Has anyone made a videogame where you’re a princess locked at the top of a tower and have to fight your way down to ground level? Because dang.
Like, think about it: you’re given this nice little room and no objectives at all and when you open the door the guard says ‘stay in there’ so you wait and nothing happens and you open the door again and try and walk out and the guard pushes you back in and says things like ‘you’re our prisoner’ and ‘where are you going, you’re stuck here’ and ‘are you trying to meet your prince? he won’t ever get up THIS high’ and ‘get back inside before I get mad’. But you can pick up a vase of flowers, and you can swing it around. And the thing is all the guards are expecting the hero to be battling his way up, and all this one wimpy little guard at the top is posted to your room for is to push you back into your room, so you can smash him over the head because he’s just not expecting it, and then steal his weapons. And after that you find that the guards are always bigger and stronger than you—and they get bigger and stronger every level down—but you can generally manage to get the first shot in because they’re waiting for the hero, and you’re the princess. And maybe there’s puzzles and stuff too, but you have to solve them backwards, working your way along from end to start, because they’re all set up for the hero. And when you get the bottom and you have the fight of your life because the guards are massed up waiting for the hero, tons of them with awesome weapons and armor and spells and you think it’s the boss battle, but when they’re all dead and the final ground-level door is free to open the credits don’t roll. And you realize there must be one more fight outside the doors, too, before you’re free, so you equip the best armor and weapons and potions you can find and go outside and you fight this one huge lone badass man on a badass horse in the sunlight. Then he’s finally defeated, and lying in the grass, and his horse is yours, and the credits still aren’t rolling. And you look at his corpse and you see he’s got a locket on, and in that locket is a picture of your face.
It puzzles me when people cite LOTR as the standard of “simple” or “predictable” or “black and white” fantasy. Because in my copy, the hero fails. Frodo chooses the Ring, and it’s only Gollum’s own desperation for it that inadvertently saves the day. The fate of the world, this whole blood-soaked war, all the millennia-old machinations of elves and gods, comes down to two addicts squabbling over their Precious, and that is precisely and powerfully Tolkien’s point.
And then the hero goes home, and finds home a smoking desolation, his neighbors turned on one another, that secondary villain no one finished off having destroyed Frodo’s last oasis not even out of evil so much as spite, and then that villain dies pointlessly, and then his killer dies pointlessly. The hero is left not with a cathartic homecoming, the story come full circle in another party; he is left to pick up the pieces of what was and what shall never be again.
And it’s not enough. The hero cannot heal, and so departs for the fabled western shores in what remains a blunt and bracing metaphor for death (especially given his aged companions). When Sam tells his family, “Well, I’m back” at the very end, it is an earned triumph, but the very fact that someone making it back qualifies as a triumph tells you what kind of story this is: one that is too honest to allow its characters to claim a clean victory over entropy, let alone evil.
“I can’t recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass. I’m naked in the dark. There’s nothing–no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I can see him with my waking eyes.”
So where’s this silly shallow hippie fever-dream I’ve heard so much about? It sounds like a much lesser story than the one that actually exists.
+1
You know how Frodo leaves Sam with the legacy of the quest – the job of bearing witness to what happened – and the duty to finish and protect his writings?
Tolkien lost all but one of his friends in WW1. He was founder member of a literary club at school – the TCBS. There was a larger group and a core of four. They all stayed friends, they kept writing and sharing their work with each other. And they were almost all killed. One of them, Geoffrey Smith, wrote this to Tolkien in 1916.
My chief consolation is that if I am scuppered tonight – I am off on duty in a few minutes – there will still be left a member of the great T.C.B.S. to voice what I dreamed and what we all agreed upon. […] May God bless you my dear John Ronald and may you say things I have tried to say long after I am not there to say them if such be my lot.
And that was his last letter. There’s something eerie about the way he seems to have pegged Tolkien as an eventual survivor.
Sam’s survival (and his emergence as the true hero of the book) are beautiful because they’re suffused with loss, because they’re not the grand conquering heroic narrative that on some level was “supposed” to happen.
Tolkien possibly only survived because he got trench fever – a particularly nasty disease carried by lice – and got sent home because he was desperately ill. Considering how the rest of his unit fared, it probably saved his life. Unpleasant and unglamorous, but if not for that, we wouldn’t have LOTR. I’m sure survivor’s guilt was a factor – as was a sickening sense of dread when “The War to End All Wars” didn’t, and his son went off to WWII.
TLOTR has some of the type of valorization of war that you find in the Old Norse and Anglo-Saxon literature that JRRT loved and studied and taught because he loved that style and it’s deeply fitting for cultures like the Rohirrim, but it’s also full of the slog of war, the waste and tragedy, and the irrevocable damage that even victorious survivors carry for the rest of their lives. Frodo’s symbolic “death” is also resonant for survivors of what was called “shell-shock” then and PTSD now.
I mean, it’s not Game of Thrones. It’s not gritty in the same way. But the protagonist of LOTR was minor gentry from a backwater nobody’d heard of, and the REAL hero who saved the world by saving him was his gardener. All the great kings and queens and lords and ladies in the story are background characters compared to the story of the little people. Literally little people, but symbolically too.
me (warforged swashbuckler): -to DM- how much would it take to send a bunch of flyers to all the major cities?
DM: a few hundred gold. ya’ll have more than enough.
me: I want the flyers to say: to all warforged- feeling despondent? restless? want to see new lands? miss a proper battle? come to *port city*. you want a war? we’ll give you one.
DM: -stares at me- -sets down his vape- -covers his face and starts laughing-
other players: -gone quiet-
DM: I’ve been running this campaign for years. seen people pull every trick in the book. this is the first time ANYONE has thought to do that at my table.
me: ….am I the only one that reads the racial histories?
In a new campaign I’m part of, my character is a rogue, Awakened Undead fan race. He’s a skeleton, but he knows that’s unnatural and does his best to hide it. I coordinated with the DM ahead of time to work the twist into the story later, but for now we’re only one session in.
I commented privately to the DM that I was disappointed no one had commented on the fact that I’m completely covered head to toe, so he starts laying the hints on thick.
DM: So the four of you see the rogue (me) on the edge of the guard post you’re looting. It’s getting pretty late, but he hasn’t started a fire and doesn’t seem to notice the cold.
Ranger: I go start a fire next to him and get camp ready for the night.
DM: Alright, you start the fire. He doesn’t seem to care if it’s there or not.
Mage: I start cooking food and handing it out to everyone.
Me: Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you.
Fighter, ooc: You know, it seems like your character just doesn’t give a fuck about life.
“I’m sorry ma’am. I can’t fill your meds. It says here that your prescription was written by one Dr. Harleen Quinzel.”
“So?”
“So?! She tried to blow up the Gotham bridge last week! She’s killed like… lots of people!”
“Yeah, well, she’s also a licensed psychiatrist. And she wrote me a prescription!”
“There’s no way her license hasn’t been revoked. I’m really sorry. I can’t fill this. Come back with a prescription from a real doctor, not a homicidal clown. Then we’ll talk.”
“Dr. Quinzel won’t be too happy to hear that you refused to fill her patient’s prescription…”
Valhalla does not discriminate against the kind of fight you lost. Did you lose the battle with cancer? Maybe you died in a fist fight. Even facing addiction. After taking a deep drink from his flagon, Odin slams his cup down and asks for the glorious tale of your demise!
Oh my god, this is beautiful.
A small child enters Valhalla. The battle they lost was “hiding from an alcoholic father.” Odin sees the flinch when he slams the cup and refrains from doing it again. He hears the child’s pain; no glorious battle this, but one of fear and wretched survival.
He invites the child to sit with him, offers the choicest mead and instructs his men to bring a sword and shield, a bow and arrow, of the very best materials and appropriate size. “Here,” he says, “you will find no man who dares to harm you. But so you will know your own strength, and be happy all your days in Valhalla, I will teach you to use these weapons.”
The sad day comes when another child enters the hall. Odin does not slam his cup; he simply beams with pride as the first child approaches the newcomer, and holds out her bow and quiver, and says “nobody here will hurt you. Everyone will be so proud you did your best, and I’ll teach you to use these, so you always know how strong you are.”
————
A young man enters the hall. He hesitates when Odin asks his story, but at long last, it ekes out: skinheads after the Pride parade. His partner got into a building and called for help. The police took a little longer than perhaps they really needed to, and two of those selfsame skinheads are in the hospital now with broken bones that need setting, but six against one is no fair match. The fear in his face is obvious: here, among men large enough to break him in two, will he face an eternity of torment for the man he left behind?
Odin rumbles with anger. Curses the low worms who brought this man to his table, and regales him with tales of Loki so to show him his own welcome. “A day will come, my friend, when you seek to be reunited, and so you shall,” Odin tells him. “To request the aid of your comrades in battle is no shameful thing.”
———-
A woman in pink sits near the head of the table. She’s very nearly skin and bones, and has no hair. This will not last; health returns in Valhalla, and joy, and light, and merrymaking. But now her soul remembers the battle of her life, and it must heal.
Odin asks.
And asks again.
And the words pour out like poisoned water, things she couldn’t tell her husband or children. The pain of chemotherapy. The agony of a mastectomy, the pain still deeper of “we found a tumor in your lymph nodes. I’m so sorry.” And at last, the tortured question: what is left of her?
Odin raises his flagon high. “What is left of you, fair warrior queen, is a spirit bright as fire; a will as strong as any forged iron; a life as great as any sea. Your battle was hard-fought, and lost in the glory only such furor can bring, and now the pain and fight are behind you.“
In the months to come, she becomes a scop of the hall–no demotion, but simple choice. She tells the stories of the great healers, Agnes and Tanya, who fought alongside her and thousands of others, who turn from no battle in the belief that one day, one day, the war may be won; the warriors Jessie and Mabel and Jeri and Monique, still battling on; the queens and soldiers and great women of yore.
The day comes when she calls a familiar name, and another small, scarred woman, eyes sunken and dark, limbs frail, curly black hair shaved close to her head, looks up and sees her across the hall. Odin descends from his throne, a tall and foaming goblet in his hands, and stuns the hall entire into silence as he kneels before the newcomer and holds up the goblet between her small dark hands and bids her to drink.
“All-Father!” the feasting multitudes cry. “What brings great Odin, Spear-Shaker, Ancient One, Wand-Bearer, Teacher of Gods, to his knees for this lone waif?”
He waves them off with a hand.
“This woman, LaTeesha, Destroyer of Cancer, from whom the great tumors fly in fear, has fought that greatest battle,” he says, his voice rolling across the hall. “She has fought not another body, but her own; traded blows not with other limbs but with her own flesh; has allowed herself to be pierced with needles and scored with knives, taken poison into her very veins to defeat this enemy, and at long last it is time for her to put her weapons down. Do you think for a moment this fight is less glorious for being in silence, her deeds the less for having been aided by others who provided her weapons? She has a place in this great hall; indeed, the highest place.”
And the children perform feats of archery for the entertainment of all, and the women sing as the young man who still awaits his beloved plays a lute–which, after all, is not so different from the guitar he once used to break a man’s face in that great final fight.
Valhalla is a place of joy, of glory, of great feasting and merrymaking.
And it is a place for the soul and mind to heal.
literal tears in my eyes omg
This is a very beautiful thought, but Valhalla isn’t the only grand hall one can go to for their afterlife; I’d love to hear stories as beautiful as this for other halls.
There is a young girl, her body frail and small. The girl bares the marks of so many scars, so many beatings from her broken home. Every night was a constant fight to stay safe, every day at school, she had to say her bruises were from playing too hard. Her teachers would look at her, but not see what was happening, and the girl kept suffering. She hardly had a childhood before her mother took it from her one night, a drug induced rage that ended her life far too soon.
The girl enters the hall of Folkvangr, sobbing at every step. The goddess Freya, ethereal and lovely, sits upon a golden throne at the highest point of the hall. Freya is concerned, her brows furrowed.
“Why do you cry, child?” she asks, her voice rings like a thousand bells, echoing through the mighty hall.
The little girl hiccups, she fidgets and hides her scars, “you are so beautiful, and I’m afraid I’m too ugly to be here.”
Freya descends from her throne, gliding and golden like the passing of sunlight through trees. She kneels in front of the girl and embraces her.
“Dear child, I am the Vanadis Freya, goddess of beauty and battle. I have the first choice of the slain, and I chose you. You are beautiful and your fight is over. You have a home with me now. I will teach you to fight so that you never need to be afraid again, and I will love you no matter what.”
The girl looks up and sees the faces of gently smiling women and girls of all ages and colors behind the goddess. She knows that she has gained many mothers and grandmothers and sisters. The girl knows that for the first time since she can remember, she will finally be loved.
There is an old man with old wounds. He fought in war to protect everyone, only to come home to poverty and sadness. The old man lived the final days of his life on a bench in the park, and no one mourned him.
When he wakes up, he is in a dark house, made of stone. Snow falls sleepily outside. There are cheery little candles on top of many stout wooden tables in the great room. A tall pale woman sits with a black dog at one of these tables. There are people all around; eating, laughing, playing games like old friends. The house is loud and merry with fellowship.
A call rings out over all the noise.
“Good to see ya pal! Come sit with us!”
A younger man beckons towards the old man, and he reluctantly joins the youngster and his companions at the table.
Many of the men and women at the table pat him on the back. The lady’s dog curls up at his feet. One of them even pushes their bowl of hot stew to the old man. The old timer enjoys the warmth in his bones, the thought of not going to sleep hungry fills him up with happiness that makes his eyes sting with the icy bite of tears.
“I appreciate it all, but surely this is a mistake. I don’t know you all” the old man is afraid that now they will shoo him away, like so many others. Instead, the lady with the dog kindly grasps his hand, her face melts in understanding.
“This is Helheim, and in Helheim, we are all remembered. I am Hel. You are among friends now. You will never go hungry, you will never be alone again.”
Time passes, and the old man has made many friends in Helheim. Some nights, when the snow falls hardest, a new person will appear, shy and uncertain. The old man always rises from his seat, always certain to have a warm drink in both hands. The old man gives the newcomer his friendliest smile and says,
“Good to see ya pal, come sit with us.”
Two young men, both in love. They hoped to get married, but then the doctors said the two worst words you could ever hear. The sickness ravaged one of them, and broke the heart of the other. The sick man barely recognized himself in the mirror anymore, and the other felt like he was drowning in helplessness.
Months later, it’s the night of the funeral for the sick man. His lover clings to photos of them together. He can’t see through the hurt, he can’t find it in himself to do anything but cry. His entire body aches with how much he misses his lover. The young man turns to cheap gas station beers to drown out the pain. Driving home with too many open cans on the floor, he hits a deer and tumbles into a ditch.
He finds himself on the ground in a golden forest, with trees arching so high into the sky, he can barely see the tops. The falling leaves dance to the song of the gentle winds, and the sunlight plays over everything in sight. He realises its not the wind singing; there’s the melody of many singing voices carried on the breeze. The young man follows it to a bright clearing in the woods. Many people are there, making flower crowns and laughing. The heady smells of wine and cooking meat wafts around him. At the front of the crowd is a man in rich finery, laughing with all the rest. The air is alight with joy and the sounds of bells.
But most importantly of all is his boyfriend, glowing with health, covered in flowers and smiling.
I will always reblog this as I cry new tears with every edition
@thewitchofthenorse Have you seen this? This literally made my teary and made me so happy to read, just gods… 😭💜🐺
thisacelovesheadcanons 