I leaned back and laced my fingers together over my stomach, which seemed larger than the last time I’d done so.
Both those comments lend a sense of a man past youth, though not yet ready for the graveyard.
The other way was his ability to judge the first character he encounters in the story. Because of his own varied and extensive history, he recognizes the elderly messenger as:
...about sixty, thin and frail-looking, but with traces of a much larger, stronger man left in the set of his jaw and the way he sat up sharply each time he caught himself slumping. A soldier once, maybe even a high-ranking officer, now reduced to an errand boy.
Thus within the first four pages, I hope the reader gets a sense of Eddie’s maturity, intelligence and ability to correctly evaluate situations, all of which set him (and other heroic fantasy heroes) apart from the multitude of young warriors.
So once you’ve established your hero as an older man, there are three broad areas in which his personality significantly differs from that of a young man with a sword. They are: battles, women and vices.
BATTLES
So your hero stands, sword in hand, facing the villain. Now what? The younger hero might say something like, “You have met your match today, Lord Vile,” or “Prepare to be skewered like a pig, Baron Worthless.” Younger characters, untested and unproven, often feel the need to assert themselves in this way. It’s a form of bragging, something to make them sound like more than they are, the equivalent of a frilled lizard or puffer fish display. Whether they live up to their claims, or suffer ignominious defeat, is up to the author.
The older hero, though, has proven his skills and toughness to the one person who matters most: himself. In the DVD audio commentary for Escape from New York, star Kurt Russell and director John Carpenter discuss their decision to make Snake Plissken so tough, all his fights are very short. The unspoken psychological basis for this is that Plissken no longer has anything to prove, and is all about getting the job done. This is a characteristic of the veteran hero, and it can be played for humor, suspense or out-and-out mayhem (as in Yojimbo, when Toshiro Mifune single-handedly slaughters a dozen samurai tough-guys and then claims a whole gang of killers did it).
But what if you decide your hero does need to speak; what sort of thing would he say? At this point in his life, he not only has no need to boast, he knows it’s counterproductive. What’s the opposite of a boast, then? A warning. So your hero might say something like, “This is a really bad idea, Lord Vile.” Or, “Baron Worthless, is this truly necessary?” The words are both literally true, and subtly convey the fact that our villain might be getting in over his head. Whereas a challenge from a young hero might strike the villain as empty chest-thumping, this type of statement—which carries implications of skill, experience, and knowledge—might, or damn well should, give the villain pause. It establishes hero and villain as equals at best, and at worst gives the hero a subtle psychological advantage: after all, the villain feels no need to warn anyone ahead of time. How confident must the hero be if he feels he must?
So our hero and villain are facing off, swords drawn, and it’s time for them to fight. There are two possible extremes, and I’ll use examples from two very different films.
First is the endless, pointless duel that does nothing but prove the two characters are evenly matched. The dual between Jack Sparrow and Barbossa at the climax of Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl is just that sort of thing, and it’s rendered even more moot by the fact that both opponents are undead zombies and therefore can’t be killed by the other (a fact Barbossa mentions). So there is no story purpose to the fight. Similarly, the final interminable duel in Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith has no narrative point because the audience already knows who wins.
At the other extreme is Sanjuro, in which Toshiro Mifune faces off—literally—against Tatsuya Nakadai. The two stand almost face to face, unmoving, for a full 45 seconds, before Mifune suddenly draws his sword and skewers his opponent in a move so fast it’s almost unbelievable (and done in real time, too). The duel resolves both the story and the thematic issue of seeing the truth behind someone’s public face.
As I said, these are extremes. Between them are limitless opportunities. In Burn Me Deadly (Tor Books, 2009), Eddie LaCrosse finds himself faced with two dozen bad guys, most of whom are not trained warriors. First he tries to talk his way out:
“Fellas, I said genially. “There seems to be some misunderstanding here. I don’t want any trouble; I’m just passing through.”
Unfortunately he’s recognized, but he continues to try to avoid a fight.
“Hey, be reasonable. I’m sorry I had to punch you, but things happen. Would money make you feel better?”
Only when this fails, and the bad guys produce weapons, does he concede to fight. He decimates them quickly and efficiently, and with a fair bit of regret.
You also have additional elements you can add to the mix. Consider the young hero’s desire to show off. More than likely he’d wave his sword, twirl it, display his mastery with a series of moves that are totally useless in an actual fight. He might laugh, or mock his opponent. What he probably won’t do is take the time to seriously discern his opponent’s skills before diving into the fray.
A mature hero knows better. In The Princess Bride both Inigo and Westley begin their epic sword battle fighting left-handed, putting themselves at a disadvantage because each believes himself far superior to the other. Only when they realize they are evenly matched do they switch to their dominant right hands. A veteran might use a similar tactic, pretending to be a worse fighter than he actually is in order to measure the weaknesses of his opponent. Or he might simply fight defensively, using as little energy as possible, and wait for his opponent to tire and show a vulnerable spot.
The crucial difference is in the hero’s mind. A young hero is out to prove something; a veteran is trying to do a job. And as the author, that’s where you make your hero unique.
Which brings us to...
WOMEN
Every story’s hero—and for the sake of expediency, I’m considering ‘hero’ to also mean ‘heterosexual male,’ although the issues can apply to any gender or combination the author wishes—eventually needs a companion, and often this means a woman. In heroic fantasy, there are two types: the ones that need the hero’s protection, and the ones that stand at his side as equals. Both can be powerful characters, but how the hero relates to them is critical in establishing his maturity (or lack of it).
The young hero does not want an equal. His unformed ego couldn’t stand it. He’s either convinced of his own uniqueness, or desperately trying to convince himself of it. The heroine, then, has value only in how she supports him. Usually she’s the damsel in distress, the princess in the tower, the sleeping beauty under glass. Her presence at the story’s end makes her a living, breathing testament to the hero’s success. And to paraphrase David Gerrold, of course she loves him: it’s her job.
One of the best examples of this dynamic, and its inversion, is found in John Steinbeck’s unfinished retelling of King Arthur. In the “Gawain, Ewain and Marhalt” section of The Acts of King Arthur and his Noble Knights, the three warriors in question meet three magical ladies, and they pair off to have a year’s worth of adventures. Crucially, the women see the knights for exactly who and what they are, while the knights see only prizes (Gawain goes the whole year without even asking his companion’s name).
But here’s where Steinbeck uses our knowledge of the genre to fool us. The youngest of the knights, Ewain, is joined by the oldest of the ladies, Lyne. He at first believes she, at “threescore” (i.e., sixty) years, has fallen in love with his youth. Instead, she has seen the possibility in him, and takes it on herself to train him to become the best knight he can. At first Ewain can’t even process this sort of relationship, but eventually he comes to appreciate her wisdom, and to heed her teaching.
The mature hero has d
ifferent priorities. Secure in his self-knowledge, he is not threatened by an equal, but rather welcomes it. In Burn Me Deadly, Eddie LaCrosse awakens after a beating to find his girlfriend Liz at his bedside:
She wore a tight tunic blouse and men’s-style trousers with high boots. Her short red hair was matted and strands fell into her equally red eyes. The harsh light from the window highlighted the crow’s-feet and smile lines on her face. She needed a bath, a change of clothes and some serious rest. I thought she was the most beautiful sight in the world.
I wrote the scene this way because I wanted to show that Eddie both saw Liz clearly, and yet loved her so much he found her beautiful even at her worst. And the subsequent dialogue deliberately works against this romanticism, to provide balance:
“Do you go out in public like that?” I asked.
“You’re no picnic yourself. And watching you sleep is just as exciting as it sounds.”
This ability to evaluate a romantic partner is as important as understanding the danger presented by a villain. So let’s say your hero comes upon a beautiful woman in a glade, tied to a tree and clearly about to be, as the euphemism goes, ‘ravished.’ The young hero would leap immediately to the lady’s defense, freeing her and battling her would-be ravisher. The veteran, though, might hang back and take in the situation in more detail, perhaps discovering that the woman, far from being a victim, is merely the bait in a trap. Or, if still held against her will, that perhaps she had done something to merit this treatment. The point is, he would not instantly assume the situation was as it first appeared.
If the lady is a victim, he would certainly rescue her. That leaves the question of payment. No doubt she is young and beautiful, properly virginal, and aware that her beauty is both her blessing and curse. The young hero would swear undying love, possibly even marry her, only to find he’d jumped when he should’ve run. The mature hero, older and wiser, might accept ‘payment’ but certainly wouldn’t fall in love and risk his freedom simply because a woman happened to be attractive. Moreover, should she fall in love with him, he would make certain she harbored no illusions about a potential future.
So if our adult hero isn’t interested in beautiful princesses, what sort of woman might attract him? One who asked nothing from him that conflicts with his personal standards, and who expects nothing from him but honesty. She would accept what he could give, ask for no more than that, and he would show her the same courtesy.
Now before you lash me for being sexist, let’s go back to the movies and look at an example of this sort of relationship. First the negative: Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart must choose between duty and Ingrid Bergman. Duty wins. Cue "La Marseillaise." But then we take a look at To Have and Have Not. Once again, Bogart is the lone American in a foreign city. Once again he’s carefully neutral, not interested in the world war playing out around him. And once again there’s a beautiful girl (Lauren Bacall this time), whose presence ultimately forces him to choose sides. But in this case, the dynamic is totally different. Marie, a.k.a. Slim, is as tough as Bogart, as quick-witted and resourceful, and proves herself in a crisis. He’d be an idiot to nobly leave her behind, and he doesn’t even try: they go off to win World War II together. Slim is the prototype, in fact, for the mature hero’s perfect woman.
And at last we come to...
VICES
The young hero’s vices are all internal, things innately a part of his personality. Pride is the real danger: the certainty that comes with youth can, in a sword-and-sorcery character, prove fatal very quickly. He may be the best-trained swordsman in the shire, but unless Lord Vile plays by the same rules, he’s at a serious disadvantage. The greatest lesson the young hero must learn is to see the world as it is, not how it’s supposed to be.
The veteran hero knows this without even consciously thinking about it. He may drink, even to excess, but not when there's work to do. He knows that lowering his guard is the most dangerous thing possible, so he will patronize trusted venues where he’s safe. And even then, he'll sit in the corner and keep one eye on the door. He's survived being the younger boy, drunk for the first time and helplessly passed out, and he knows that only dumb luck or the generous protection of someone else got him through. He certainly won't provoke a fight when his own reflexes and skills are numbed by drink; and if someone tries to provoke him, he'll give them every chance to back down.
The one who usually provokes a fight in this situation is ironically the young hero, who sees insult to his honor in every comment when he's sober, let alone when he's drunk for the first time. He also—and this is a crucial difference—has no understanding of the way drink impairs his skills. If anything, drink makes him believe he's more invincible than ever. The modern term would be, ‘ten feet tall and bullet-proof.’ If he survives, it's usually because his opponent recognizes his condition and refuses to take advantage of him (think Yul Brynner and Horst Buchholz in The Magnificent Seven). If he doesn't survive, he's remembered as a fool.
I gave Eddie LaCrosse a history of vices, but by the time the first novel picks him up, he’s put most of them behind him. Still, the attraction remains, as I tried to convey in this passage from Dark Jenny (Tor Books, 2011):
The [mercenary] camp smells assailing me—sweat, mud, urine, burning meat, and metal—brought back memories I’d hoped to repress until my old age. And the worst part was, not all of them were unpleasant. When I saw two men laughing over their tankards as they sat beside a fire, I remembered the hours I’d spent doing the same thing, telling bullshit stories and calling bullshit on other people’s.
Then there are women. These are not the same women as mentioned above, where the ‘L’ word might be spoken (although they certainly may be, but for the sake of this example, we're assuming not). Women who make themselves available to warriors tend to have few illusions about themselves, men or the world in general. They can also be as dangerous as any man with a sword. The veteran hero knows this, and if he indulges in this sort of thing, it's with the same boundaries as his drinking: with someone he's sure he can trust, but with one foot out the door, metaphorically speaking. He also makes sure he treats this woman with kindness and respect, understanding that the morality of her career choice is entirely hers. He makes no judgments.
In The Sword-Edged Blonde, I introduced this type of woman in Angelina, a sexy tavern keeper and Eddie’s landlord:
Angelina was not young, although she was beautiful in a way that only grew stronger the more time you spent with her. She could’ve done much better for herself than owning this ratty tavern where she endured the occasional gropes and rudeness in return for respectable tips. I knew she was hiding out from something, but it was none of my business. We all have secrets.
Young heroes can be as dazzled by this sort of woman as they are by the wealthy princess. While the noble girl might have money, beauty and social position on her side, this earthier sort has...well, sex. Young heroes are often as inexperienced with physical love as they are the emotional kind, and are just as vulnerable when in the throes of it. Added to this is the young hero's certainty that no woman can be a physical danger to him, and you've got as good a recipe for a short, bloody life as you'd have on the battlefield. If the young hero survives, and pays attention, he'll learn a few things from this sort of woman that he can apply the next time he encounters a princess.
The third vice is more subtle, and can often be misconstrued as a strength. Certainly Conan, the template for all heroic fantasy heroes, did not see it as a problem. That vice is enjoying mayhem. It's what happens when the young hero accumulates enough experience to survive most martial encounters, but never loses the childish delight that comes from them. He becomes the warrior as bully, who seeks combat as a kind of high. The problem with this—for the warrior, not the writer—is that he can often be torn from this mind-set by an unexpected event. The climax of Ib Melchoir's classic SF story "The Racer" is the perfect example of this (go find it in an anthology; I don't want to spoil it here
). Both the young hero and the veteran can be forced to confront their own deeds from the perspective of their victims, something neither may have contemplated.
Usually, however, the veteran hero has a deeper understanding of things. He's seen enough death and destruction to know with certainty that there's no glamour to it, only the grim work for which he's suited. He looks on a fellow warrior’s glee as distasteful and immature, even as he recalls his own youthful callowness. I created vicious characters in The Sword-Edged Blonde (Stan Carnahan) and Burn Me Deadly (Candora), and in Dark Jenny let Eddie talk about them explicitly:
There were freaks on both sides, of course: men (and occasionally women) who enjoyed any excuse for killing. They were easy to spot, tough to stop, and ultimately did everyone a favor by attracting attention while the rest of us did our jobs. Their kills were usually less than you’d think, because after a while no one would engage them. They spent the latter part of the battle striding among corpses looking for someone to fight.
The best popular example of the veteran hero who keeps his vices in perspective is, of course, James Bond. He knows a little about everything (including butterfly collecting, if you believe On Her Majesty's Secret Service), but a lot about alcohol, weapons and women. A lot. And yet with rare exceptions, these prove no distraction to his job. He's never incapacitated by drink, never comes across a weapon or vehicle he can't handle, and as for women...well, as the song says, nobody does it better, right?
CONCLUSION
When writing about your hero, the most important thing to understand is what makes him do the things you have him do. Sending him on a quest to Mount Shudder to steal the McGuffin Stone from our old pal Lord Vile provides a fine narrative structure, but your readers will only become involved if your hero has a compelling personal reason for going. If you create a hero who is young and untested, who overcomes his own inexperience and learns to be a man in the process of the journey, then it's a perfectly fine story (and works for Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, etc.) but it's not really heroic fantasy.
Writing Fantasy Heroes Page 7
