Most Epic Hero: Silmaril Awards 2025

Sunlight sparkles on the lake that borders the Academy grounds. In the distance, a U-shaped building rises tall and proud where the students who have been helping me prepare generally reside. I glance around at the chairs and tables and decorations in satisfaction. My Wynn stands off to one side, proudly surveying the stage he designed that the other students helped him build.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn to see Headmaster Friedzen standing behind me.

“The guests should be arriving soon,” he says. “I will man the gates.”

“Thank you so much for letting me host these here at your Academy,” I reply. “My back yard couldn’t quite handle this size crowd.”

He gives me a warm smile. “It’s really your Academy,” he reminds me gently. “It’s always a pleasure getting to be a part of our author’s story. And also, it’s far easier to host the heroes than those mischievous imps.” He makes a wry face.

“I heard about that.” I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry… I hosted them last year, and I know how difficult they can be.”

Friedzen waves a hand. “I’m a teacher. Not even a hoard of wildly laughing barbarians can truly phase me. They were a bit on the smelly side, but we engaged them in a few sparring sessions before Shiori showed up to usher them to their proper ceremony, and that seemed to help calm them down a bit.”

“I knew you’d have it covered.” I grin. A flash of light erupts near the gate and I point. “Looks like the first arrivals are here. Best we go greet them.”

Headmaster Friedzen strides to the gate and pushes it open with a grand gesture. “Welcome, most esteemed guests, to the Most Epic Hero ceremony and to the Aca…” he pauses as he realizes he is speaking to thin air. He glances around, and then down, as an orderly line of small rabbits files through the gate, paying Master Friedzen no mind.

A small white rabbit wearing a blue dress with a white sash brings up the end of the line and pauses. “Thank you, Headmaster Friedzen, for hosting us. On behalf of my entire family, I wish to express my deepest honor at having my brother recognized for his heroism. We think he is quite brave, but we are, of course, understandably biased.”

Friedzen blinks, but he is not one to have his honor outdone by a rabbit, and so he bows his head gravely. “Welcome, small one,” he says.

Another flash of light illuminates the courtyard and more guests begin to pour in. More than I can truly keep track of. There are heroes and their companions from every realm, it seems, and the area around the stage quickly grows crowded.

I leave the gate in Friedzen’s capable hands and return to the stage where I sneak behind the curtain. A man sits in a chair, calmly waiting, his hood drawn over his face, a sword at his side.

“Aragorn,” I bow my head. “So good to see you again.”

He gives me a slight nod. “Is all in readiness?”

I peek out through the curtain and see that most of the crowd is seated. “Yes, looks like we can begin.”

“Very good,” he rises and strides to the curtain, which pulls back in a veritable flourish. A light fills the stage, and I wonder how Wynn managed that.

“Welcome, honored guests,” Aragorn intones, his soft voice somehow filling the entire courtyard. I glance toward the back of the crowd and see that Wynn has joined my husband at the sound board. He has a somewhat wild grin spreading across his face and I wince. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to introduce Wynn to 2000’s era tech from the real world… but they do seem to be getting along rather well. I shrug and turn my attention back to Aragorn. “Friends, we gather here tonight to acknowledge the most heroic among us. The most beloved by their readers. The most epic and honorable and noble. We gather to celebrate that honor and heroism and to rejoice that such is still valued by readers.”

The crowd surges to their feet in a frenzy of applause, and Aragorn waits until they resume their seats.

“There are many among us tonight who are deserving of this recognition, but alas, there is only time to honor a few. In fifth place, with ten votes, is Grayden Ormond from the Turrim Archive.”

A young man in the front row bounds up on stage, grinning. A young girl of about 6 with flowers braided into her hair jumps up and down, shrieking with delight and tugging wildly on the hand of a young giant sitting next to her. From the far back, Wynn whoops his enthusiasm and I see Derek glaring at him. People in the sound booth should be silent ninjas, according to my husband.

Grayden twirls his dagger and then sheaths it, clasping Aragorn’s proffered hand and bowing his head.

“I am honored to be here,” Grayden says.

I glance around to see if my heroic imp has any tricks up his sleeve, but he appears to have decided to behave as just a hero tonight.

“In fourth place, with seventeen votes, we have Captain Marik, also of the Turrim Archive.”

An ominous shadow covers the stage and I glance up in fear, remembering the difficulties the last time I hosted this award, but thankfully, this time, it is not dragons, but a pirate ship with maroon sails that hovers above the clearing. A pirate swings down from the deck, sliding down a rope and landing dramatically on the stage next to Aragorn. He sweeps an elaborate bow to the crowd, and flashes a lopsided grin at a few of the young ladies sitting near the front edge of the stage. I am embarrassed to say I think I see at least one of them actually swoon.

“Well done, Captain,” Aragorn says.

Marik shrugs one shoulder and throws a wink at me. “Maybe next year, eh?” he asks. “You could have tried a little harder, you know.”

I blink. “I… I’m not… are you suggesting… I won’t rig the votes for you, you…. PIRATE.”

He chuckles at my discomfiture and shakes Aragorn’s hand. “I’m joking,” he assures me in a low undertone. “I’m reformed, remember?”

“Uh huh… sure,” I mutter back.

Aragorn sighs quietly at Marik’s antics, as he takes his place beside Grayden. “And in third place,” he announces. “With eighteen votes, Picket Longtreader of the Green Ember series!”

There’s a loud, “What?! THIRD?” from the rabbit section of the seats as one of the rabbits jumps up with a most indignant glower.

“Jo, hush!” A young, golden-grey buck scolds.

Jo crosses his ams. “But you’re the first fowler!” he insists. “You’re the rabbit who flew! How did you only get third?”

Picket shakes his head in exasperation and leaps up to the stage. “I’m honored to be third. This is most esteemed company to be included in.” He extends a paw to Aragorn.

Aragorn accepts the proffered paw. “And we’re honored to have you,” he answers gravely.

The rabbits cheer mightily, and I make a mental note to read The Green Ember series next.

“In second place,” Aragorn intones, “with twenty-six votes, Despereaux of the Tale of Despereaux.”

An extremely high-pitched squeaking erupts from one section of the audience and a tiny creature hops up on the stage. He wears a red aviator’s cap and has a sewing needle thrust into the rope tied around his tunic. For the first time, I see Aragorn looking mildly nonplussed. I can’t blame him. Rabbits are one thing, but mice… are hard to shake hands with.

Nonetheless, Aragorn… King of Gondor… kneels on the stage as Despereaux approaches.

“Mighty king,” Despereaux squeaks, “I thank you for this honor. Though few believed in me, I am grateful to find that my readers did.”

“A better commendation, we could not find,” Aragorn agrees. “It is for the readers.”

Despereaux places his tiny paw atop Aragorn’s finger and bows his head solemnly before retreating to stand with the others.

Aragorn rises, and I think I see a shining tear at the corner of his eye. “And finally,” Aragorn declares. “Our winner of the 2025 10th Annual Silmaril awards…” he glances down at the piece of paper in his hand and gives a brilliant smile. “It is fitting,” he says, so softly that I think I am the only one to hear him. Then he raises his head and speaks so everyone can hear. “Kalmar Wingfeather of the Wingfeather Saga!”

A young boy with dark, messy hair, and a stunned expression on his face, stares up at the stage in shock.

“Well, go on, Tink!” A boy sitting next to Kalmar urges. This young man is a few years older than Kalmar, and a dark blue ribbon peeks out from under his jacket. “Go get your award!” He shoves the young man out of his seat and Kalmar stumbles up onto the stage.

“Welcome, young hero,” Aragorn lifts the Silmaril out of its box and drapes the ribbon around Kalmar’s neck.

Kalmar stares into the azure jewel, its sapphire light sparkling so brightly that it rivals the brilliance of the now-setting sun. Its ethereal glow bathes his face and he gives a tiny gasp.

“Thank you… Mister Aragorn Sir…” he breathes.

Aragorn chuckles lightly. “From one king to another, you are most welcome, young Kalmar. Bear it well.”

Kalmar raises the glimmering jewel and holds it up for the audience to see. They cheer and clap and stomp their feet. Then he turns to the other finalists and one by one, he shakes their hands, and lets them hold the Silmaril.

“Your turn is coming,” he promises each of them.

I blink, as the scene before me grows a little blurry. Where has all this dust come from? The rest of the evening passes without incident, though both my daughters were concerned about villains showing up to storm the ceremony. Perhaps they knew, with so many heroes in attendance, that such an action would not be …. wise.