2026 Most Epic Hero award presentation

Welcome to the award presentation for the Most Epic Hero for the 2026 Silmaril Awards, the final award for 2026. Please see silmarilawards.com for the results of all the other awards. And now join us now as we travel to the river Anduin to meet our host and nominees.

The outlying lands

“So this is where it all ended, and where it all began,” Aragorn whispered to the trees. A low ache throbbed in his chest at the onrush of memory. He had not returned here since the breaking of the Fellowship all those years ago.

The thick mud of the shore of Lake Hithoel clung to his boots as he paced along its length. To the north rose the towering gray stone of the Argonath, mist-shrouded though they were. The slow, unsleeping hum of the Falls of Rauros murmurred from the south.

He reached down and pried loose a smooth stone and skipped it across the water. The rock touched the surface several times before plunging below the surface. Ripples curtained across the current, but no other outside elements disturbed the placid sheen.

“I am certain they will come soon, my lord,” a tall man beside him in finely fashioned Gondorian armor said.

“Ever with bright words you are, Beregond,” Aragorn said.

“Not in all things. I advised you to bring more men, if you remember.” Five guards of the fountain court milled about nearby with their high winged helms and long sharp spears at the ready, but otherwise the banks of the wide water were empty and silent.

“These lands are safe now, and have been for many years since the Shadow passed.”

“Yet we are far from Minas Tirith,” Beregond said. “And we have little word from these outlying lands. We might have brought more men if for no other reason than to witness this solemn event.”

“True heroes have no need of acclaim or applause. Their deeds are often done in the quiet, forgotten places of this world.”

Aragorn skipped another stone across the gently threaded water. This time, though, when the ripples faded, he gazed upriver and saw what his eyes had been seeking: white wooden boats coming his way.

A hero’s welcome

Two figures rowed in each of the boats. As they drew nearer, their aspect became clear. In one came a man of dark hair and tall stature, even seated as he was. The man behind him wore the armor of a knight, though of humble standing, perhaps even that of a squire.

In the foremost boat rode a man of broad shoulders and strange armor, of a style Aragorn had never seen before. It had a primitive air to it, simple and yet of fine quality. He rowed with strokes powerful and pure, as one accustomed to traveling by water. The young man behind him, though of much slighter build handled himself ably and cast his eyes about more than the others, taking in all the beauty of the late sunlight upon the water and the surrounding cliffs and trees.

“Welcome, heroes,” Aragorn said as they brought their boats onto the soft banks and quitted them by the water. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I welcome you to these distant lands, newly reclaimed by my people.”

The heroes assembled

The tallest of the four, the man of black hair and gray eyes said, “Thank you for your kindness. Those statues, were they of your forefathers?”

“Yes, Isildur and Anarion. The Gates of Argonath, we call them. I see by your bearing that you are a king yourself, though you wear no crown.”

“Is it so obvious?” The man’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose I can never go anywhere without being found out sooner or later. I am Mendanbar—not king Mendanbar or your highness—just Mendanbar, at least while I am here.”

“Very well. And what of your companions?” Aragorn turned to the man in armor reminiscent of a squire. “I am guessing you must be Achan, in training to become a knight?”

“Yes, my lord, that is my hope.”

“You have overcome much from what I hear. I am certain you will earn a place in your kingdom in due time.” He turned to the youngest of the heroes, who wore a finely crafted dagger at his side. “And I surmise you must be Grayden, in training of your own, I am told.”

“Yes, well, I am not accustomed to such far-flung places and a little overwhelmed, to tell the truth, but I do hope to lend what aid I can to my people when I return.”

“Indeed. We will not keep you long, I promise. I know you have many friends who are depending upon you.”

Safe for the moment

Lastly, Aragorn turned to the man in ancient armor. This warrior—for he carried himself as one who had known many battles—was armed with a short blade and a long, thick bow. He saluted Aragorn across the chest.

“I am called Odysseus. I come in peace. I mean no harm or trouble. I merely seek a way to return to my men, and once my ship is regained, to my home and family.”

“You will find no danger here, son of Athens. My realm has known peace for many years.”

“I am glad to hear it. Seeing those statues put me in mind that I had wandered into another land of giants.”

“This place is called Amon Hen. We shall ascend to the top of the seeing hill and from there bestow the silmaril upon this year’s champion.”

“It is quite the place you have chosen,” Grayden said. “Might I ask if it has any special significance?”

Aragorn grew solemn. “I thought it would be a fitting way to honor the memory of another hero who fell in battle. I believe in many ways he would have been the better man to give this award had he not met his end here.”

“It is quite fitting then. Honoring the fallen is a noble aim. Lead the way,” Odysseus said with a deferential nod.

Small problems

Aragorn hesitated, scanning the forest beyond the banks.

“There should have been five of you. That has always been the case. Did you meet no one else on your journey?”

“No one, my lord,” Achan said.

“Well, the fifth would have been easy enough to miss. He is, after all, a mouse.”

“A mouse as the most epic hero? I find that hard to imagine,” Odysseus said.

“A mouse has won it before,” Aragorn said.

“He must have been very clever,” Odysseus commented.

“Perhaps he will find his way to us, but the sun is fading and we must continue on. But we have another small problem, I’m afraid. Two of them, in fact,” Aragorn said.

“I apologize, my lord, for asking them to help,” Beregond said. “But since their usual award was not given this year, I thought they would feel slighted if they were left out completely.”

“I am sure Merry and Pippin will find us before long. Perhaps they are planning some mischief at the top of the hill.” Aragorn said, his voice half of hope and half of doubt.

Unexpected news

The heroes followed Aragorn into the forest, lead by Beregond and flanked by the fountain guard. Yet they did not travel long ‘ere the pounding hooves of a galloping horse echoed through the trees. The sound of its approach grew so great Aragorn was certain it must herald the arrival of a certain wizard, and at first sight of the horse and rider, this seemed to be the case, for a tall man did indeed come, mounted on a white steed, yet it proved to be another as he drew closer. The rider, though of fine stature, was clean shaven, and wore ordinary, loose-fitting clothes, and the whiteness of his steed surpassed that of Shadowfax.

More than that, the horse wore a gleaming emerald stone about its neck whose surpassing beauty and silvan light marked him as the bearer of a silmaril, though not of the sort Aragorn had been tasked to give.

The rider galloped to a stop, the light from the silmaril caressing every leaf about them and casting it in a different shade of green.

“Where is the author of this story?” said the man in a commanding voice. Despite the horse’s silmaril, the presence of half-hidden tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves gave Aragorn pause. Was this man an Easterling or of the Haradrim?

“The author?” Aragorn said, eyeing the man warily, unsure whether he was friend or foe.

“Yes, we need to speak to him at once—”

At this point, hitherto unnoticed, a mouse in a green tunic emerged from one of the rider’s pockets. He had enormously large ears, visible even at a distance. And in contrast to the mysterious stranger’s pointed urgency he was in a visible state of agitation.

“Ah, you must be Despereaux,” Aragorn said, somewhat relieved “We are glad you made it at last. Though by the look of you, it was not an easy journey.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear, we haven’t much time!” The mouse squeaked, windmilling with his arms and flinging himself toward Aragorn. Aragorn gave a start and lurched toward him, but he need not have worried for, aided by his large ears, Desperaux glided down to land gently on Aragorn’s outstretched hand.

An urgent call

“What troubles you, little one?”

“It’s the author. He’s not listening. He’s not paying attention.”

“I’m afraid my author has long passed beyond the circles of this world. He can no longer hear us now.”

“No, not your author or my author—the one who’s writing us right now, writing these very words. We must call out to him. It’s the only way to stop the villains from destroying us all and ruining the Silmarils forever!”

The man on the horse dismounted with an easy grace. “I am Haplo, and another author sent me from far away to warn this author of the impending doom. Thankfully, this horse, Artax, joined me in my quest or I would never have come in time. On the way, I fell in with this floating mouse who had gotten blown off course by some unfavorable winds. But what he says is true. We must call out to the author of this story, using his true name. Only he will know how to avoid the calamity which is coming.”

“I am afraid I do not know him, though I wish I did,” Aragorn said.

“Has this forest no magic?” Mendanbar said with a huff. “Couldn’t we summon a magic carpet and just go to him? Why does he have to come to us?”

“There is no such magic here, I’m afraid,” Aragorn said.

“Wait, I think I can help.” Grayden stepped forward, surprising everyone. “You see, I have a connection to my namesake in the human world and I believe he met the author of this story once. The author gave my namesake a sword, you see, and the sword knows the author’s true name, since every character knows everything there is to know about their own author.”

“So what is it then? Out with it! Out with it!” Squealed the mouse.

Grayden strained, listening hard for a voice only he could hear. “It’s…it’s…it’s…Douglas!”

“Very well, then we know what we must do.” Aragorn nodded to Beregond, who produced an ivory horn from under his cloak. Setting it to his lips, he blew a fathom deep note of alarm which rang throughout the forest.

“Douglas!” the heroes chanted in unison. “Douglas!! DOUGLAS!”

The glass breaks

I stare at my laptop screen, the cursor blinking in its mechanical way. This is all just pixels on a screen. Words in my head. This can’t be happening…

“Douglas!” the heroes shouted once more.

“I know you don’t want to enter into this story,” Haplo cried out. “You’ve kept yourself outside these worlds for so long, but we need you now. You must enter into your story before all is lost.”

“This isn’t real…” I mutter, staring around at my library of books all neatly arranged and well-behaved on the shelves.

“Oh, but it is,” Haplo said, his eyes both defiant and pitying at once. “You know this to be true.”

He heard what I said? I hang my head. Maybe it was true. Maybe this story really did need me. But what would it matter if it did? What could I do to help?

The Shadow returns

“You are too late!” a new voice sounded across the forest, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. A shadow descended upon the forest, cast by the dark tormenter and tempter of Middle-earth. An immense figure clad in coal black armor strode into the clearing.

“No! It cannot be!” Aragorn shouted. “Sauron the Deceiver, you have no place in this world. You were defeated long ago.”

“I have known defeat many times, and yet you know, son of Elendil, that I always return.”

“Men, ready your weapons,” Beregond said, yet a quiver broke into his voice.

“If there is a chink in that armor, my arrow will find it,” Odysseus said, pulling back his bow. But before he could let it fly, other villains stepped out from Sauron’s shadow. Uun, Hook, Gnag, Ringwraiths, the Horned King, Sir Devin, the Lady of the Green Kirtle, and others all fanned out on either side, each step broadening the shadow’s grip upon the forest.

“I would not do that if I were you,” the Lady of the Green Kirtle warned in poisonous tones. “Hook. Show them our prisoners.”

Captain Hook pulled a chain from out of the shadows revealing two miserable, bedraggled figures bound by shackles on the ends of it.

“We’re sorry, Aragorn,” Pippin said with a whimper. “We tried to hide, but they found us out.”

“And they took the silmaril!” Merry said.

Hook held a glittering rapier close to their throats.

Sauron unfurled a gauntleted fist. There, blazing like the summer sun shone a bright blue stone. It clearly burned the hand that held it, tormenting the evil lord, and yet he clutched it proudly to himself. “This is your precious stone, and yet it is not enough. We would have them all. Take us to this author of yours. If he does not give us all the silmarils your friends will die.”

Haplo glanced at Aragorn and the two shared a grave look.

“We must try, one last time…” Haplo said.

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, for Merry and Pippin. One last time.”

The end and the beginning

“Douglas!” Aragorn said. “This is the end for us unless you come and make things right. These powers are beyond us. And yet a true hero knows when he is overmatched and must call upon a friend. And so we call you friend and call upon you now…Douglas please.”

Artax added a plaintive whinny at the end, speaking as clearly and humanly as if he had a voice of his own.

A slow constriction seizes my throat. Very well…perhaps it is time. There are certain things in a story that only an author can do.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes…

The ghostly figure of a man shimmered into the clearing. The apparition was too indistinct to tell much about it, only that whatever manner of clothing he wore was wholly foreign to this world.

“Ah, so you have come after all,” Sauron said, his cold dead eyes blazing from within the depths of his helm.

“I told you he was more than just a rumor,” the Lady said. “I’ve met these meddlesome otherworlders before.”

A power you can never know

“If you’ll kindly hand over the silmarils, we’ll be on our way,” Captain Hook said, waving his rapier menacingly toward the hobbits. “…probably…” he added under his breath.

The ghostly figure moved toward the host of shadow. As he did so a ring of bright multicolored gems floated about him. Though their light was dimmed and their forms wispy like the figure, their beauty was undeniable.

“When I first heard you were coming, I didn’t believe it. I thought nothing like this would ever happen to my carefully ordered realm. But I suppose I should have known you would come for me one day.” The tone was wispy and full of fear and defeat. Yet it all turned on the next phrase. “And then I remembered. You may be guilty of a thousand atrocities. You may wield powers beyond those of mortal men. You may strike terror in the hearts of your foes. You may be conquerers of worlds and command legions of subjects, but I…I am a creator of worlds and I command every subject you ever imagined was yours. I cannot—I will not—surrender the silmarils to you. And I will not live in fear of you ever again. Because I have a power you can never ever know. For I. Am. An. AUTHOR!”

The shadows reeled and seemed to fade, and yet after an intense inner struggle their vile wills hardened and brought them back. The next moment they sprang to the attack.

The heroes fought back and the villains strove against them with a terrible thunder. And yet, spurred on by the power and presence of their author, one by one the villains were swept away, as if by the stroke of a pen. It was probably far more majestic and glorious than that. But you really had to be there to see it.

And this time I was.

Honor where honor is due

When the battle ended, the villains had all fled or been defeated. Sadly, some of the brave men of Gondor had fallen as well, yet the heroes and the hobbits came through with only minor wounds and bruises to show for it.

And the ghostly figure? Well, somehow he was forgotten amidst all of the clash and the clamor and faded away. And that was just the way he wanted it.

Only one lone figure on a horse seemed to remember the truth, and yet he slipped quietly away and was forgotten as well.

After tending to the wounded and doing all they could, the hobbits and the heroes made the long trek back to Amon Hen. It was dark, but their spirits were high and the bright silmaril meant they had no need of a torch to light their way.

“Was such a battle worthy of your fallen friend?” Odysseus asked.

“Boromir would have been proud by the way we fought this day.” Aragorn said, a melancholy shadowing his voice.

Climbing the steps to the ancient stone platform with weary feet they gazed upon fair Lake Hithoel once again, twinkling in a mantel of reflected starlight.

“And now, it is time to perform my solemn duty and bestow the honors where they are due,” Aragorn said. “While it is true that all of you have proven your mettle as heroes in your own worlds, on this night I saw with my own eyes why each of you is worthy of this award. Yet, there can be only one Epic Hero each year, and this year, that honor goes to…” He turned to the warrior in the ancient armor. “Odysseus!”

He draped the medallion with its fantastic enchanting stone of liquid light over the warrior’s head.

The other heroes, Beregond, and the fountain guard all made their gladness known in hearty applause, yet none whooped and hollered louder than the two hobbits. Merry and Pippin even began to dance a little hobbitish jig, a bumbling, ungraceful, reeling sort of caper, yet genuine and homey and captivating in its own way.

Odysseus held the gem aloft, sending its undying light skyward, as though it might light his way home. And for all we know, perhaps it did.