Lothlórien is an inverse of Moria. The latter was darkness and sharp stones, the promise of hidden threats and fire from the deep. Lórien is bright sun on golden leaves, waterfalls likened to gentle lace, the promise of protection bracketed by cool and healing waters. It would have been easy for Tolkien to leave the contrast at that. The Golden Wood could have provided the Company with a much-needed respite after a brutal three chapters culminating in Gandalf’s (apparent) death. But instead we get “Lothlórien,” an odd, layered chapter filled with beauty, sadness, and a persistent sense of strain.
Lothlórien and Time
The Lord of the Rings has been permeated with oldness. Oldness is associated with power, with magic, with a sense of majesty. There is the Old Forest, the old age of Bombadil, the ancient remnants of old cities and civilizations scattered around Eriador, Arnor, and Hollin. Lothlórien at first seems to be another iteration of that:
It seemed to him that he had stepped over a bridge of time into a corner of the Elder Days, and was now walking in a world that was no more. In Rivendell there was memory of ancient things; in Lórien the ancient things still lived on in the waking world.
Lothlórien is old, a piece of the Elder Days remaining intact as time flies by and inflicts its damage on the rest of the world. It’s a refuge, a safe space, a shadowless land surrounded by shadows and wolves. But it’s also more than that:
Frodo felt that he was in a timeless land that did not fade or change or fall into forgetfulness. When he had gone and passed again into the outer world, still Frodo the wanderer from the Shire would walk there, upon the grass among elanor and niphredil in fair Lothlórien.
Lothlórien isn’t just old, it’s literally timeless. Tolkien’s world is so overripe with nostalgia – it’s everywhere, permeating almost everything. It makes perfect sense that its magical epicenter is one in which nothing is lost to time.
“As they did so the South Wind blew upon Cerin Amroth and sighed among the branches. Frodo stood still, hearing far off great seas upon beaches that had long ago been washed away, and sea-birds whose race had perished from the earth.”
Everything is in Lothlórien. It’s a place where everything exists and nothing expires, a world impervious to loss.
Lothlórien and Sight
It’s also a place of clearer sight. When Frodo stands atop Cerin Amroth and looks around the woods around him, he twice – in a very short number of sentences – references the insufficiency of language. Instead he thinks of the sharpness of the world, how its oldness and immediacy make it seem like something entirely unique:
All that he saw was shapely, but the shapes seemed at once clear cut, as if they had been first conceived and drawn at the uncovering of his eyes, and ancient as if they had endured forever. He saw no color but those he knew, gold and white and blue and green, but they were fresh and poignant, as if he had at that moment first perceived them and made for them names new and wonderful.
It’s a very Neoplatonic way of envisioning an idealized world (and Tolkien, as a Catholic, was probably well-versed in this sort of Neoplatonism that was originally popularized by early Christian writers like St. Augustine and Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite). It calls to mind the philosophy that the individual objects of the world are simply reflections of ideal forms. And Frodo seems to catch a glimpse of these forms in Lórien. It’s telling that when he touches a mallorn tree, he’s struck by the fact that he does not view it through the lens of a gardener or a forester or a carpenter. He simply views it as a tree.
Lothlórien universalizes the world – it takes the specific and the unique iterations of something and overlays them, so a tree becomes Tree, green becomes Green. By picking up this approach Tolkien was able to create a landscape that is both intensely tangible and strangely ethereal.
Lothlórien and Strain
Of course, none of this is quite true.
Take a look at the last two pages of “Lothlórien” and it’s easy to come away with the idea that Cerin Amroth and Caras Galadhan are a verdant, shimming paradise, far removed from all strife. But if this were ever true, there are signs throughout the chapter that this view is increasingly filled with cracks. There is evidence of strife everywhere in Lothlórien, to the extent that the woods are ringed by armed scouts and all of the bridges into the land have been destroyed. Orcs are skirting the borders and making inroads into the forest. Climb a tree and look to the east, and within sight is the dark smear of Southern Mirkwood and the tower of Dol Guldur.
The attitude of the Elves of Lothlórien is not much more promising. Haldir is presented as an outlier for showing any interest in venturing in the outside world or learning much about it. They have a distrust of outsiders – especially dwarves – that is so intense that they insist blindfolding poor Gimli despite the fact that he’s traveling with another elf and the man who is engaged to Galadriel’s granddaughter. Despite the fact that Lothlórien feels more ‘magical’ than Rivendell, there is the sense that it comes at a cost. Everyone who lives within its borders seems to be constantly striving to maintain it, and to know that their task will ultimately fail.
The Value of Nostalgia
Also: for a timeless land where everything lost seems to still exist, Lothlórien has a real thing for nostalgia and the persistent awareness of sorrow. Take Haldir, speaking to the Company as they are walking through the Woods:
“Some there are among us who sing that the Shadow will draw back, and peace shall come again. Yet I do not believe that the world will ever again be as it was of old, or the light of the sun as it was aforetime. For the Elves, I fear, it will prove at best a truce, in which they may pass to the Sea unhindered and leave Middle-earth forever. Alas for Lothlórien that I love! It would be a poor life in the land where no mallorn grew. But if there are mallorn-trees beyond the great Sea, none have reported it.”
Haldir’s attitude here is so interesting to me. There’s the sense – always, with the Elves – of fading away, of their time coming to an end. That the world will never again be as beautiful as it used to be. It explains some of their flippancy – they’re dicks again in this chapter, scaring the Company on purpose then laughing at them. It’s a silly comparison but they’re a little like Middle-earth hipsters, laughing at these men and hobbits who are jumping onto the bandwagon so late in the game, never knowing what it was like at the start.
But at the same time Haldir expresses such a genuine love of his home. Even when contemplating sailing across the Sea – where presumably some of that “light of the sun as it was aforetime” may be present – he doesn’t seem excited. What’s the point without mallorn trees?
I’m also very intrigued by how valuable this sense of nostalgia is, or how Tolkien conceived of it when he wrote it. Most of the stories that come from the golden age to which the present elves look back were really terrible. Take the tale of Nimrodel and Amroth that Legolas sings of at the start of the story. He himself admits that it is “long and sad, for it tells how sorrow came upon Lothlórien.” In brief, it’s a story about how Nimrodel insisted to her lover Amroth that they flee from the dangers encroaching upon Lothlórien. On their way to the sea the lovers get separated. Nimrodel was never heard from again; Amroth cast himself into the sea.
It’s a sad story, and features a Lórien not noticeably different than the one in The Fellowship of the Ring. Most of the stories of the elder days of Middle-earth and Arda are deeply sad. The Silmarillion is not a happy book. I’m curious, then, as to what that says about the Elves’ views of the past and their attitude towards the changing nature of Middle-earth. They seem wistful of the past, unconcerned and incurious about the future. I’m unsure at this point how Tolkien would have felt about this.
Speaking of Middle-earth’s future: this is a good chapter for Aragorn. He steps up to the plate as the company’s new leader in Gandalf’s absence, managing to convince a grumpy Boromir and a proud Gimli to make their way further and further inside of Lothlórien. Though it’s not explicit here, he is such a nice counter to the Elves. Aragorn’s ties to the past make him a prime candidate for nostalgia about the glory days. But Aragorn seems to have very little interest in such thoughts. While he undeniably appreciates the beauty of Lórien it’s accompanied by a care and interest for Middle-earth’s future as well.
He also gets to be the star of the chapter’s rather beautiful closing lines:
“Here is the heart of Elvendom on earth,” he said, “and here my heart dwells ever, unless there be a light beyond the dark roads that we still must tread, you and I. Come with me!” And taking Frodo’s hand in his, he left the hill of Cerin Amroth and came there never against as living man.
The long flowing sentences provide a sharp contrast to the brusque, short sentences that closed out “The Ring Goes South,” “A Journey in the Dark,” and “The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm.” Even better is the sudden intrusion of omniscient narration in the last line. Tolkien almost never uses this in The Lord of the Rings and so it stands out rather jarringly. It’s a nice way to suddenly destabilize the reader’s sense of time at the close of a chapter about a place that is timeless.
- In a lot of ways – especially in the early conversation between Boromir and Aragorn about the Wood’s peril – Lothlórien is akin to Faerie. Both are perceived as beautiful and dangerous, pockets of the world where time and space seem to shift. I wonder if the contradictions inherent in Lórien come from the fact that Tolkein was pulling from both his own Catholic background as well as a pagan / Celtic concept of fairy stories.
- I like the way that the Mirrormere from the chapter’s opening pages foreshadows Lórien. Both involved idealized pictures of the past, both involved idealized views of nature. It also sets up a nice tension where – in a chapter where elves and dwarves are constantly snipping at each other – the two peoples appear to have quite a bit in common.
- I do genuinely like many things about Peter Jackson’s adaptation of Fellowship but Lothlórien feels off to me. The movie is all darkness and deep, blurry blues. Tolkien’s description is bright yellows, greys and golds. Perhaps it would have been difficult to convey the proper tone on film, but I do miss it the book’s color palette.
- Legolas and Gimli both have a good chapter for their characters. It’s fitting for Gimli’s character that he would be so outraged at a bunch of elves refusing to admit the legitimacy of his word:
“I will go forward free,” he said, “or I will go back and seek my own land, where I am known to be true of word, though I perish alone in the wilderness.”
“You cannot go back,” Haldir said sternly. “Now you have come thus far, you must be brought before the Lord and Lady. They shall judge you, to hold you or give you leave, as they will. You cannot cross the rivers again, and behind you there are now secret sentinels that you cannot pass. You would be slain before you saw them.”
Gimli drew his axe from his belt.
(Of course Gimli drew the axe from his belt).
- “Alas for the folly of these days!” said Legolas. “Here all are enemies of the one Enemy, and yet I must walk blind, while the sun is merry in the woodland under leaves of gold.” I love this line from Legolas. It starts off seeming so noble and open-minded, but then you realize he’s pretty much saying “It’s such a bummer that this war means I can’t look at the trees.” Elf princes are so entitled these days.
- Samwise! Sam is fucking relentless. He follows Frodo to both the Mirrormere and up a tree in Lothlórien even though no one invites him. I love him for it. And I was happy when he finally got an explicit invite up Cerin Amroth with Haldir.
- Prose Prize: Lots of pretty descriptions of trees here. Take your pick. I do quite like this passage though: “As they did so the South Wind blew upon Cerin Amroth and sighed among the branches. Frodo stood still, hearing far off great seas upon beaches that had long ago been washed away, and sea-birds whose race had perished from the earth.”
If You Only Read One Star Wars Novel, Make it Lost Stars
If you aren’t reading the New Extended Canon (EC) Star Wars novels, you’re really missing out. Ever since my friend Rachel got me hooked on the EC, I’ve made it a goal to get everyone I know hooked as well. The characters are excellent, the stories diverse and nuanced, and the themes and messages deep, thoughtful, and relevant. They aren’t fluff or filler; they’re necessary elements of the Star Wars franchise that expand upon and fill out what we only get to see briefly in the films (ask me about that later, I have a piece planned). Claudia Gray’s Lost Stars is the example par excellence of what EC Star Wars is all about.
Lost Stars was published in 2015, so I’m admittedly behind the game in getting this review out. However, because of how exemplary this novel is for the EC and how great a novel it is on its own merits, it’s worth talking about now. Especially given how, ah, divisive The Last Jedi has been for the fandom. Spanning the entirety of the Original Trilogy (OT) and then some, Lost Stars offers a unique perspective on the events of the OT: that of an Imperial officer and an Imperial defector to the Rebellion. Even if you hate the Sequel Trilogy with a passion, you really don’t want to miss Lost Stars.
A Brief (Spoiler Free) Rundown
The reign of the Galactic Empire has reached the Outer Rim planet of Jelucan, where aristocratic Thane Kyrell and rural villager Ciena Ree bond over their love of flying. Enrolling at the Imperial Academy together to become fighter pilots for the glorious Empire is nothing less than a dream come true for the both of them. But Thane sours on the dream when he sees firsthand the horrific tactics the Empire uses to maintain its ironclad rule.
Bitter and disillusioned, Thane joins the fledgling Rebellion—putting Ciena in an unbearable position to choose between her loyalty to the Empire and her love for the man she’s known since childhood.
Now on opposite sides of the war, will these friends turned foes find a way to be together, or will duty tear them—and the galaxy—apart?
The Good Stuff
Full confession: I love Claudia Gray. Her novels exhibit a level of artistry in writing characters and themes that take me aback every time. Her prose manages to be both highly evocative and approachable to a broad range of reading levels. She’s a master of subtle yet plausible fanservice. Characters we love from the OT—like Luke, Han, Leia, and even side characters like Mon Mothma and Admiral Ackbar—enter our protagonists’ sphere in ways that make sense and never linger beyond what’s reasonable.
Her worldbuilding is likewise excellent. She writes the Star Wars universe as well as any other of the EC writers I’ve read, but what I love most is her attention to cultural details. Creating convincing alien species and cultures takes a lot of skill. Remembering to also provide cultural differentiation for human settlements takes an equal amount of skill, and not every writer remembers to do that. Gray makes cultural differences more than about dress, appearance, physiology, or large-scale religious differences. Small details like mourning rituals, formal declarations of loyalty, and a special practice for carrying on the memory of a dead twin add to the sense of realism of her characters and their cultural heritage.
As was true in Leia: Princess of Alderaan, her pacing is slower than most YA novels, but that doesn’t mean there’s no action. She writes action sequences well; the finale is damn near cinematic. At the same time, the vast majority of her tension occurs within the characters. Gray knows how to use third person intimate to its best effect. The juxtaposition of different viewpoints on the same event is especially effective for character development and maximum tragic irony.
Whether it’s divided loyalties, internal versus external honor, duty versus love, ideals versus reality, or cynicism versus faith, Gray knows how to write internal conflict superbly well. She’s especially good at writing characters whose sense of duty is at odds with their ideals or inhibits their emotional vulnerability. (Basically, she knows dutiful princesses inside and out.) She crafts interactions where misunderstanding makes tragic sense without feeling forced or needlessly complicated.
Her skill in this regard is on full display with Ciena and Thane in Lost Stars. They’re not just literally star-crossed lovers on opposite sides of a war (though they are that). Ciena and Thane are the kind of people who start out believing that they know everything about what the other thinks and feels. They can predict each other’s moves with uncanny precision one moment but still misunderstand the motives and goals of the other the next. Because no matter how much we know someone, they can still surprise us. It’s a delicate balance, and Gray handles it deftly.
Gray also excels at writing interesting secondary characters with only a paragraph or two. Lohgarra—a mom friend Wookiee Thane co-pilots for—is one of my favorite secondary characters and her page time might be somewhere around 10 pages. Ciena’s former roommate at the Imperial Academy Jude is a delight, and Nash Windrider, one of Thane’s former roommates, has one of the most fascinating character arcs in the whole book.
On the aesthetic side, the cynic/idealist is one of my favorite romantic pairings. Plus, Lost Stars is basically an entire novel of angst and mutual pining, which I am a huge fan of when done well (and this is done really well).
“They mirrored each other, almost touching but forever apart.” (p. 545)
That’s it. That’s the book.
It’s an honest love story, one with powerful connection and loyalty on the one hand but with the potential for devastating misunderstanding on the other. True, most people don’t know what it feels like to possibly be the person to shoot down your best friend/lover’s plan in battle, but we all know what it means to fear hurting someone we love because of a difference of opinion. The stakes are higher for Thane and Ciena, but that just makes the story that much more gripping.
Lost Stars shows us that there are as many reasons to be a part of the Empire as there are to be a part of the Rebellion. It isn’t all black and white. Not everyone who joined up with Leia and co. did so because they believed in the ideals of the New Republic. Not every Imperial joined up to coldly exploit the galaxy. Cynics can be Rebels; idealists can be Imperials. Not every Alderaanian approved of the Organas.
When watching the OT and PT, it can be easy to think that the tyranny and corruption at the heart of the Empire was always obvious to everyone. But it wasn’t, and Lost Stars tackles that thorny issue head on. We see that for many, the Empire felt like a necessary corrective to the chaos of the Clone Wars. It brought a sense of stability, of ‘law and order’ that at first appeared healthy and safe. Before the depth of Palpatine’s depravity became widely known, the Empire offered a measure of freedom, advancement, and a sense of purpose for those from back water planets, ‘low’ birth, or chaotic homes.
Staying within the Empire isn’t so clear cut either. Through Ciena’s eyes, we see a wide range of explanations for staying from true belief, to a cultural commitment to loyalty, a desire to fix what’s broken, and a sense of responsibility for those under her command. Some of these reasons are more sympathetic than others, but the larger truth behind them is that not everyone within the Empire is a hateful monster.
It can take a long time for the rot at the core of an apple to infect the outer flesh and in the meantime, a lot of well-meaning, good people can be tempted to bite into it, only to get sick. We might initially be tempted to think we’re a Thane, but most of us are more like Ciena than we’d care to admit. Ciena’s self-delusion and slowly unfolding sense of betrayal is mesmerizing in its honesty. The moment she meets Palpatine is heavy, terrifying, and raw because we sympathize with her. We, too, could have and have been that person who didn’t believe they were serving something truly horrible until it looks them in the face (especially if we’re someone who has any degree of privilege in our current society).
Lost Stars also highlights the many paths to doubt and disillusionment and that one’s reaction to those feelings isn’t always the same. Ciena didn’t see the atrocities Thane did first hand, but neither did Thane have to experience the personal betrayals Ciena did. And neither of them were native Alderaanians like Nash Windrider, an Imperial officer who witnessed the destruction of his planet from the ‘other side.’ With these three characters and others, we see that coping takes many forms, some healthier than others. Sometimes people double down on their original beliefs. Others seek a way out through defection and still others through self-harm and suicide. We also see just how much one’s culture and family history can shape one’s perspective on the same situation.
Gray tackles some of the most pressing questions that face us today when it comes to systemic oppression and injustice. Do all good people go bad in a corrupt system? What is the best pathway to change? When do we abandon a corrupt system and when do we try to change it from within? Is disloyalty to a corrupt system different from the disloyalty of that system to the people it’s meant to take care of? How? To what degree is responsibility for systemic injustice shared at every level and what ought to be reserved for those in positions of more power? Should we take motivations into account when condemning those who participated in a corrupt system?
The answers to these questions are complicated, and Gray never lets us simplify them.
At the same time, she never justifies her characters’ behavior or beliefs for the sake of “moral ambiguity.” It’s one of her other great skills: her ability to present her characters without judgment yet while still maintaining a moral center to the story. She’s willing to write them honestly and in a nuanced way without leather-pantsing. There’s no need to caricature the Empire, Imperials can be human and wrong at the same time. In fact, they’re more pitiable and tragic for their humanity. You can feel sorry for them and even empathize with them while still condemning the choices and desire for consequences. She never shies away from calling it like it is…
“I was so dedicated to honor that I became a war criminal.” (p.540)
…but that doesn’t make her characters any less real or honest. Gray generates sympathy and pathos without ever justifying the horrors committed in the Empire’s name. It’s truly remarkable and one of the most nuanced pieces of storytelling I’ve read in years.
Gray never shies away from depicting the human cost of war either. For all who have complained that the OT didn’t deal enough with the casualties of war and the losses inflicted and suffered on both sides, this is your book. We can get so focused on Alderaan (justifiably so) that we forget that the Death Star would have been a similarly traumatic event for the Imperial officers. They, too, lost friends, loved ones, and colleagues. The scale is different, of course, but the grief and trauma isn’t. We can acknowledge the trauma of both situations without equating their actions.
That’s the beating heart of Lost Stars, the story beneath the doomed romance of Thane and Ciena. We can acknowledge the pain, suffering, trauma, and even the differing motivations of those who ideologically disagree with us without justifying or excusing the horrific acts committed by them and the system they participate in. We can humanize without moral equivalence. I can see and validate your grief without that meaning I agree with you or what you’ve done. It’s a difficult balance to maintain, admittedly. And one that’s getting harder to do in our culture of extremes. But it’s a necessary nuance if we’re ever going to fix our fractured society. We have to humanize the other side because otherwise, we’re at risk of losing what we stand for.
Finally, I have to say that I appreciate that Gray includes neuroatypical and disabled characters. These types of diversity tend to get overlooked in the very necessary desire for queer and racial representation. She has that, too, yet she doesn’t forget the marginalizations others might. She brings it all to the characters she writes and so seamlessly that I want to point to her when I hear people complain about diversity being ‘unnatural.’
At 550 pages, this book is a commitment, I grant you. However, Gray’s style is so readable and the story so gripping that the time flies. I read it in two days while also doing my normal level of other work. Plus, it’s totally worth it.
Final Score: 10/10
Lost Stars is must read for SW fans of all ages, even ones who hate the Sequels, even ones who are more into the OT and Legends. It’s the best that EC has to offer, in my opinion, and what I’d recommend to people who want to read EC novels if they’re not looking for specific character driven novels like Leia, Ahsoka, Rose, or Luke.
Images courtesy of Disney Lucasfilm Press
Book Review: Villains Don’t Date Heroes! by Mia Archer
When a friend I’ve known for years suggested I read this book, I knew I was in for a treat of absolute weirdness. Her taste is a little odd, and when she recommended this based on the level of campiness, I knew I had to give it a shot.
Villains Don’t Date Heroes! (Yes, the exclamation is included in the title) focuses on Night Terror, the best supervillain in the city who is bored of her job. She has terrorized the town to the best of her ability, and we find her during a bank robbery that she is only conducting out of tedium. As she goes about robbing the bank, we are introduced to Fialux, the new superhero in town. Not only is she able to take down Night Terror, but she has her head over heels in love from first glance.
Night Terror knows she can’t get back to her general treachery with Fialux around, so she begins to plot ways to take her down. But when Night Terror has to come to terms with her past and how her expulsion from college is impacting her present, does she find something larger brewing? And how, in all of this, does a crush on Fialux fit in?
Now, I judge books differently by who they are written by and how they come to end up in my Kindle Library. Was this traditionally published, self-published, or published by small press? How does the piece I am reviewing fit into the author’s larger body of work? I do this because not every book gets the same amount of revision and eyes on it, so I do hold traditionally published books to a higher standard, and I give a little slack to independent publishers. When I started to dig a little deeper into what this author writes, I found almost the exact same story line. Over and over again, a geek falls for a cool girl. One of them is in the closet. A kiss changes everything. Will they risk it all for true love (or as true of love as you can be in at 17)?
Villains don’t date Heroes! is different. It’s Archer’s first foray into superheroine drama, and for that, I do give her credit for venturing beyond her typical story. But upon reading the synopsis more closely on Amazon, I found that this book had been previously written under a different pen name, and that pen name brought up a steamier variety of book. A peruse through some of the Amazon reviews also stated that maybe this was a third rewrite under a third pen name. Either way, this has been published in three different versions under three different pen names.
This book is decidedly campy, but not in an effective way. Even in the inanest of romance novels there is a thinly veiled plot over the pining and general frivolity. But in this, we are told Night Terror is bored. We are told Night Terror is attracted to Fialux. We are told how brilliant and capable Night Terror is, only to watch her fail over and over. We are told a lot of this story (what story there is amongst the gloating and rewriting).
But the writing isn’t the only problem. We only get any actual conversations between Fialux and Night Terror halfway through the book. Before that, it is Night Terror mooning over how attractive Fialux is, being thrown in jail, tinkering around, and brooding over how she was kicked out of college. There isn’t much here to be upset with, because there isn’t much story.
And there are major problems with the basic premise. If Night Terror is the greatest supervillain in the city, why is she bored? If she wants to take over the world, why is she just terrorizing this one city? Shouldn’t she be moving on to the larger state or country? Why does she spend so much of the novel harboring anger at her old college professor? As the story goes on, one realizes that very little of it makes any sense.
Look, I’m not here to tell you what to do, but this is the third time this mess has been published, and honestly, if you want an anti-hero story, or a villain story, or just a superhero story, go read anything in the Superheroine series by YLVA Publishing. I’ve reviewed a couple of the titles, and both are works of classic literature in comparison to this mess. Save yourself the time, energy and frustration, and go read something else.
Images Courtesy of Amazon Digital Services LLC
Dealing with Trauma and Characters Improves Wild Magic
First published in 1992, Tamora Pierce’s Wild Magic starts a new series. It takes place several years after the end of Lioness Rampant and carries the readers further into the world of Tortall. We meet new characters, become reacquainted with old ones, and see them face new struggles. It’s also the series that I started reading Pierce’s work with, so I am indescribably fond. Pierce has grown immeasurably in the four years since the conclusion of her first quartet. Partly because of the choice of characters, and partly time wearing it’s inevitable journey forward. Whatever the cause Wild Magic marks a new beginning, for both the readers and the characters within.
Wild Magic begins with Daine, our new protagonist. She’s a thirteen year old bastard orphan, making her way to Tortall with Onua – who buys horses for the Queens Riders. In the years since Lioness Rampant, Thayet created a new branch of the army which allows women to fight. On the way to Tortall, Daine and Onua encounter stormwings (half human half metal bird monsters), spidrens (half human half spider monsters), and a strange hawk who is also a sorcerer called ‘Numair’. Once they arrive at Corus, Numair tells Daine that she has wild magic, which allows her to talk to animals and to heal them. We see Tortall under siege by monsters called immortals who’ve returned to the mortal realms after being locked in the divine realm centuries ago. Diane studies with Numair and helps Onua train the Riders.
As they head to the summer training camp, Pirate’s Swoop, Alanna and George’s Barony they encounter other problems. They meet Griffins, sea lions, and Daine learns to heal. She also tells Onua and Numair how bandits killed her mother and grandfather. She also tells about how she lost her humanity hunting said bandits with the local wolf pack. Cloud, her pony and constant companion, reminded her she was human, but Daine ran from her old town and couldn’t go back.
Once they arrive at Pirate’s Swoop, Carthaki raiders attack them. They want to kidnap Thayet and her two oldest children as leverage against Jonathan so that Carthak can conquer Tortall. The Riders, George’s people, a dragon, a kraken, and the animals working with Daine rebuff the invadors. The dragon dies and the book ends with Daine finding her baby and preparing to raise her.
One of the things that Pierce does wonderfully in this book and novel is that she gives us characters with more diverse backgrounds. The central characters from her previous series generally all came from places of privilege. Even George was the King of the Thieves, and high in that underground hierarchy. Wild Magic is centered around characters that come from different places, and Pierce also manages to balance her characters much better than she has done previously.
Evin and Miri and Gender Equality
One of the things that Pierce does almost immediately better is in who her character’s friends are. Until Woman who Rides Like a Man, Alanna didn’t have female friends. Admittedly, she was disguised as a boy for most of that time, but it doesn’t really reflect female friendships very well. From the beginning Daine is different in that respect. Once she arrives at Corus, she befriends both Evin Larse and Miri, both Rider trainees, and both from different walks of life. Miri is the daughter of fishers, and is only learning to not fear horses. Given the fact that the Riders are a cavalry based organization, Daine helps immensely with this. Evin Larse is the son of Players, which are wandering actors and entertainers.
Miri even implicitly references what Pierce has done by including her and Evin in the story. When she approaches Daine, where she had been sitting all alone, she asks if Daine was a Trainee. Daine says no, but that she’ll be helping with the ponies. Miri says, “Good—we need more girls. There are two many boys.” (105). While it is both a commentary on how stories need more female protagonists in general, it also speaks to Pierce’s novel.
Alanna’s female friendships were late in the series, and more peripheral than the close bonds she had with romantic partners. With Daine, Pierce is deliberately trying to surround her with characters that make up for that. Daine has male friends yes, Numair, Sarge, and Evin. But she also has Onua, Alanna, Thayet, and Miri, and dozens of others. It’s not just one woman making friends with men anymore, it a story about a young woman making friends with many different people—animal or human, male or female. It shows how Pierce has grown in just four years.
Overtures in Race
Another thing that Pierce does which shows her slow improvement is how she deals with race. She’s attempting to have a more balanced world, not just one that is your typical white fantasy world. It’s still not perfect, given that there are only seven people of color in the entire novel, and five of them are unnamed. One of the named people is Hakim, a Bazhir from Woman Who Rides Like a Man. He appears on the journey to Corus, a sergeant in the Kings Own. He helps Alanna and Daine fight of the spidrens.
The other character of color in the novel is Sarge. He is one of the three who teach the Queens Riders. He also escaped slavery before coming to Tortall. It’s in part a very stereotypical story, but Sarge is one of the more important new characters. He treats Daine with respect, and helps her learn to make her authority with the trainees. A particularly idiotic trainee had been flirting with Daine instead of listening to her. Sarge intervened on her behalf. He shamed the trainee for both flirting with a Daine and for being unkind to the pony he was supposed to be grooming.
When Daine goes to talk with him afterwards, feeling awkward. Sarge reassures her, and they share what I would describe as a genuinely sweet moment. It’s a moment of solidarity between the two of them. In some ways it mirrors how people from different oppressed groups band together.
Pierce hasn’t fixed all her mistakes, and the book isn’t saying landmark things about race. It doesn’t include many people of color, and most of the ones that do appear are solely window dressing in the background. However, it’s an improvement on her previous handling of race, and is progress.
Daine as Protagonist
Intersectionality is one of the touchstones of third-wave feminism, though it wasn’t unheard of in second-wave feminism. Diane is very much a intersectional character. She’s a female, orphan, refugee, and a bastard in a world where that still matters. Snowsdale, the village that she was born and raised in is implied to be very conservative. Considering Daine’s reaction—almost tears—when she was asked if she wanted to wear pants instead of skirts, it’s not very subtle. She says that the priests and the headman wouldn’t approve, despite not three minutes ago wanting to wear anything other than skirts because of the discomfort.
She initially refuses a book Numair gave her on animal anatomy because she didn’t feel that she deserved it. When she meets Thayet, who she’d thought was a normal person beforehand, she explodes. “Odd’s bobs, this is a strange place! Knights who say call ’em by their first name and wizards who light tinder and queens that run around dressed like real people—” (103-4). When she meets Jonathan, he asks about her father, because she can sense when immortals attack because of her wild magic.But Daine doesn’t know who her father is, so she can’t help.
When entering Tortall, Daine thinks that she’ll get a fresh start, where her entire identity won’t be wound up in her bastardy. Every aspect of her character reflects the different intersections of oppression that Daine experienced. Pierce she shows how discrimination affects Daine as she immerses herself in this new country. During the skirt incident she thinks, “it hit her, really hit her, that she was free of Snowsdale, what could they do to her now?” (110). It doesn’t change everything, but she’s in a place where not everyone will judge her only on her background.
Recovery from Trauma
One of the more important lessons of Wild Magic is about how people handle trauma, and about how people help others.
Kuri Tailor is the woman who outfits Daine with pants and shirts. As mentioned above, Daine has some lingering issues about Snowsdale, and Kuri comforts her. “Forget them. …You’re ours, now. …But here life’s what you make it. Who you used to be doesn’t matter. Look at Sarge—he was a slave, once. Onua was beaten by her husband and left to die. Her Majesty and Buri had to flee Saraine. Do you catch my drift?” (112).
This is one of the more thematically important passages of the novel. The novel as a whole is the process of dealing with trauma and recovering from it. One of the most important things that you can hear when you’re trying to recover is that others have done it. Doubly so when those people are there to help you on your path as well. Kuri telling Daine about Sarge’s and Onua’s and Thayet and Buri’s pasts shows her that these successful people struggled. They overcame things that are incredibly difficult to overcome. They survived, and they thrived. That promise, that you can remake yourself, and become someone who isn’t defined by your trauma is essential to hear on the road to recovery.
This is the thesis of the novel yes, but Pierce again shows how it isn’t easy with how Daine handles her twin traumas.
Daine and Grief
Daine is a thirteen year old girl who lost her entire family except a pony less than a year ago. That sort of thing leaves scars, and it’s scars that Pierce allows Daine to show. She’s barely able to mention her family in the first few chapters. When she mentions them afterwards, it’s liable to wind up causing her to snap at other people.
The first time it happens is when she’s meeting Numair, not the hawk he was shape-shifted into for the first time. Numair is incredulous that she doesn’t have the Gift, and Daine explodes. Onua tells Numair that her mother kept testing Daine for the Gift, and that she died recently. Though it’s not a direct mention of her mother, it’s close enough to spark emotions in someone grieving. Also the Gift was a source of tension between her and her mother beforehand, so that also is a factor.
The second major time this happens is when Numair lights a fire with his Gift. Daine’s shock is apparent, and Numair teases her for a moment about needing rituals to cause fire to burn back home. Considering the bandits burnt her home to the ground, Daine stalks off.
Onua told her early on that you need to speak about things, to bleed the poison off the bad memories. Daine eventually does this with her family, talking about them to Onua and Numair, though keeping her other trauma hidden from them until later. Daine feels guilty for having fun, for teasing Numair back and for befriending Onua. Eventually, she realizes that guilt is not what her family would want, and it eases those outbursts of grief.
As before though, it doesn’t go away forever, the pain of losing her family lingers around Daine for the rest of the series.
Daine and Mental Illness
The Good Aspects
While mental illness isn’t precisely the right term for Daine’s experiences hunting the bandits, it’s the closest allegory. She hunted down the bandits who killed her family with the local wolf pack. In return, her village hunted her, for weeks, tried to kill her because of what she’d done. Daine describes it as loosing her humanity. Numair, when told about this, theorizes that her magical bond with animals overwhelms her when near a group of animals. He puts a shield between her magic and her core self, which prevents such a relapse.
However, this only happens halfway through the book. During the first half, Daine discovers going too deep in the lessons Numar gives her will bring out the ‘madness’ again. Because of this, she starts faking her way through the lessons and being very touchy, more so than with her grief earlier. It’s a very good representation of one way that people try to deal with trauma. Daine tries to bottle it all up, tries to pretend that not thinking about it will just make it disappear. It’s a decent representation of that facet of trauma, and it fits with Daine’s character.
The Bad Aspects
But, there is one aspect of this representation that is less appealing. Daine is visited at various times in her dreams by a badger. He gives her advice and tells her he knows her father. He is the one that finally compels her to tell her story to Onua and Numair. At one point he tells her that, “The madness was to teach you something. You should mind the lesson.” (30). These two lines are the opposite of helpful, and the opposite of feminist. Trauma and mental illness are not something that should be handled in this way.
In a fantasy world, there is the possibility that gods try to teach mankind lessons through trials. This was not the case with Daine here. I find it likely that this line of the badger’s is part of why she didn’t tell anyone until so late. She felt she deserved it and if it was a lesson, she should be able to figure out how to solve it on her own. That was counterproductive to the point, and prevents her from healing.
Overall, Wild Magic is a story that has ultimately a feminist takeaway. It’s a story about how a community of people comes together to heal. It’s a story about how there is more than one kind of person. There may be some rough patches and throw away lines, and there are places where Pierce could have pushed more. But whenever I read the epilogue I’m reminded of why this story matters.
Daine starts the story as an orphan, and she ends the story taking in another orphan. After a debate between Thayet, Alanna, George, Numair, and Onua as to where Daine should go and ultimately live, Pierce puts it best. “Daine looked at these unusual people who had become friends, and laughed. ‘It’s fair funny,’ she explained. ‘I’ve gone from having no home to having too many!’ The Lioness smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Welcome to Tortall,’ she said.” (362).
That welcome extends not only to Daine, but to the reader, and it’s a fitting end to the first chapter of Daine’s story.
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