Fantasy is my favorite thing to read and write, in case you hadn’t yet caught on. But every genre comes with its own suitcase of tropes. I thought poking some fun at them (and at ourselves as fantasy lovers) would be entertaining, so welcome to the first post of a potential series: Autobiography of a Fantasy Character!
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| [image via Unsplash; graphic mine] |
Once upon an unspecified time, I grew up in Quaint Village. It was a rustic, homespun sort of place where everyone was honest and hardworking and appropriately naïve about the greater world. The village lay nestled in a valley protected by mountains on every side, sheltered in every sense of the word.
When I was a very young boy, my parents died in a fire, so I lived with my uncle on his farm and spent my days herding sheep. Absolutely nothing else of note happened during my childhood.
Then I turned sixteen . . . and everything changed.
I began receiving visions, images of bloodshed and suffering that plagued both my sleep and my waking moments.
I also began manifesting mysterious powers. My fellow villagers were frightened and prepared to cast me out for witchery, when a hooded old man–
Oh, right. Allow me to back up. The only other notable thing about my childhood besides my orphan status was the old man who lived at the edge of the valley. He kept to himself, causing wild rumors about his past to circulate amongst the village folk. No one knew who he really was or where he came from, but his cloak and his staff made him look Very Important, so people left him alone. Except for me. I had one run-in with him as a child, which scared me out of my wits and also served to foreshadow future events.
Ahem. I turned sixteen, manifested powers I didn’t understand, and was about to be cast out by a mob of villagers, when the old man spirited me out of harm’s way. We hid in his hut, where he explained in cryptic words that I was special. Chosen, in fact. The world beyond Quaint Village was in dire need of a Hero to save them–and I was the only one who could do it. Of course.
But before I could ask more questions (like, “Why me?”), sudden war descended on Quaint Village. It appeared that my flare of powers had attracted a horde of not-quite-human soldiers. Gasp! The horror! They charged in, swinging massive blades, yelling in a guttural language, and setting fire to homes. And then they did the unthinkable.
They killed a sweet but personality-less friend of mine. A person named Incentive.
“NOOOOOO!” I screamed.
Charged with sorrow and vengeance, I struck out with my mysterious powers in a flash of light. These powers spun out of my control and conveniently decimated the entire horde of enemies, but also injured some of the villagers, including a resident bully who had hounded me for years.
Half of the villagers praised my victory, while the other half glowered with suspicion. (None glared quite so darkly as the bully.) The Very Important old man leaned on his staff and surveyed the damage I’d done, then muttered more cryptic words, something ominous along the lines of, “The old darkness has awakened.” And then he said, “Meet me on the mountain. Your training begins at sunrise.”
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| [via Unsplash] |
That was how I met Mentor.
Afraid and confused, I climbed the mountain the next morning, where Mentor promptly began to rail at me for being late–as all teachers must do–and then launched into a flurry of tests to gauge my control over my powers. I failed every one of them. But each day, I climbed the mountain again for another training session. Mentor was gruff and difficult to please, but he sprinkled the physical lessons with nuggets of grandiose wisdom. He taught me how to harness the energy within me, control the visions, and wield a sword within a week. I was a fast learner. Chosen heroes have to be.
Every time I probed into his past, he dodged my questions, letting only one or two characteristically ambiguous hints slip out.
Once I had gained a basic level of training, another disaster occurred to keep the story of my life moving. More of those not-quite-human soldiers came to the valley, but this time they lay in ambush on the mountain where we trained. In the skirmish that followed, Mentor and I slew every enemy. The last one, as he lay dying, gurgled a warning: “The darkness is watching you, Hero. The final note will be sung . . .” And then he died.
Mentor looked shaken, which was unusual for him. Apparently the warning was the beginning of an old prophecy–about me, of course, as all prophecies tend to be. This is how it went.
Mentor recited the poorly-written poetry with such doom and gloom in his voice that every word was branded perfectly in my memory after hearing it only once. I asked him what it meant, and all he knew was that the “keys” were said to be sealed in a vault far, far away in Distant Land. Or at least, they were supposed to be. The presence of these dark soldiers indicated that the keys had, in fact, been stolen. Nothing would be right with the world until they were restored to their rightful place.
“Who stole them?” I asked.
“Villain,” Mentor snarled. He then proceeded to spend a chapter of my life explaining Villain’s backstory.
Villain and his brother were princes in Distant Land, living in opulence and peace. But Villain’s older brother always bested him at everything, causing a deep bitterness to take root in the younger brother. The more they fought, the more Villain desired the throne, for it would be the ultimate victory against his sibling. To gain the strength necessary to seize it, Villain began dabbling in dark magic and soon grew evil. He killed his father, his brother, and his brother’s wife–somehow their infant child escaped his grasp–and seized the throne for himself. Now Villain reigned Distant Land with an iron fist. He enslaved his people and forged them into an army in the depths of the earth. And, Mentor told me, it appeared that he had snatched away the keys that kept the entire world in balance.
It was now my task to travel to Distant Land to find the keys, stop the Villain, and save the world.
If I refused, these dark soldiers would keep coming for me and endanger everyone I loved. I couldn’t help but think of poor Incentive, killed in cold blood, or the visions of suffering that still attacked me, providing me with both the logical and emotional means to commit to my quest. So with unquestioned resolve, I swore to do just as the prophecy foretold.
