A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.
Do I feel like the BookTokers are going to come for me if I write this review?
Am I going to write it anyway?
...
I'm half kidding, it's not going to be that bad, because in all honestly (and fear of digital evisceration), Fourth Wing is a really fun read, full of the many tropes and facets of Fantasy I love and adore, with characters I may not have strong - or any - feelings for yet, but enjoyed being around for five hundred pages - and dragons, can't go wrong with dragons.
This book was not a waste of my time.
But it wasn't exactly... nourishing.
I'm old hat at this Fantasy stuff, a seasoned explorer of impossible lands, mystical creatures, and feats of strength only the fictional and supernaturally blessed could execute.
This is my happy place, my home away from home, my literary empyrean, I know it intimately.
From high fantasy, to urban fantasy, to steampunk, to YA, NA, grimdark, alternate historical, fairy tale, romantasy, magical realism, low fantasy, etc.
I've read 'em all! And devoured them whole with an appetite I chide myself for not discovering when I was younger.
(I've always read, but I only became a Reader in my early twenties, and a good chunk of that was taken up with literary fiction, at least until I gulped down Gormenghast andseveral Tom Holt and Discworld novels and that little Fantasy switch I'd always had for tv and movies was finally flicked up for fiction. Floodgates isn't a strong descriptor for what happened after)
I know this genre, and I'm just as hungry for each sub-genre as the next, but there is always something I demand whilst reading them:
Chewability
Let me explain by quoting of one of my former university art tutors: If you want to lick it, it's good art.
Make sense?
Good art, art that makes you feel something more than surface emotions, should make you want to consume it, swallow it down and cradle it inside your belly forever.
It's how if feel when I look at this Em Allen piece on my wall, or my cat's little lamb chop legs (he's perfect, a masterpiece, I could eat him up), when I watched season two of The Bear a few weeks ago, every time The Fall appears on tv, or Keaton Henson cracks my heart open just a little more with his voice.
They, every single one, make me want to sever just a tiny piece of what they are and create a new organ inside my body, just for them, just for art that goes beyond I like you and transforms into how did I ever live without you?
(This covers the full gamut by the way, low brow to high brow. Art's subjective, my beloved trash is another person's trash trash, but it doesn't make it any less valid)
Chewability.
And in the case of literature, specifically Fantasy, this chewability presents itself in the form of three specific things:
🐉 World-building
🐉 Characterisation
🐉 High Stakes
Without fail, these are the things that make Fantasy what it is, what elevates it beyond the real world and ignites that hungry feeling in my belly.
And if it doesn't have these three things, or doesn't fully embrace them?
I know, I know, don't poke the BookTok bear unless you're prepared to get mauled, but they shoved this book so far down everyone's throats that I was truly expecting greatness, a thing of fantastical beauty that wouldn't necessarily obscure all my other beloved series, but exist alongside them, aglow in their fantastical awesomeness.
I was expecting a game changer.
And what else was I supposed to do? Ignore the BookTok Kool Aid while they were luring me in with dragons? Dragons. SENTIENT dragons.
Impossible, inconceivable, I've been on the talkative dragon train since good ol' Pete(the OG 1977 version, not the 2016 trash; the sound of him eating apples is forever, affectionately imprinted on my brain), there was no way I was skipping on this one.
So I drank my special drink like a good little sheep and like I should've expected, it was pretty watered down, and I think I know why.
I might piss a few people off with this statement, which is apparently the theme of this review, but... bear with me:
Fourth Wing is Romance masquerading in the confines of Fantasy.
FIRSTLY!
Before anyone hurls anything life-threatening, I love the romance genre, love it. There are so many wildly talented authors in romance, just like every other genre, and it pisses me off how viciously maligned they are.
Add to that the legion of romantic fantasy authors who are producing mind-bogglingly top tier work that isn't getting the credit it deserves, simply because romance was blackballed by the patriarchy as soon as it originated for being "girly" and "frivolous" and "lacking depth" - three statements that couldn't reek more of misogyny if they sprouted a dick.
Even the classics that've garnered respect through longevity and a devoted readership (Pride & Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Little Women, etc.) are still tarred because they were written about love by women from the perspective of women.
The fury this causes me is, well, if you get me started I've been known to transform into a human-shaped, glowing ball of incendiary rage that'll take down any misogynistic obstacle in my path.
It's kind of awesome, my vocabulary soars into evisceration territory.
I'll defend the romance genre with my last fucking breath.
So, when I say Fourth Wingis romance masquerading in fantasy, it's not meant as an insult, it's merely an observation as someone who loves both genres, especially when they interact, and can tell when the mark's been hit slightly off centre.
(Ps. they all interact. Every genre. With romance. That crime novel you're reading? I bet there's romance in there. The literary fiction you're inhaling? Romance's biggest offender - screw you, unhappy endings. The comic you're obsessing over? Rooooommmmmaaaaannnnnnceeeeeee. Don't kid yourself, love's in our DNA and no author can help but write it)
And it's not that it's a huge miss, Rebecca Yarros is clearly a talented writer, which you can see clearly in her authorial voice and in the concept of Fourth Wing:
A magical war school for dragon riders who freely murder each other to reach graduation alive.
...
Uh, I'm sorry, that's cool as fuck and an unabashed love letter to every person who spent their feral childhood ruing the day mystical beasts failed to exist and there being no school to learn the magic they so desperately wanted to be real so they could fuck shit up on the back of a majestic dinosaur with wings.
Basgiath War College is a fantasy lover's wet dream.
The only problem being that it's grossly underrepresented.
Remember that chewability I was talking about? The thing that makes me a feral goblin who wishes all these alternate realities were escapable into, Narnia-style?
Well, in the form of world-building in FW, it's a vegan date bar with chocolate chips scattered haphazardly throughout.
Palatable? For sure.
Delicious? Not quite.
Moreish? Edging towards yes, but solely because of those little pockets of chocolatey sumptuousness.
But would it ultimately be better if it was a king-size Snickers bar? Absofuckinglutely.
When I picked up this book, I wanted it drenched in a rich, crunchy, gooey fantasy world that would coat my tongue, ding my endorphins, and leave me hungry for more.
It could've, it absolutely could've - and I'm holding out hope that in future books it will - especially with the opening scene on Parapet, a ballsy way to open a story; I loved every second of that death-defying walk in the blustering clouds being chased by death.
But after that?
We spent the entirety of this story inside the walls of Basgiath War College and I still can't visualise it in my head.
Not a brick, not a corridor, not even the library ← which is a big deal to me.
It is fundamentally essential when writing fantasy that your reader be able to see the world you've set it in, and I won't budge on that; be it a school, a palace, a village, a slum, whatever you like, it has to become a tangible place when it's read, otherwise you may as well set your story in the real world and be done with it (no shade, Urban and Low Fantasy kick major ass).
It's hard to visualise a world when you aren't shown it.
And there was so much material for Yarros to work with here, so many details she could've honed in on to set the scene for the peril Violet (h) found herself in, even the mundane tasks of the every day, and yet, I could more easily describe the contours of Xaden's (H) abs or his "obsidian, gold-flecked" eyes than I could the sparring room, dining room, even Violet's bedroom.
Which brings me back to my original statement:
Fourth Wing is Romance masquerading in the confines of Fantasy.
Romance is a genre that isn't as hung up on the details of setting as it is on the emotional journey of the characters, and I fully respect that purely because it's a genre about people.
People and all their woes and contentments, and how they embrace or overcome them in order to come together.
Fantasy is exactly the same but in a world entirely not our own, and if I don't feel that, like I didn't with FW, you've given me an enjoyable story but you haven't transported to me.
Thus: FW is a romance, an enjoyable one, but I wouldn't even categorise it as Romantasy at this stage, something I'm really hoping that now we're outside the confines of Basgiath in the sequel will change, and will edge itself more into fantastical territory - which seems a crazy statement to make when dragons and griffins are soaring majestically in the heavens every which way you look.
Also that Violet will shut up about how beautiful Xaden is.
I'm not going to survive this, am I?
I can hear the pitchforks clanging together as I type; the entire internet's obsessed with him.
But...
Xaden's a basic, brooding "bad boy" bitch who has a name like an over the counter antacid, and Violet's a special "not like other girls" snowflake with zero defining features other than her disability.
...
...
...
Still alive, okay, let's go.
But let's make something abundantly clear first: I am beyond thrilled that there is a book this successful trending in the book community that features a protagonist with a disability (Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome to be specific).
It's so fucking important when we're reading for their to be representation for everyone, be it mental health, race, queerness, culture, etc.
It's not only essential but vital these things be present in fiction, and specifically for lead characters to possess them so that literature's fictitious hand can reach out and touch everyone at some time or another.
And for it not to be a superpower.
I genuinely believe those living outside of the "norm" are the strongest fuckers around, because it's easy to exist without hardship, to fit neatly into the societal ideal, but it takes a herculean amount of fortitude to fight every fucking day against your body, your brain, cultural expectations, et al., and not give in.
I love that Violet, the heroine, the star of the show, has a chronic invisible illness. I love that she was written by someone with that same illness (although, I don't support gatekeeping. Do your research, have your work safety read, and you can write pretty much anything you want). I love that it affects everything she does in small and large ways throughout the story. And I love that her physical ailments aren't used to make her special; I, in fact, hope that Yarros doesn't find some magical way to cure her (which is so often the case in Fantasy, and I was really afraid when she discovered her lightning signet that this would be the case) and allows her to thrive throughout the series whilst still battling against her illness.
Like real people do.
Every fucking day.
Like the badasses they are.
I'm so glad Violet Sorrengail exists.
...
It doesn't, however, stop her from being dull as shit and entirely forgettable.
Okay, too harsh, she's okay, but I honestly can't even visualise her other than her hair, which was described on a par with Xaden's eyes - every. Fucking. Page. I swear to the gods, as soon as she allowed herself to fancy him, her IQ dropped into the negative.
I can't see her, and I don't feel like I know her other than if anyone tells her "no", she'll throw a knife at them and do it anyway, which I respect the fuck out of by the way, tiny, feral heroines are my type, but it's not exactly displaying a depth of personality.
How am I meant to care about her when I don't know her? Or Xaden, whose only defining features seem to be he's exceptionally hot with eyebrow-raising game so masterful it makes Violet orgasm on the spot every time he does it?
(Kill me, kill me now)
How am I mean to root for these two as a couple?
I don't know about anyone else but I can't just ship two characters because they blinked at each across a room one time, I can't do it, I need quality time, hours upon hours of bickering, laughing, prying details out of each other, fighting, or just eating lunch, ffs.
Without that, there's no chance I'm going to give a single fuck, and that was pretty much the case with Violet and Xaden.
Why?
BECAUSE THEY BARELY SPEND ANY TIME TOGETHER!
He's off doing suspicious things, she's fending off fellow cadets with her bushel of daggers, he's eyeing her from across the room, she's throwing mental daggers instead of physical ones.
That's it. That's literally all she wrote.
Where's the forced proximity, Yarros? Where are the secluded meet-ups? The note-passing? The lengthy training sessions? ← they appear but we don't get to see them, just hear about them afterwards. ... *screaming*
WHERE'S THE CHEMISTRY?!
I'm starving for it, Yarros, why are you withholding it from me?
Sigh.
And I'm supposed to believe these two are in love?
It may have been months for them, but the way Fourth Wing's written with giant chunks of time described in a few lines, it felt like weeks for me.
So when Violet busts out an I love you?!
Violet, my violent girl, Xaden's not a Slushie, you don't have to drink him down in one fucking gulp.
That's how you get relationship brain-freeze.
It doesn't make any bloody sense! And I'm not invested in it, I barely even care, and isn't that kind of a fucked up way to feel about the MC?
Shouldn't I be losing my mind over them?
And why is it just me?!
...
I will, however, concede to one aspect of their relationship I enjoyed:
Speaking telekinetically
Hands down, one of my favourite tropes in any fictional relationship.
It's like texting without having to worry about running out of credit or bad punctuation (hands up if you're the kind of deranged idiot who uses perfectly correct grammar in your texts? *punches the ceiling*).
It was in those brain-to-noggin moments that I did actually start to feel a small something for these two, a little spark of okay, I might care a tiny bit about what happens next in their relationship.
But presently? Not enough, nowhere near enough, and that's a significant problem going forward.
Not one, however, I have with the telekinetic talk between them and their dragons.
I'm meant to be talking about the High Stakes aspect of where FW failed to deliver next, but, meh, it's the first book (out of five, if Goodreads isn't lying), I'll give it a free pass until I've read the sequel.
And so I can talk about Tairn, Andarna, and Sgaeyl instead.
*big inhale*
...
THEY'RE A FOUND FAMILY AND IT MADE MY HEART FUCKING SOAR!
...
I genuinely felt more for these three than I did the humans, they're so unbelievably soft with each other.
An example?
Tairn has an attachment on the underside of the harness Violet uses that acts as a baby carrier for Andarna (who has paws, by the way. PAWS) when her little wings give out and she can nap while they fly.
...
I don't think I'm actually emotionally stable enough to go into how that turned an entire section of my brain into sappy goo.
Can't do it.
Won't survive it.
Just know that I love them, they can sass Violet telekinetically all they want, just as long as Yarros leaves them all alive.
"If you keep holding me like this, your energy will go into keeping me on instead of channeling when we need power for battle," I argue.
"It's a minuscule amount of my power."
How the hell am I supposed to be a ride if I can't stay on my damn dragon by myself?
"Have it your way."
The bands fall away.
"Thank yoooooh shit!" [Tairn] banks left and my thighs slip. My hands slide. I skid right off his side, my fingers fumbling for purchase and finding none.
Rushing air fills my ears as I plummet toward the glacier, raw fear gripping my heart and squeezing like a vise. The shape of a body below grows bigger and bigger.
I'm yanked upward as Tairn's claws catch me, harnessing me just like he did during Threshing. He climbs high, then tosses me again, but at least I'm prepared for impact this time as his back rises to meet my falling bottom.
There's a disgusted roar of something I don't understand in my head. "What the hell does that mean?" I scramble for the seat and get myself into position as he flies level.
"The closest translation for humans is probably 'for fuck's sake.' Now. Are you going to stay in your seat this time?" He dips back into formation, and I manage to stay on.
"I have to be able to do this by myself. We both need me to do this," I argue.
"Stubborn silver human," Tairn mutters, following Kaori into a dive.
I fall again.
And again.
And again.
Because if she doesn't...
The obscenities I will scream into the abyss.
(But definitely not at Yarros; people need to stop abusing creatives who make artistic choices they don't agree with. It's shitty, don't do it, not unless they're actively terrible people who deserve to be knocked off their platform. Y'all know who I'm talking about)
...
I think I may have found the problem I had with this story:
It wasn't entirely about my dragon babies and they're all I cared about.
Fundamentally, this might be a problem going forward.
We'll see in November, I guess.
I didn't intend for this to be such a bitchy review, because like I said at the beginning, I genuinely liked this book, I looked forward to reading it every night, and I kinda missed it once I was finished.
It was a fun world to inhabit, and I'm low-key excited to get back to it.
But I still don't get the hype.
Part of me thinks BookTok was bribed and we've all been sucked into unwarranted mass hysteria at the hands of the greedy monster known as Corporate.
Or I've simply read too much Fantasy (as if that's possible), and Fourth Wing brought nothing new to the table.
I just don't know.
But I felt like this in the back of my brain the entire time was reading it:
Collectively, could everyone keep their fingers crossed for me that I don't feel this way with Iron Flame?
I've recently seen quite a lot of scientific research coming out that suggests trigger warnings are actually harmful to the consumer instead of helpful.
While this may be true for a percentage of people, I would still advocate for TWs to remain available for the percentage of people that do find them helpful.
You can choose not to read the trigger warnings, you can't avoid being surprised by them in whatever you're watching/reading when your choice has been taken away.
Traumatised people shouldn't be re-traumatised without consent.
If I found a Netsuke-sized Leopard Gecko being nuzzled by a butterfly or adorned in mediaeval armour inside a block of wood, I think I'd pass out from joy.
That last one isn't candles for me, because I... I just can't, I live in a book cocoon, wall to wall, if I lit a candle I'd spend the entire "relaxing experience" they're supposed to evoke eyeing them like my cat does the hairdryer.
With suspicion, peak stress, and little chirrups that I assume mean fuck you, blowy machine!
No, this particuar anxiety I save for EVERY ELECTRICAL APPLIANCE IN THE HOUSE.
If I could unplug them all before leaving, I would.
And I'd probably still panic they'd replug themselves somehow.
Or their residual heat (is that a thing?) would create a spark and the house would blow up anyway.
Once upon a sitcom, Fleabag,the eldest Bridgerton, and a rehabilitated vampire roomed together in a dilapidated hospital and generally goblin'd things up.
If that lineup doesn't draw you in, then I'm genuinely worried for you.
I may as well've lain underneath the letterbox and opened my mouth with the way I devoured this whole the second it arrived.
Just one big gulp, no chewing, no stopping to breathe, breathing's for amateurs.
I fucking love this story, even if it does give me acid flashbacks to how traumatising I found my entire university experience.
(To my fellow socially-fucked-balls-of-anxiety who didn't realise they were socially-fucked-balls-of-anxiety before they left high school, who felt like interlopers in higher education because they weren't bursting with original thought, who didn't really make any friends, and generally had a miserable time, I send you your comfort feeling of choice. Tv lied to us, post-high school was hell)
Cath's experience is basically my experience and I've never related so hard to a character before, it hurt quite intensely, there may have been tears (there were absolutely tears), but... Cath-arsis, y'know?
(I'm sorry, I'm sorrrrrry, but it was right there)
Luckily the memory slaps are liberally cushioned with extreme fucking cuteness at the hands of the aforementioned Levi.
For anyone not familiar with the original story, this is part where he, the cinnamon rolliest of heroes, makes amends for his epic fuck up, and does it with human Labrador charm and the patience of... I'd say a saint, but really, just a rare, standard level good human.
Levi Stewart is top tier book boyfriend material.
Top five, at least.
(*Envisions him, Cassian, Tybalt, and Curran shooting the shit atop their Book Boyfriend plinths* ... adorable)
If you could custom order a boyfriend, I'd order six of him - spares.
It still makes me furious that they gave him a normal sized forehead in the manga, though, he's gloriously high headed.
The vast quantity of heroines (and heroes, and side characters) blessed by godlike genetics is, frankly, boring.
I can appreciate a beautiful human just like everyone else (it's all subjective, though, ffs), but the way I feel about a character will not hinge on their beauty (or a human being for that matter; I've met some gorgeous fuck-heads in my time, and all they were was ugly to me, and vice versa for "plainer", "weirder looking" folks who stole all my affection cells and were immeasurably attractive to me).
And the fact that "beautiful" is the standard force-fed down our necks like patriarchal foie gras is beyond tiresome.
Give me girls with acne, give me men with bellies, give me rounder faces sans perfect, doll-like features, give me big noses and awkward hairlines.
Give me the glorious, wondrous, endlessly fascinating normals.
I'm tired of "perfection".
What's interesting about "perfection"?
...
Did I shoot my point in the foot by using Brendan Fraser's jawline?
These remind me, more in feeling than aesthetic, of Alan Aldridge's illustrated story, The Peacock Party, a book I obsessively reread/stared at the pictures when I was a kid.
They really don't have any similarities, other than this feeling they shake up in me, one of fairy tale nostalgia and imagery so rich in hue it feels impossible to be manmade.
Yashiro Nanaco must be part fae, surely, to capture their colours so well?
And I could not stop looking at Yennefer's terrible wig (and her entire lack of Yennefer-ness, which might be the greatest crime of the show. They neutered my queen).
At this point I'm not even mad at Cavill for jumping ship because wow, my beloved show's gone and drowned itself.
Right to the bottom of the ocean.
Taking a nap with the eldritch fishy horrors.
...
And now I have to look at Liam Hemsworth's stupid face (his face is fine) and listen to his stupid fake English accent (it will be stupid but not as stupid as Robbie Amell's, who I like very much, but ouch, that accent burned).
Please, put a sword through my throat Yennefer and geralt-style before I have to watch that, I beg of you:
There must've genuinely been something disconnected in my brain when I first watched this, because I couldn't see its utterly clear-to-the-fucking-eye brilliance.
I'm an idiot.
It's irreverent, witty, farcical without being obtuse, absolute chaos, and spilling over with serious actor chemistry.
Watching Jean Smart and Hannah Einbinder ricochet off each other is like watching two mean girls give the curse-off of their entire lives.
Aka. the bitchiest tennis match you'll ever witness.
This definitely means I've got to watch the original French series, Call My Agent!, so I can get my chaotic-actor-wrangler fix for a solid four seasons.
Every season, without fail, these goblins do something that scars my eyeballs, something that cannot be erased, forever etched upon my unsuspecting brainpan.
And their last hurrah was no exception.
I will never look at a dummy's head the same way again.
Catherine Reitman, your complete lack of shame is a thing of unhinged beauty, you're perfect, but oh god, the things I have seen.
I thought it'd gone on too long, and being out of Gilead had forced the show into a narrative without immediate peril and Elisabeth Moss into playing June solely as a ball of untamed fury without nuance - which is a beautiful sight, undoubtedly, but she's more complex than her trauma.
I thought I was over this show.
But those last three episodes?
Consider me back in, fully invested, bring on the final season.
I want to watch June burn it all to the fucking ground.
I'm not sure what my bisexual king did to deserve such heartache, but heartache seems to be the theme of all the Toby Daye shorts thus far, so I'm not exactly surprised.
Heartsick? For sure, but surprised? Not really.
Poor Tybalt, thank the fairy gods he's got Toby, now, there's not power in 'verse that'll separate these two (or at least that's what I tell myself to stay a modicum of sane).
Forbid the Sea did provide some insight into the mildly hostile behaviour he's had towards the Undersea and Connor (other than him dating his future wife) since they were first introduced in the series.
His manners have always been a little too... sharp, his civility bordering on threatening, you know the way cats are, all feline smiles and then their pointed little teeth are wrapped around your wrist.
I get it now, it's not a species thing, it's a paramour lost through barbaric fairy laws thing.
That's going to leave the best of supernatural creatures with a case of the grudges.
I repeat: poor Tybalt.
Ps. Tybalt being a former theatre cat is the character detail I never contemplated but somehow feel I always knew.
He's got "thespian" written all over his fancy ass.
Other men might need to fear the charms of mistresses or wives. I feared the theater, which had always been my first and truest love, and which I had so thoroughly forsaken to become a King in exile. If I allowed myself to return to the stage, to hunt rats among the costumes and be theater's cat among men... I still had a duty to perform, to honour my sister. I could be distracted for a time, but the theater would not be a temporary opium. It would be my downfall.
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