Remembering Adventure in Star Wars: The Force Awakens

My earliest Star Wars memories are not of the original films, surprisingly enough. The first time I ever watched A New Hope was in its final terrestrial airing before the special edition re-releases, sometime in the late 1990s. I was 10 or 12, probably a bit older than just about everyone else my year. I was precocious, and considered myself more of a Trekkie than anything else: Star Wars never entered my radar beyond "like Star Trek, but not Star Trek."

I didn't really know the characters of Star Wars at that point. Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia, Darth Vader, the Emperor, and other such icons were hazy and vague to me: at least voiceless sprites in platformers, at most legendary beings spoken of in hushed voices, their reputations long preceding them. The only original trilogy characters I had any familiarity with were C3P0 and R2-D2 - thanks to a Saturday morning cartoon. Much like my introduction to Conan, it seems somewhat perverse that this would be my visual introduction to one of the cultural landmarks of 20th Century science fiction.

So I came to Star Wars from a completely different place from those who first experienced that galaxy far, far away in cinemas back in 1977: people like my mother and uncle, and Mark Finn, who's written a series of fascinating insights into his personal journey (starting from the beginning). And as a result, my experience of Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens will undoubtedly be different again.

The King's Mitramas Message

 Art by Gigi.

After his Accession on the Day of the Lion in the Year of the Elk, The King issued his first Mitramas Message from his balcony at Tamar. In his message, he paid tribute to his supporters, and asked people to remember him at the time of his official Coronation the following year.

Each Yuluk, at this time, the King of Aquilonia spoke to his people from this grand balcony. Today, by your will and consent, I am doing this to you, who are now my people.

I was born in Cimmeria, the son of a blacksmith with no royal blood. In many ways, I was no different to the rude savages who founded the ruling dynasties of this kingdom so many thousands of years ago, they who founded this land on iron and sinew. My predecessor and his kin could trace their lineage for a thousand years, but they showed precious little kingly aptitude in government. By Crom, I may have no royal blood, but it is as red as anyone's from the painted nobles of Pellia to the lowliest beggar of Shamar, and none have spilt their blood as freely for this nation as I!

Out of Shadowed Hills

I will tell you of the birth of my son.

In my youth, I was impetuous, wild, full of rage and passion and hate - much like other women of my tribe at that age. But our people did not show it often. Something about our homeland, our dark, sullen, cold realm of mists and shadows, prevents us from it. Our moods are black and melancholic, given to monstrous dreams. Darkness and the night pervaded even our waking thoughts... but not in battle. In those mad exhultations, when our blades flame crimson and agony shoots through our sinews, our spirit finds release. No longer are we moody and dour, but burning with red fury and joy - not at the killing and feasting of swords, but at being alive. It is only when one is at the closest to having their life taken that one truly experiences what life is - distilled, tangible, seething, screaming life. And when that experience comes, we have the strength and will to fight tooth and nail so that we remain alive - such is the one gift breathed into our souls by our grim chief god.

The Lion Passes

The wails and cries of the kingdom in mourning shook the towers and spires to their foundations. Men-at-arms, knights and barons wrought their hands and screamed to the heavens in anguish; women of the seraglio and serf alike wept into each other's shoulders as they clenched tightly; children and infants mewled with their families, the entire land united in sorrow. The king and his family had returned to the palace, the hearts of the nation shattered as one.

The king was a popular monarch, one loved by peasant and noble alike for his generosity, his courage, and his dedication. His taxes were the lightest in all the world, his patronage of the arts and trades made the kingdom rich and cultured to a degree hitherto unseen. Yet when war came to the doorstep, the King of Poets and Song would transform into a Devil of War and Death, as his blade sang a grisly dirge through the bodies and souls of those who would dare threaten his people. This was an age of empires, and the king was ever ready to ensure that his land would be vassal to none.

The story of how the king came to rule has been told and retold so often, many a child of the kingdom could recite it by heart. Reams of parchment charting the king's early years as a thief, adventurer, mercenary, pirate, bandit and general comprise an entire wing of the Royal Library; minstrels sing sagas of his wars and quests on street corners, some composed by the king himself; frescos and reliefs of his adventures in far-off climes and long-lost ruins adorn city walls, his greatest accomplishments of strength and heroism rendered in marble and bronze statues, re-enactments of his legend performed in street theatre. More than any king the land had ever seen, the present king, called the Lion by many, was a living legend.

In his palace in the capital, the Lion lay dying.

Tolkien Fanfics A-Go-Go - Mirkwood: A Novel About JRR Tolkien

I feel I may as well talk about the other big Tolkien story this week, get it out of my system.

Steve Hillard's Mirkwood: A Novel About JRR Tolkien differs from The Last Ringbearer in that it's written by an actual author, as opposed to a palaeontologist writing fan-fiction for a larf which took on a life of its own and got published in Russia and other non-English-speaking countries. It's also different in that it's actually been published in America.  However, the Tolkien Estate has swooped in again and said "no, sir, not allowed." As bloggers aetherwide would have it, this is yet another case of the Tolkien Estate's infamously protective stance against copyright infringement.

But is that really what's going on?

The Last Ringbearer

I never thought I'd get to use this image again so soon!

This story's been making the rounds, as Ostatni Władca Pierścienia, Kirill Eskov's infamous 1999 alternate-universe Middle-earth novel, has been translated into English, and offered as a free download.

Now, those of you who've read my blog know I love alternate history, and equally love "evil Mirror Universes."  I'd be happy if the next Star Trek series was set in the Mirror Universe (the original one, not the watered-down Deep Space Nine version). So the idea of Evil Gandalf and Good Sauron is one that appeals to me on something of a morbid level - as long as it's treated as a mirror universe, and not necessarily as "historical" revisionism. That said, I could go with a bit of that, too, if it was well-written and consistent. However, there are certain things which bother me about alternate history, and one is using it as an unfair or facile criticism of the original work. Thoughtful, insightful criticism I could deal with - even enjoy - but unfair criticism, I oppose.

So where does The Last Ringbearer fit in?