The 2026 Most Nefarious Villain Silmaril Award Ceremony
A flash of lightning illuminates the darkened sky above the great black castle perched precariously on a cliffside. Guests enter through the massive iron gates, dressed in their very finest finery.
I stand on the dais, where the thrones have been pushed aside to make room on the platform for the evening’s prestigious event and guests. Great hearths stand on either side of the room, casting a warmth and light that is augmented by torches flickering gently in their wall sconces.
“Thank you again for hosting,” I say to King Stiorne and Lady Fiora, characters from my very own Minstrel’s Song series. “I am truly grateful. It is delightful to have my own characters willing to host the awards tonight.” We are standing to one side, near one of the crackling hearths. “I know it was short notice, but the villains… er… guests insisted that I find them a properly luxurious and grand location for their ceremony this year.”
“Just so,” a beautiful woman in a green kirtle sniffs as she glides past, a shimmering gemstone hung about her neck. “The year I won we met inside a wretched volcano. A volcano! Do you have any idea what that heat did to my hair?”
“Hem hem,” a polite little cough makes me whirl around. A short, round woman with softly curled hair and wearing a pink sweater (while also sporting a gloriously shining gemstone on a ribbon around her neck stands just behind me. She is glaring daggers at the Lady of the Green Kirtle. “You have little to complain about, my dear. The year I won we were smooshed into a dank, smelly cave!”
The Lady of the Green Kirtle snarls and pulls out a handful of dust which she tosses into the nearest hearth, that suddenly blazes green. “Wouldn’t you like to reach out and touch it, my dear?” she sing-songs in a melodious voice.
Dolores Umbridge’s eyes flash and she waves a wand. “Aguamenti!” she declares, dousing the green flames and glaring. “Do not presume…!” she begins to shout, but then squeaks a bit in dismay as a figure wearing a long robe suddenly glides up to stand beside her. “My lord…” she falters, giving him a second glance. “Oh… it’s you.”
Gnag the Nameless does not smile. His mouth is turned downward in a permanent frown. With his bony, skeleton-like frame, sunken, lidless eyes, bald head, and long dark cloak, I understand why Dolores mistook him for someone else.
“For my ceremony”—he rasps, in a voice that cuts through the chatter of the room like an icy wind—“we were all shoved unceremoniously into some kind of children’s training camp.” He bites out the words with disdain, then glances around the room. He gives a nod. “This is more fitting,” he snarls.
The torches flicker as one and I recognize the signal that the ceremony is about to begin. Not a little shaken—who invited all the previous winners of this award—I quickly start shooing people to their seats.
The great throne room quiets in anticipation. Then, his footsteps shaking the ground with the force of thunder, Sauron himself ascends the dais, his body encased in forbidding armor. I blanch a bit. One never knows who is going to show up to present this award, and I was kind of hoping Gollum or the White Witch might take it this year. I am now doubly grateful that we are not in my back yard for tonight’s festivities.
“I have arrived,” Sauron’s voice booms across the room, reverberating off the stone walls. “We have gathered here to honor the worthiest among us. Tonight, we bestow a Silmaril upon one who has greatness in his very essence, one who—like the rest of us—knows he was born to rule the lesser beings of the realms and has taken the necessary steps to attaining that goal!”
The crowd bursts into uproarious applause, and I feel my stomach clench. I scan the crowd. Where are the heroes? I specifically invited them and asked them to be here to keep this ceremony under control! No encouraging faces greet my gaze as it sweeps across the room. Villains and henchmen alike populate the crowd, but there are no signs of any heroes.
Sauron continues. “In fifth place, with eleven votes, will Uun of the Turrim Archive please advance to the stage.”
Yes, I know it says his hair is dark, not white in the description below, but this is the reference picture from Pinterest I always use when I’m writing Uun. I tried to find the artist’s site to give a link/attribution, but it was put on PInterest so long ago, the only link now is to a larger image, not an actual website.
A tall, dark-haired man who is impeccably dressed strides to the stage to stand alongside the dark lord. Broad-shouldered, handsome, and holding himself regally, Uun’s eyes flash with wounded pride, but he does not deign to speak. He merely nods to the cheering crowd and then stares above their heads in disdain.
“In fourth place, with thirteen votes, I would like Sir Devin of the Dragons in Our Midst to join us.”
I couldn’t find good (or any) artwork of Sir Devin, so I used Pixabay to find someone who looked appropriately “dragon slayer-y”
A man marches up to the stage. He is tall and muscular and wearing dark chain mail. He glares out at the crowd, his yellow-green eyes measuring the worth of everyone in the hall and finding all of them wanting. The crowd cheers for him, but he does not smile.
“In third place, with seventeen votes, the Horned King from the Chronicles of Prydain!”
Cheers and stomping feet roar into existence and then hush just as quickly as the Horned King rides up to the dais on the back of his pitch black horse. The human skull that comprises his mask sends a chill up my spine. Antlers rise up from his mask in cruel curves, and he stares menacingly at the crowd, his crimson cape fluttering behind him in a non-existant breeze.
“In second place, with eighteen votes, Lady Gisela of the Keeper of the Lost Cities!”
Image attribution: Laura Hollingsworth
Click on the picture to see more of Laura’s amazing artwork!
A gorgeous woman with pale peach skin and blonde hair swept into an elaborate updo gracefully glides onto the stage. Her composure does not waver as the crowd gazes at her in awe, her expression cool and distant, her eyes like ice.
“And in first place, with thirty-three votes, Captain Hook of Peter Pan!”
I know, I know, this isn’t exactly the most “canon” version of Hook… but it’s my favorite version of him, and it’s my blog so this is the one who got invited to the ceremony.
Now the crowd surges to its feet, and I find myself joining them as the man himself strides up onto the stage. How can I not? It’s Captain Hook! Every inch of him from head to toe is the perfect image of a pirate captain. His coat-tails flutter as he steals the Horned King’s breeze. His hook glints in the firelight, a polished silver that rivals the light of the moon coming in through a high window. He takes the stage like he owns it and bows elaborately.
“Thank you, thank you!” he cries, and then turns his attention somewhat above the heads of the villains gathered together and grins a little sardonically. “It gives me great pleasure to accept this award, though it has been most tardy in appearing. I know that Mischievous Imp, Pan, has one of these already, though my only consolation is that he could only win it for his impishness, and not as an epic hero, as he believes he deserves. He has been most insufferable ever since 2018 when he took home one of these baubles, equally lording it over the rest of us and bemoaning the fact that the fans do not see him as a hero.”
Sauron holds out the Silmaril, and it glitters like a dark star, drawing every eye to its lustrous beauty. Hook himself seems to quail a bit before it for a moment, his good hand hovering as though unsure he is fit to accept this gem. Then, suddenly, he reaches out with his other arm and snags the ribbon with the tip of his hook, flipping it up as he does so. The jewel sparkles and shines as it flies up into the air, gathering the light of every flame in the room, and then it falls once more, the ribbon landing snugly around Hook’s neck, the Silmaril shining where it now hangs.
“And now, my fellow villains,” Sauron intones. “It is time for us to take the FictionVerse by force! We have gathered together for eleven years in a row now, and the time has come! By the light of eleven Silmarils, and by the power we have amassed here in this castle, we shall storm the final Silmaril Award Ceremony and take down the heroes gathered there by force! My nazgul and orc spies have discovered that the final ceremony is being conducted by the creator of these jewels, these powerful gemstones they hand out each year. What good fortune we have! We will storm the ceremony and kidnap this author”—he sneers the word—“and force him to create Silmarils for ALL of us!”
Before I can let out even the barest hint of a gasp, the crowd surges to its feet and the villains race out into the night.
I whirl around, stricken by this sudden turn of events. I have to warn DJ! My gaze lands on a lonely figure, a quiet, unassuming man, with nothing to truly distinguish him from anyone else except for the glowing blue tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves.
“Haplo!” I gasp, pleased to see him there. “I need your help!”
The Runner gives me a quiet nod and then turns and disappears into the night. I can only hope he reaches DJ in time.
And we are almost done!
Head over to DJ’s blog tomorrow to attend the final Silmaril Award Ceremony of the year, and see if the Villains manage to cause any chaos there!
If you missed any of the award ceremonies this year, you can find them all HERE!
Thank you for reading, for nominating, for voting, and for just being the best fans in the whole world.
Until next time, happy reading!