Hugin & Munin Journal

Fantasy has always had too many orphans. The child raised by unpleasant relatives. The foundling discovered at the edge of a forest. The farm boy whose father never speaks about the past. The girl carrying a pendant that belonged to a mother nobody will discuss. Somewhere along the journey, an old retainer notices a familiar face, a sealed letter is opened, or a dying wizard reveals what several adults have apparently known for years: the insignificant child is the lost heir, the final descendant, the rightful bearer of a name that once mattered. The obvious explanation is practical. Dead parents cannot forbid the quest, demand that the protagonist return before dark, or ask why a twelve-year-old has been entrusted with the survival of the kingdom. Orphanhood gives a young character freedom that would otherwise require implausibly negligent adults. Convenience explains why the trope is useful, but not why fantasy so often fills the space left by the parents with royal ancestry, m...

There is a familiar moment in adventure fiction when the villain has won. The hero is captured, disarmed, and surrounded by guards with guns, magic, lasers, airlocks, or some other perfectly serviceable way of ending the problem. Nothing obvious prevents a quick execution. Then the villain starts explaining. Sometimes the entire plan comes out. Sometimes the villain reveals only the detail the hero needs to stop it. Sometimes the hero is left alone inside a slow execution device: tied to a conveyor belt, suspended over a pit, locked in a flooding chamber, or placed inside a machine designed with considerably more theatrical ambition than operational sense. The villain could kill the hero immediately, confirm the death, and continue with the plan. Instead, the story gives the protagonist twenty minutes of machinery, monologue, and unattended opportunity. This is usually treated as a joke about stupid villains, but that explanation is too easy. Stories are not tactical manuals, and...