There’s a crowd watching, but by some trick of the ear or magical device, he can’t hear them.

Find your way to the center. Don’t let anything stop you.

At the sound of Aragorn’s voice—apparently he’s the king of this realm—Janner plunges forward into the corridor of ground between high, amber-colored hedges that flicker between foliage and smoky glass.

* * * * *

Elsewhere, Eustace Clarence Scrubb stands still for a moment as the ceremony commences—still surprised to be there. Then he blinks and barrels ahead. Stony outcroppings flank him on both sides, too high to see over and too smooth to scale.

Their instructions beforehand had been simple: the first to reach Aragorn at the heart of the maze is the one deemed the most epic hero. Eustace isn’t sure how that’s supposed to work. It’s not logical, after all. But this whole place—the city, the kingdom, the maze itself—defies explanation.

Gradually the stone gives way to sand, loose but sculpted into shapes and held in place as if by an invisible hand. At the first fork, Eustace heads left, deeper into the maze. Soon though, he’s lost all sense of direction. The pathways twist and merge and diverge in a dizzying way.

Up ahead, the path appears to end abruptly. He’s about to turn around when a flash of gold catches his eye. Curious, he keeps going until he’s at the mouth of a cave. A cave piled with gems and coins and bracelets.

This is too familiar. He hesitates. And then turns back.

* * * * *

“For glory and honor,” Reepicheep cries as he leaps into the maze at Aragorn’s words. Rapier bobbing at his hip, he patters forward. The maze is human size, but that’s never stopped him before. He darts around corners and down long, unbroken paths with resolve, nose to the air.

His path turns this way and that before suddenly spitting him out on a wide path. Before him stands a Calormen, spear leveled. Without hesitating, Reepicheep draws his rapier and bounds forward, shouting in a shrill voice, “Prepare to meet defeat!”

The Calormen, surprised, is too slow. Before he can thrust his spear, Reepicheep is upon him. A stab to the foot, a slash to the back of the leg, and a stab to the other foot bring his adversary crashing to the ground. The moment the Calormen falls, he vanishes.

“By the Great Lion, this is a strange place,” Reepicheep mutters. Turning, he says, “But further up and further in” and continues.

* * * * *

As soon as he enters the maze, Aethelbald’s form changes to that of a thrush. Though he can fly, some unseen barrier prevents him from rising above the top of the hedge on either side. He moves forward in sharp bursts, hovering at intersections, always seeming to choose the path that leads deeper in.

Rounding a corner, he stops short and transforms back into a man. Blocking his path is a huge, dark-scaled dragon.

“Ah, my enemy, I’ve been waiting,” the Dragon says.

“You have no power over me,” Aethelbald replies.

“Says the one who’s chosen such a weak, inferior form.” The Dragon laughs. “A human? Truly your folly is great.”

Aethelbald moves closer, undeterred. “There are many things you do not understand.”

At that moment, a woman’s cry echoes through the corridors. Aethelbald knows that voice. Una.

“Such folly,” says the Dragon, seeing Aethelbald’s concern. “You know as well as I that she’s beyond saving.”

“No one is beyond saving,” Aethelbald says, then draws his sword and rushes at his foe.

* * * * *

Nick Beasley isn’t keen on the magic he senses around him. He moves cautiously forward, body tense. Not that he should care, being a beast and all. But something’s off. He might be a beast, but his detective senses are on high alert.

Get to the center first, they said. Prove yourself worthy of being the winner, they said. Nick growls and keeps going.

The maze is more confusing than London streets at night—in a thick fog. At least streets have the sense to not suddenly change directions. Despite the meandering path, he’s confident in his sense of direction. Every turn he makes is with purpose, bringing him nearer to Aragorn and the coveted Silmaril.

But then, who knows how long after he’s started, he reaches a three-way split. Two branches veer left, one continues straight ahead. In the distance he thinks he hears a scream. That’s different.

Something deep inside says to go straight. But the leftmost path is more in line with the direction he’s been heading the whole time.

* * * * *

Janner gulps. He’s just come to a four-way intersection and nearly run headlong into a Fang. It hasn’t seen him yet. As he weighs his choices, a figure appears straight ahead, past the Fang. Small and dark, walking on two legs but with a wolfish appearance.

The Fang spots the creature at the same time Janner does, and with a wet snarl dashes after it.

“No!” Janner shouts, drawing his sword and bolting in pursuit.

The Fang spins, teeth bared. “What’s this?” it hisses.

“Leave him alone,” Janner says.

The Fang sneers. “Try to stop me, scrawny human.”

Janner sets his jaw and attacks. The Fang, taken by surprise, parries the thrust of Janner’s sword. It quickly recovers, and for a moment its strength seems too much for Janner to handle. He stumbles back beneath a flurry of blows.

The Fang’s blade slices his arm, drawing blood. Janner trips and goes down.

The Fang laughs. “Pitiful human.”

Then the anger and determination boil up in Janner. He rolls as the Fang’s sword flashes down. In the same movement he slices for the creature’s knees. It misses but throws the Fang off-balance. Before it can recover, Janner plunges his sword into the Fang’s heart.

It poofs out of existence, but Janner barely has time to notice before shouts reach him from around the curve ahead. Fang shouts, mixed with snarls and a familiar voice. “Let me go!”

Ignoring his bleeding arm, Janner charges toward the fray.

* * * * *

Voices come from ahead. Eustace slows, easing his sword from its sheath. The maze has turned him around more times than he can count, but he finally thinks he’s back on track. But ahead ahead, just pass a fork, he spots a knot of Calormen soldiers.

The same way he’s sure he needs to go.

Eustace pauses, thinking. It’s been too long, he can’t afford a delay. So with a deep breath, he charges the soldiers.

* * * * *

Heat blasts Aethelbald. He dodges the worst of the Dragon’s flame, but it still scorches his arm and face.

“Prince Aethelbald the Pitiful,” the Dragon taunts. “You can’t match me.”

Aethelbald merely raises his sword and begins a series of swift attacks. More flame blasts from the Dragon’s mouth, but he ducks past. Once, twice, thrice his sword pierces the Dragon’s thick hide in quick succession. His enemy roars and then blinks away, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur in the air.

Aethelbald sheathes his sword and starts running. Not the same direction he’s been going. But toward the sound of Una’s voice.

* * * * *

“Lost, are you?”

Nick spins at the sound of a familiar voice. Lord Whitlock.

“Oh shut it. You don’t even belong here,” Nick snarls.

“And you do?” Lord Whitlock laughs. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re not a hero, Nick. You’re just some random detective that ran afoul of magic. More of a tragedy really.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Or what? You kill me?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Nick takes a step forward.

Whitlock’s laugh starts strong and loud but quickly fades as his body melts away. Nick faintly catches his final words. “You’ll never be one of them.”

Furious, Nick bolts up the path his sense told him was right. “Watch me, old man.”

* * * * *

Somehow, the maze has vanished, swallowed by an inky mist. Reepicheep moves forward uncertainly. The slap of waves on the seashore fills the blackness. The air is cold, and there are…things, moving, clacking, scuttling in the dark.

Something grabs his tail. Reepicheep yelps and yanks away from the unseen thing. Gradually the gloom lightens until it’s as if he’s in a dark, dim tunnel. Forward is the only option, on and on, The sounds follow and then glowing eyes appear, unblinking. Blocking his way.

“No great adventure is without danger,” Reepicheep says loudly, as if to banish the phantoms.

They don’t disappear. But he presses on anyway.

* * * * *

This time it’s Gray Fangs, but that doesn’t stop Janner. Yelling, he charges into their midst, sword swinging. Because he has a duty as Throne Warden, and he won’t let his family down. Not again.

* * * * *

Aragorn waits patiently, standing upon a stone disc set into the soft earth. It won’t be long now.

And yes, before many more minutes pass, a figure appears, indistinct at the far end of the long path leading to the maze’s core. The figure moves slowly but with resolute step.

The winner has come.

A trumpet sounds, signaling the end of the contest to the finalists.

Interwoven tree branches form a natural canopy above the path, cloaking the figure in shadows as it draws nearer.

Eventually, it reaches the open circle…

And steps into the light…

Revealing the victor of the 2020 Most Epic Hero award…

Reepicheep the Great Mouse.

“Welcome, friend,” Aragorn says, voice raised to reach the crowd.

As they realize what’s happening, the throng breaks into cheers. Shortly after, Janner appears, arm still bloody. Next comes Eustace, looking shaken. He’s followed quickly by Aethelbald, bearing the marks of his fight with the Dragon. And last comes Nick, perhaps not the winner but nevertheless deserving his place among his peers.

“Come, Reepicheep,” Aragorn says. “Claim the honor due you.”

Reepicheep approaches, awe and humility mixing in his face, until he’s on the circular stone. The others follow, lined up behind Aragorn and Reepicheep. The stone breaks free from the ground and rises, a pedestal emerging from the maze until it’s high in the air where the onlookers can see.

Applause erupts with renewed vigor as Aragorn gestures to Reepicheep. “Behold, the one deemed worthy to be called the Most Epic Hero,” Aragorn says.

Reepicheep stands tall, tail flicking, eyes shining with pride.

Aragorn lifts the Silmaril from its wooden box. It glimmers, dark blue like the sky on the clearest of days. “Reepicheep, the Great Mouse of Narnia,” Aragorn says, “it is my honor to bestow upon you the title Most Epic Hero.”

The crowd roars as Aragorn slips the satin ribbon over Reepicheep’s head and the medallion rests against his dark fur.

“Thank you,” Reepicheep says. “I’m truly honored to be chosen for this great award.”

“You are most deserving, friend,” Aragorn replies.

At the front of the stands, the previous winners—Robin Hood, Peter and Edmund Pevensie, and Westley—cheer loudest. Peter and Edmund wave and holler at Reepicheep, who gives a regal bow in their direction.

“Way to go, Reep!” Peter shouts.

The hubbub calms, and Reepicheep says, “I’m most thankful to be considered worthy of keeping such esteemed company. Thank you to all who thought me fit for this award.”

“A well-earned victory,” Aragorn says. “Now! The gates of Minas Tirith are open, the cooking pits stoked, and the tables laden with food. Let the celebration commence!”

That’s a Wrap!

Hope you enjoyed this ceremony for the most epic hero. Not gonna lie, I was desperately wanting Janner to win this year. But maybe next time! Speaking of which, here’s the final vote count:

• Reepicheep: 52
• Janner: 47
• Eustace: 23
• Aethelbald: 21
• Nick: 14

The fun continues on Monday with the presentation of Most Silver Tongue. You won’t want to miss it!

Let’s talk: Are you surprised at the result? Who were you rooting for?