🐉THE EPIC ADVENTURE CONTINUES🔥

So first, I’ll have to explain, in very broad terms, what liberalism is, otherwise this post won’t make much sense.

Liberalism is a political ideology that is typically considered center or center-right in most places, but is considered left-wing in the United States. In fact, American-style liberalism and classical liberalism differ in several aspects, but for the sake of this post I’ll simplify things and focus mostly on American liberalism as expressed through political culture (as opposed to academic liberalism), since THB was written by an American. I won’t be talking about what liberalism thinks of taxes, the market, or welfare, but instead on a few key tenets held by people who hold liberal views.

They are:

According to liberalism, the governmental system, typically a democratic one, is fundamentally sound and legitimate, even if flawed. You have to work within the system in order to enact change and the rule of law is absolute. Systems are inherently self-correcting and naturally produce justice; thus, injustice is caused by bad leaders who have been put in charge. As long as good leaders are in charge, they will fix everything. In fact, the process is so important that it matters far more than the outcome. Incrementalism is favored over radical change, which is seen as inherently chaotic and destabilizing. Symbolic or procedural freedoms are typically favored over material change (i.e. focusing on the right to vote or boardroom representation instead of affordable housing or wealth redistribution). The focus is on individual virtue and feeling, and representation is equated with justice.

Liberalism is rational and pragmatic in contrast to radicalism, which is seen as going too far or unrealistic (this is the most common liberal critique of, say, socialism). It ignores structural violence and cannot conceive of the idea that the system may be fundamentally rigged, because the state is perceived as a neutral arbiter.

Liberalism cannot conceive of class interests or collective power, so it relies on Great Man Theory. If the government is unjust, it must be because the current leader is a bad person, or is ignorant of how harmful their policies are. If change happens, it must be because a few individuals in high-ranking positions made the right choices, or because the bad guys were persuaded to see the error of their ways. After all, oppression is a communication error; if bad leaders were simply taught how hurtful their actions were, they would pivot to kinder, more rational policies.

These three ideas are prongs of a central core belief: that the system is neutral, and individuals are the only meaningful actors within it. In American society these ideas are omnipresent background radiation that permeate the news, media, and water cooler discussions. Most liberal media does not set out to construct a liberal narrative; rather, these qualities naturally emerge from what many Americans believe to be common sense, basic facts, the way the world is, and so on.

The quintessential liberal heroine is an uptight middle- to upper-class member of society who wants to enact change, but is polite about it and doesn’t disrupt things too much. She wants fairness and equality, but only in an abstract way, because talking about material suffering would be too crude. And, of course, she’s empathetic and can easily persuade people to adopt the same rational views she holds, thus solving oppression. Above all, she is not an agitator who throws bombs.

The dedication to THB shows this immediately: “For the librarians, teachers, booksellers, authors, students, and everyone else working to protect our freedom to read - thank you.”

Not for anyone who’s ever had a book taken from them; not for the people who are being hurt by the book bans. No, the book is for the liberal heroes of the world, who are protecting abstract ideas such as “the freedom to read.” The freedom to read what? A librarian from a red state could relate to that dedication.

That’s the thing about liberalism, it tends to be fangless, milquetoast. It wants to make a statement but frequently says nothing, or worse, reinforces the status quo. However, it is frequently invisible, or even seen as making a bold political statement. That is why I am writing this post.

Now let’s discuss…

The Triumvirate

The Triumvirate[1] in THB seems to refer to both the Court of Refuge’s governmental structure as well as the three individuals currently in power. We don’t know much about how the current triumvirs rule besides the scene in Quokka’s flashback, but we are assured that they are suitable leaders. The characters seem to think that they are fit to rule, simply because they are elected and popular.

In contrast to the triumvirs we have Beryl and Snakeroot. Besides being cartoonishly evil, we are assured by the book that they are bad because they took power illegally. 

The idea goes thus: The system is naturally just, and injustice is caused by breaking procedure. The triumvirs followed the rules and were fairly elected, while Beryl did not. In THB, this is what divides good and evil: did you follow the rules, or did you not? All else is secondary. The characters, least of all the revolutionary firebrand Platypus, do not seem particularly angry about Beryl hurting dragons, and much emphasis is put on how the Triumvirate loyalists are in hiding simply because they believed in fair elections. Following the law is more important than who is being hurt.

“Yes! The court used to be fair,” Platypus said furiously. “There was a system! We voted peacefully and chose who made the decisions and then they cycled out and we voted in new ones and IT WAS FAIR AND NOW IT ISN’T.” “Who are you yelling at,” said Crescent. “All of us here agree with you.” “Yeah,” said Wollemi. “Or else we wouldn’t be living in scrubby caves, eating nothing but dingoes.” (Chapter 12)

It is not suffering or starvation that these dragons are worried about, but the fairness of the election. That is what the liberal prizes above all else.

The Triumvirate and their ilk are noble sufferers, but none of them actually do anything besides Platypus. They are polite above all else, and besides, actually agitating would be far too dangerous. Better to hide and eat dingoes.

If the triumvirs and their followers are martyrs, then the usurping monarchs are the tyrants. However, liberalism is rarely, if ever, interested in the mechanics of tyranny and persecution. How do tyrants come into power? Why are they supported? How does oppression work? To acknowledge that tyrants can be brought into power, can even be popular, is a terrible thought to the liberal. It means that sometimes, the system can produce unjust results. We cannot have Beryl be elected democratically; she seized power by force. And we cannot give her an ideology of power, order, and xenophobia to appeal to voters; that would mean acknowledging that sometimes, voters choose terrible leaders based on rhetoric and emotion rather than the logic, empathy, and pragmatism prized by liberal thought. Bad rulers cannot have a driving ideology; they must be malicious, irrational. Anything else would be a threat to the liberal conception of politics.

Instead, Beryl and Snakeroot must be cartoonishly evil.

“The king takes them away, and then I don’t know,” Sora said. “I’m horribly afraid he’s burning them. Burning scrolls, Umber! Who would do that? And we have no way to replace them! Most of the scrolls in this library were written over the last centuries by dragons who were trapped here. There are no copies anywhere else in the world.” She brushed away a tear, her voice trembling. Umber read the list of scrolls, wondering why the king and queen wanted to get rid of them. He couldn’t see any immediate reason—there were scrolls for dragonets, scrolls by MudWings and SandWings and RainWings and hybrids, adventure stories, love stories, history scrolls, memoirs. He guessed the only unifying factor was that Beryl and Snakeroot didn’t like them. (Chapter 15)

Totalitarian regimes ban or burn books because books are a medium by which seditious ideas can spread, ideas that oppose the regime and its precepts. There is a sinister logic to which books are chosen for destruction. For instance, the Nazis targeted works by socialist and Jewish writers, as well as books that were anti-war, books about sexuality, and many others. This reveals what the Nazis feared: ideas opposite to their totalitarian, racist, and supremacist ideology.

But in THB, Umber cannot see the logic and concludes it must be illogical and driven by a nebulous dislike, because the monarchs are mindless creatures of evil. There is no ideology to speak of, no material reason for destroying certain books over others. The liberal believes that the reason is irrelevant; destroying books is simply bad, and there is no need to determine why specific books are targeted. If there is an underlying logic, then that means book bans make a twisted sense to certain people. There is a cowardice in this, a refusal to confront the most evil ideologies and how they rise in popularity.

Furthermore, we do not see any scroll burnings; Sora merely jumps to the conclusion that Snakeroot is burning the scrolls, and gives no evidence for this assertion. (He could be removing them because he’s curious about them or wants to restore them, for all we know.) Perhaps the book is afraid of including actual imagery of book burnings, so we are only given a character’s hunch that is squeezed into the narrative to once again assert that the book is, indeed, Political. Similarly, we are informed that dissidents are being kidnapped and disappeared.

“You should care,” Aurora said. “If she gets her talons on you, you’ll disappear like the dragons who wrote that pamphlet about her. Or the one who asked about her succession plans in front of the whole court. Remember? No one ever saw him again? Or even if she just puts you in the dungeon, I’ll be so sad.” “Wait, what do you mean?” Umber asked. “Dragons have disappeared?” “What do you think the King’s Teeth have been doing for the last two years?” Platypus asked. “That’s why everyone’s so afraid—if they say anything to make the king or queen mad, they could just vanish into the night.” (Chapter 14)

Again, this is something the book chooses to veil with brief descriptions that Umber has to be told about, rather than see for himself. The book is terrified of the notion of actually showing life under a dictatorship ruled by fear, and instead settles for half-assurances so Beryl’s regime can be draped in the aesthetics of dictatorship without engaging in questions of survival and collaboration. The audience can happily root for its downfall without facing the visceral reality of individuals choosing to serve the regime for entirely rational reasons. Its evils must remain faceless, because the moment Umber recognizes the guards, whom he has trained and gotten to know, dragging a terrified dragon from her bed at the dead of night—that is when the liberal illusion that collaborators are all either cowards or pathologically evil is banished.

In fact, the only dictatorial act we see from the monarchs is turning Platypus into a persona non grata, requiring everyone to call her a ghost and treat her like a nuisance, all while the regime has failed to capture her for two years. Hardly menacing by any metric.

Perhaps the most egregious scene is the flashback where we see the monarchs tossing dragonets at the enchanted Barrier that keeps the dragons imprisoned on the island and painfully shocks dragons upon repeated contact. Here is the relevant section:

“Father! Stop! What are you doing?” Mulberry tumbled over the Barrier and halted in front of the guards, his wings spread wide and his front talons outstretched. “Now, Mulberry, don’t cause trouble,” Beryl said. “We need to know if anyone else can do what you can,” Snakeroot said. “You found out by accident—so perhaps there are others. It would be useful for the whole community for us to know.” (Chapter 20)

What were they planning to do if they had found someone else who could cross the Barrier? Kidnap the dragonet from their parents, or coerce them into serving the monarchs? This scene is politically pointless, and primarily exists to show how evil Mulberry’s parents are and again establish their flavor of formless cruelty.

Besides the flashback, we don’t see the monarchs doing much. Yes, we are told that Snakeroot burns scrolls and the King’s Teeth are somehow managing to “disappear” dragons despite their absurd incompetence, but otherwise they seem relatively quaint and harmless compared to other villains in the series like Scarlet, Burn, or even Wasp.[2] The same ideological cowardice that wants to avoid the logic of totalitarianism also results in weaker writing. What are Beryl and Snakeroot motivated by? Beryl in particular is nowhere near as interesting as Scarlet, not just because she lacks Scarlet’s charisma but also due to her lack in any driving belief. Scarlet and Burn believed in the primacy of the strong over the weak, and Scarlet in particular also saw war as entertainment; Beryl wants power and nothing else, which is easier for the liberal to swallow than the totalitarian, ideological villain with genuine followers. 

In yet another flashback, we actually see rule under the Triumvirate, where we learn that everyone got along and were happy before Beryl came along.

The throne room was humming with dragons, including a line of about ten waiting to speak to the Triumvirate. Glowworm stood by Monarch’s side, holding a scroll open for her to study. A dragon Umber didn’t know was at the front of the line with two dragonets clinging to his legs. “Of course we can find you bigger quarters,” Tuatara said to him kindly. “Those two are growing so fast. Horizon, what do you think?” “Maybe in this wing,” Horizon agreed, leaning over to point at Glowworm’s scroll. “That’s what I was thinking,” Monarch said. “There are other families with dragonets in these rooms nearby, here and here. You can all help each other.” A WildWing, a hybrid SkyWing-SeaWing, and a SilkWing, ruling together. Seeing them up there made Umber feel hopeful, the way Jade Mountain Academy did. They felt like proof that dragons could coexist without endless war. (Chapter 17)

In the liberal utopia of the Triumvirate, the island’s population is small enough for the triumvirs to examine issues on a case-by-case basis, and everyone knows one another. Everything is solved with kindness and individual virtue, and there is no concrete policy beyond that, but it is nonetheless presented as proof of good governance. No hard decisions have to be made and there are no conflicts or competing interests between different classes or groups that need to be resolved. The leaders belong to three different groups, a symbolic diversity that in reality means nothing except that these three individuals can cooperate.

In fact, the book is fixated on the idea of peace and cooperation between tribes. One particular motif makes its appearance several times throughout the narrative:

[Sora] wasn’t wrong. That was how MudWings lived; you stayed with your sibling group your whole life. Umber realized he was already thinking like the other dragons at Jade Mountain. He was imagining families like other dragon tribes had, with falling in love, and dragonets you took care of, and work that wasn’t “fight a war until you die.” He’d been imagining it ever since he got to the school. A future with someone like Qibli, studying and maybe teaching and choosing his own path. (Chapter 1) No door? Umber thought as he swooped down behind Mulberry. Then how do they seal this off when they’re attacked? How do they keep out enemy dragons? Maybe they don’t need one because there are no enemy dragons here, he thought with a weird little jump of hope in his chest. Maybe this place would be peaceful, like Jade Mountain Academy. (Chapter 3) Gifts from the other tribes, Umber realized. He counted eight of them. Pyrrhia had seven tribes now … so this must be a time when BeetleWings and LeafWings still lived here. If the tribes are exchanging art honoring each other’s queens, there must be peace between the kingdoms. That was the dream of Jade Mountain Academy: a world where dragons coexisted and there was no war. (Chapter 11)

The dream of Jade Mountain Academy. The phrasing here is indicative of a liberal fascination with a very specific pair of ideas: a kind of pacifism and inter-tribal harmony, one that is achieved with a frictionless ease. This is an aesthetic vision of liberalism, one where meaningful cultural differences do not exist and everyone can simply get along without compromise or conflict, when in reality their interests—for instance, those of an Amazon warehouse worker and Jeff Bezos—are misaligned.

Furthermore, the scene with the Triumvirate contains no conflicts or true disagreements, because in the liberal mind, there are no systems that may put certain groups at a disadvantage; there are only good and bad actors. Checks and balances do not exist, and neither do differences in opinion over policy, because personality is a substitute for politics. These Great Dragons only know how to handle things with empathy and grace, because it is the only moral universe the book can envision.

It is kindness as governance, which cannot survive contact with the real world. And when Beryl storms into the throne room to overthrow the triumvirs, she proves this aptly.

Umber wanted so badly to wade in and help—but he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t really here. He was just seeing Quokka’s memory of this terrible day. He wished he had been here, though. He could see why Beryl wanted her followers trained; the King’s Teeth fought haphazardly and were easily distracted. His troop of siblings could have taken down all twenty of them on their own. But in this throne room they were attacking small dragons, peaceful dragons, and dragons who’d come here to escape violence; there wasn’t anyone, really, who could fight back. (Chapter 17)

Umber wishes he could have been at the scene of the crime, heroically fighting off the usurpers. If only he and his siblings had been there to protect the triumvirs, none of this would’ve happened. This is the liberal conception of Great Man Theory in action: there are no systems, only heroes and villains, and someone in the right place and time could’ve saved the day. However, what the book actively ignores is the weakness, and neglect, of the Triumvirate. Even if Beryl had been fended off, if the system had remained the same something similar would’ve happened at a later point, and eventually succeed.

The sociologist Max Weber outlined the concept of the monopoly on the legitimate use of force. A state, within its borders, is the only entity that can use coercive threats or force to ensure compliance; under most circumstances any other person or group who does so would be doing it illegally. This is one of the most well-known definitions of a state, and this monopoly on violence is enforced and maintained through courts, police, and criminal law. The Triumvirate lacks any formal apparatus to enforce legal codes. Under the Weberian framework, if a state loses its ability to enforce its monopoly on violence, it has ceased to function as one and has failed its citizens; any violent actors, such as Beryl, may exert their own power at will.

However, the book does not see it that way. In liberal thought, defenselessness is a moral virtue, and any form of coercion, as opposed to consensus and compromise, must be illegitimate and evil. In the book, it is a tragedy that the dragons of the Court could not protect themselves, and pacifism is in fact a sign of the moral superiority of the triumvirs, not an act of profound neglect and irresponsibility on their part wherein they failed to protect their constituents and allowed the island to fall under a two-year dictatorship.

At the end of the book, Beryl is overthrown and the Triumvirate is restored. The sequence is framed as a triumphant return of the Good Rulers, much closer to the return of Aragorn or Simba than any self-respecting democratic process. Harmony is restored and all is as it should be.

Umber didn’t see who ended up taking Beryl, Snakeroot, and Taipan off to the dungeons. He heard Platypus arguing with Quokka and Quokka ignoring her to tend to Taipan’s venom wounds. He heard Monarch and Glowworm both crying as they threw their wings around Royal. It sounded as though a hundred dragons were asking the Triumvirate questions. […] “Me too,” Umber said. He looked around. Someone had already found the third council seat that had been removed and three dragons were hauling it onto the dais to put it back in place. Tuatara, Horizon, and Monarch were hugging dragons and making suggestions and trying to listen to everyone at once. Out in the halls, someone started singing a Northern Lights song and several dragons joined in. (Chapter 26)

Restoring the Triumvirate was so easy that even the throne that had been removed during Beryl’s dictatorship is easily dusted off and replaced. Evidently she did not destroy it or dispose of it, as most dictators would do, but rather put it in a storage closet in case it may be needed again. The transition is frictionless. There was evidently no need for snap elections after the triumvirs’ two-year hiatus, or any form of amnesty or restorative justice, as none of these are mentioned in the rest of the book. In the liberal fantasy, the peak of political achievement is a return to the status quo; justice has been achieved, all is right again, and safeguards to prevent another coup are not needed. This is the exact same Triumvirate that was so weak it fell to the comically incompetent King’s Teeth, but as long as noble heroes like Umber and Platypus are around, so it will remain.

Platypus

Platypus is a study in contradictions. In THB, she is meant to be a fiery revolutionary, but such an uncompromising archetype is not fully compatible with the polite, liberal vision of the book. To fit she must be sanded down and folded in order to fit into a neat little box, so much so that she less resembles her intended archetype and more an incoherent composite of traits.

For one, she is fiercely loyal to the Triumvirate. Almost fanatically loyal, in fact. She is willing to fight and die for them, and in a flashback she is shown fighting off several dragons and even seriously injures Snakeroot.

“The three you really need to meet are these over here: the elected Triumvirate, rightful leaders of the Court of Refuge.” (Chapter 12) “And this is Horizon.” Platypus gave a little bow at the dragon next to her, whose scales were dappled red and blue. (Chapter 12) “YOU WILL NEVER BE MY QUEEN!” Platypus bellowed at [Beryl] from atop the table. (Chapter 17)

Strange words for someone who is simply a believer in fairness and elections. “Rightful leaders of the Court of Refuge.” “You will never be my queen.” She bows at a member of the Triumvirate and consistently refers to the monarchs as traitors and thieves.

No one calls a president or prime minister the rightful leader of anything. In fact, Platypus’s words sound far more like the words of someone who subscribes to the divine right of kings and queens. Her loyalty to the Triumvirate is far more like that of a knight whose family has served the monarch for countless generations.[3]

Had [Platypus] really been living in the walls for two years, causing chaos and leaving notes and being treated like a ghost by everyone? All because she believed so much in the possibility of a fairer system and better leaders? (Chapter 12)

The liberal fantasy expects the reader to believe that Platypus, who severely wounded Snakeroot as a dragonet, is simply passionate in her belief in voting. However, no one turns into a revolutionary because they are upset at procedures being broken. People radicalize and turn to direct action because they and their community are suffering. However, liberalism cannot conceive of this. Because it conceives itself as the most rational, pragmatic ideology, it naturally follows that proceduralism is the most noble cause worth fighting for. As demonstrated earlier, Beryl’s failure to follow the protocol is what the Triumvirate loyalists are most upset about.

Of course, Platypus needs a way to express her anger at the usurping monarchs. However, there are only two incidents in the book in which she actually injures someone, and in both cases she was acting to defend someone whose life was in immediate danger. Naturally, it makes most sense for Platypus to distribute pamphlets and commit acts of vandalism.

Beryl threw open the doors as Umber and Sora caught up to her. The waiting room looked as though it had been trampled by extremely grumpy wild boars. The couches were both overturned, startled legs pointing toward the ceiling and cushions escaping down the stairs. All the posters had been shredded into whirls of ragged snow. And everything was covered in splatters of gory purple goop. For a moment, Umber had the horrified thought that some of these strange dragons must bleed purple blood and one of them had been murdered—until he stepped on a giant smashed fruit and realized it was only mystery-fruit guts. (Chapter 6) “Sorry,” Mulberry said, picking up the bandages. “What I meant to say is that the ghost would like us to think a little harder about ‘following orders’ and how to say no to ones that we think are wrong. She leaves me notes to this effect almost every night. And I do read them! I promise!” he called, covering his head. (Chapter 9) He realized she had dropped the note from the ghost on the floor by the bed. Carefully holding Blob in place, he leaned over and scooped it up. It said, in the ghost’s spiky handwriting: YEAH, IMAGINE! YOU COULD HELP OVERTHROW THE TRAITORS WHO STOLE THE THRONE! OH WAIT … YOU COULD DO THAT WITHOUT MAGIC! (Chapter 9)

Platypus is meant to be one of the heroes of the story. However, because this is a liberal story, she cannot do anything too disruptive, too violent for liberal sensibilities; otherwise she would be far more like the Equalists (Legend of Korra) or the Flag Smashers (The Falcon and the Winter Soldier). Both are radical groups in liberal narratives who are an antagonistic force; they have sympathetic goals, but to prevent the audience from sympathizing with them too much, they are typically shown pursuing methods that “go too far,” despite their genuine grievances.[4] This is how liberalism frames radical movements: anyone who tries to reform an unjust system from the outside without using nice, incremental methods that don’t affect the status quo, must be acting irrationally, or is evil. As a result, Platypus must be watered down. She must remain palatable for the liberal audience in order to stay a “good guy,” so she is not allowed to do anything too disruptive, too morally gray, anything that would do more than annoy Beryl, anything that poses an actual threat to the system she is trying to overthrow; otherwise she would be “going too far.” Platypus is not a true revolutionary, she is the liberal fantasy of what acceptable dissent is. No one in a liberal audience would object to distributing pamphlets and throwing fruit.

In fact, the narrative seems to have a hard time taking Platypus seriously. We are told that “[Umber] wasn’t sure [Platypus] was younger [than him]; she gave off a bristly air of being a thousand times older and tougher and grumpier than him.” (Chapter 10) Given Umber is himself a young adult, we can take it that Platypus is an adult as well. However, her actions are consistently framed in a somewhat comedic light, as though they were the antics of a misbehaving child; for instance, as shown above, her vandalism is compared to the actions of “extremely grumpy wild boars.” Platypus is petulant and shrill, frequently screaming in all caps and making her rage known to everyone around her.

“I’M NOT A GHOST!” she yelled. “AAAAAARGH!” “I’m sorry!” Umber cried, scrambling out of the bed. The not-a-ghost grabbed the nearest curtain, yanked it down, and started ripping it to pieces. “Everyone said you were a ghost!” “Why would you BELIEVE THEM instead of ME?” She kicked over a bench and then picked it up again and shook it furiously. (Chapter 10)

Perhaps the most revealing passage comes from a scene in which the characters are not discussing politics at all. The characters are in a room that facilitates magical flashbacks to past events,[5] and are idly hanging around.

“Did you hear something?” Quokka asked. She stared out at the waiting cave, her blue-dappled yellow wings flickering nervously. “I thought I heard a noise.” “Me too,” Platypus said. “Uh-oh … brace yourselves … I think it was … YOUR BUTT.” “You are such a brat,” Quokka said as Platypus fell over laughing. (Chapter 16)

This is the story’s baseline attitude towards Platypus: she throws tantrums and makes potty jokes befitting a six-year-old.[6] The book refuses to take her seriously, all while having her be the story’s representative of direct action, as neutered as it is.

There is in fact a character, Aurora, who stands in opposition to her as the story’s representative of symbolic action. Fittingly for the liberal story, while Platypus is an orphan who hides in walls, Aurora is a famous, beloved pop star and singer of the band Northern Lights.[7] Her bedroom is enormous, with an oversized bed and a jewelry stand: “a fake tree as tall as [Umber] was, carved from black wood and polished to a shine, with jewelry hanging from every branch in a glittering rainbow.” (Chapter 13) In fact, Umber initially believes it is Queen Beryl’s room. When Aurora is arrested, the populace gets angry and restless; no other character besides Mulberry[8] inspires this much energy in the common dragon. The book is enamored with Aurora and the power of her song, so much so that a traumatized war veteran, Sora, instantly feels better after going to her concerts.

“You have to,” Sora said, her eyes shining. “You’ve missed two already and Aurora is—I don’t even know how to describe her. She’s magic, but like, real, like a real dragon who can make magic with only words and music. Her music makes me feel sane, Umber.” “Oh, wow,” Umber said. He hadn’t seen Sora this excited in—maybe ever? “That sounds amazing.” “When I’m listening to her, there’s finally something else in my head. Something besides Crane and Icicle and all the terrible things I keep trying to push down. It’s as if she says all the things I’m feeling and I understand myself. I can stop worrying and I can breathe and be happy, even just for a moment. That probably doesn’t make sense.” (Chapter 12)

The songs are cathartic for Sora and according to the narrative, feeling better has political relevance within the story. According to the liberal fantasy, emotional catharsis is the solution to everything and there is no need to improve living conditions as long as everyone is happy. It doesn’t stop there; the narrative again validates Aurora for her ability to inspire feeling without changing material conditions.

“Um—I mean, I guess I think what you’re both doing is important,” he said. “Like, you’ve made a really big difference to my sister,” he said to Aurora. “She was—she was really sad, and your music helps, exactly how you said. And watching everyone tonight, singing together … I think it does change things. Even if they don’t all understand what your song was saying, some of them must have.” (Chapter 14)

Furthermore, “Fly Through the Fire” (the song mentioned at the end of Chapter 26) is sung at the end of the book when the characters win, not during the moments of defiance. It is a victory song; its function is aesthetic and emotional, not political. Real protest songs are sung during the protest to rally the people and give them strength.

Umber attends the concert with Sora and listens to Aurora’s song “Fly Through the Fire;” the song is about Aurora’s emotional experiences, specifically her conflict with her parents and the weight of others’ thoughts of her, and her longing for freedom. However, Platypus crashes the concert by dropping flyers onto the audience.

A gust of snowflakes suddenly whirled across the audience. Startled, Umber caught one in his talons—but it wasn’t snow. It was a tiny, folded piece of paper. He knew before he even unfolded it that it would be a note from Platypus. An entire snowstorm of ghostly notes blanketed the singing dragons. The one in his claws said: WAKE UP! FIGHT BACK! He caught another one, which said: IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS. They’re saying the same thing, he realized suddenly. The notes and the song. Is Aurora doing that on purpose? Does she know? (Chapter 13)

They are not saying the same thing. One is a vague song about Aurora’s emotional turmoil and the other is a call to action. However, this false equivalence illustrates the liberal idea that all methods of protest are valid—except for violent terrorism, of course—and convey the same message, even when they do not in fact come close to it. It allows liberals to claim the same degree of political relevance as frontline activists, without taking on any of the risk; consider how Platypus has been unpersoned and is actively hunted while Aurora is rich, popular, and tolerated by the monarchs. This is a willful blindness entertained by liberals because truly enacting change would require disrupting society, the very idea of which liberals abhor.

Later Platypus and Aurora have a confrontation in Aurora’s room, and very few exchanges in fiction lay bare so many of the core assumptions of liberalism.

“Aren’t you in the middle of a concert?” Umber asked. “Not anymore,” Aurora said. “The queen canceled it because somebody decided to stage one of her quirky protests all over my audience.” “It’s not QUIRKY!” Platypus yelled. “It’s RIGHTEOUS and IMPORTANT!” […] “All you’re doing is making Beryl angry!” Aurora snapped at Platypus. “Hooray! Good for me!” Platypus snapped back. “That’s GREAT news! I want her to be angry every day! I want her to wake up annoyed and never feel happy for one minute! I want her to know somebody remembers what she did and she can’t just have the throne and do whatever she wants! I want everyone to know someone is fighting her, even if it’s ONLY ME!” The little dragon buried her face in Aurora’s blankets and screamed into them. “But you have to convince everyone else, too!” Aurora picked up the pillow and threw it back at her. “You need other dragons on your side if you want anything to change!” Platypus sat up again, her eyes glittering with furious tears. “No! You don’t get to lecture me! I don’t want to hear about how I’m ‘doing it wrong’ from someone who is doing NOTHING!” Aurora let out a little gasp. “Are you serious? Weren’t you even listening?” “To your songs?” Platypus said. “Is that your idea of fighting back? You wrote a song vaguely conveying some feelings and everyone’s supposed to guess that it’s really about the king and queen?” “Yes! I think my songs can make a difference!” Aurora cried. “That’s what music is for! The whole point is for dragons to hear it and feel braver or understood or more sympathetic to someone else. That way they can be strong enough to stand up when they have to!” “They have to stand up right now!” Platypus said. “Why not now?! Tell yourself whatever you need to, but you know what would make a real difference is you landing on that stage and saying: ‘Beryl is a terrible queen who stole the throne from good dragons and now we’re all terrified of her!’” “But they know that, Platypus! Everyone knows that, but no one knows what to do about it! I don’t think it’s wrong to try and make dragons happy, or to give them all something that brings them together when everything is terrible. At least my music can make them feel less alone! I mean, that’s what I’m trying to do—I don’t know if it’s working, but I’m not doing nothing!” (Chapter 14)

The liberal narrative believes that this is a fair argument, and in fact frames Platypus as overly emotional. She is screaming and crying while Aurora remains far more composed and dismisses her actions as quirky—again we see the liberal belief that radicals must be irrational. Platypus is not fighting because she wants conditions for the dragons of the Court of Refuge to improve, but because she wants to make Beryl angry; this is presented as a petty, childish impulse rather than a serious tactic used by radicals, because liberalism cannot recognize disruption as a legitimate political strategy. Furthermore, we see the liberal preoccupation with debate and persuasion. Aurora wants to persuade the dragons of the Court to resist. In the liberal mind, because liberalism is the most rational ideology, any rational individual can be swayed to the side of good using the power of rhetoric; other methods in contrast are too forceful, too unappealing to the moderates who benefit from the status quo.

In fact, the concept of fighting back has been significantly watered down in this book. In political theory, this concept is referred to as recuperation, the process by which radical ideas are adopted, often distorted, to fit the mainstream and appeal to moderates. For instance, punk music and several types of fashion such as ripped jeans have undergone this change.

What is the best way to organize resistance? According to the book, it is by making a song not about oppression or violence or harm, but about feelings, sung by a wealthy singer insulated from systemic violence. What is the best way to use direct action? Not by way of disrupting public life or private profit so much, and by making oppression so costly, that it forces the system to respond; it is by throwing pamphlets and destroying furniture in a temper tantrum. Recuperation occurs because institutions need to neutralize revolutionary energy, redirecting it into emotional catharsis such as media. Such as a pop song, perhaps.

Platypus is in the right here. Aurora is doing nothing. She is not opposing the regime in any meaningful capacity. Neither is Platypus, for that matter, but if she did anything more than distribute flyers and cause messes she would be demonized by the liberal narrative. In fact, Aurora may be doing worse than nothing. She genuinely believes that emotional catharsis is a substitute for true political action and improving the material lives of dragons in the Court. Political art, in the liberal worldview, is not a call to action but is sufficient on its own, and while art can have political value, liberals believe it is an end rather than a means. In fact, Aurora subsumes the Court’s feelings of discontentment and redirects them towards acceptable channels in her concerts. This is recuperation; she is doing the regime’s job for them.

“I think you’re both right,” Umber said, and immediately regretted it as they swung around to look at him. “Um. Not that I know what I’m talking about.” […] “Um—I mean, I guess I think what you’re both doing is important,” he said. “Like, you’ve made a really big difference to my sister,” he said to Aurora. “She was—she was really sad, and your music helps, exactly how you said. And watching everyone tonight, singing together … I think it does change things. Even if they don’t all understand what your song was saying, some of them must have.” “It’s not enough,” Platypus said stubbornly. “Aurora is the most popular dragon in the court. Everyone adores her. She could change everything if she spoke up.” “Until I was also arrested, or turned into a ghost, or not allowed to do concerts anymore,” Aurora said, sliding her rings onto a branch of the jewelry tree. “And then I’d be useless. Some of us just fight differently. You know that.” She crossed the room and threw herself onto the bed beside Platypus. “I miss you, noisy chaos dragon.” “I miss you, too.” Platypus buried her head in Aurora’s neck and Aurora curled one wing over her. (Chapter 14)

The narrative tries to validate both forms of protest through Umber, but he only explains why he believes Aurora is right; evidently the book could not think of a justification for Platypus, or come up with a reason for why direct action is right. It is clear who liberalism prefers. However, Platypus and Aurora still make it up, showing their affection for each other (even as Aurora infantilizes Platypus again). In liberal thought, liberals and radicals fundamentally want the same things like justice and equality, even if their methods are different, and can be reconciled. While there are similarities between the two groups, such as both wanting justice, nothing could be further from the truth. Liberals uphold systems even when they are unjust while radicals want to demolish it; liberals simply want the aesthetics of radicalism without the risk.

This is evident in how Aurora speaks about her methods. She is fighting, just differently, equally valid according to the liberal narrative. She also asserts that if she did speak up, she would get in trouble, so she chooses not to. She gets the aesthetics of rebellion without the risk, all while her friend Platypus is in mortal danger.

On the surface Aurora talking about the potential dangers of direct action seems reasonable, but it reveals the individualistic nature of liberalism. Aurora is one of the Great Dragons fighting oppression, and is too valuable to risk. Because liberalism cannot conceive of collective action, individuals must make choices on a personal basis, and self-preservation becomes critical. Of course, if everyone thought like this, no collective action would be possible and nothing would change; in reality, collective power is used because people can do far more working together than on their own. It is the basis behind strikes, boycotts, and civil disobedience.

Isn’t that what happens when you try to fight the dragons with all the power? You end up alone, throwing yourself against an outstretched spear over and over again. He admired her, but he couldn’t imagine being her—waking up every day and hurling herself against a wall of spikes. Always trying to change things, but with no one to tell you how or what to do. It sounded enormously stressful. (Chapter 18)

Umber is the ideal liberal spectator: he admires radicals from a distance, but could never imagine doing what they do. This is how liberals typically perceive leftists (when they aren’t condemning their methods, that is): heroic but not threatening, stripped of the qualities that make them effective. This is how many historical activists such as MLK are perceived today; there is a collective amnesia around how much he was hated by white Americans during the fifties and sixties. Umber helps Platypus and sympathizes with her, but he never commits to what she does. He doesn’t throw pamphlets with her or put himself in danger of being unpersoned, but fancies himself an ally.

Platypus is disjointed as a character. She is simultaneously a defanged revolutionary, a misplaced knight, and an immature brat, and that’s what makes her narrative role interesting. It reveals what liberals think of radicals, and the story simultaneously asserts that she is valid and that she is not. If dragons could stand together as a group, Platypus might very well be a force to be reckoned with.

But because liberalism cannot conceive of collective action, Platypus stands alone.

The Restoration

Chapters 25 and 26 of THB are the concluding chapters of the book and deal directly with how Umber and his friends overthrow Beryl and Snakeroot.[9] It’s a bit disjointed and I’ll be leaving stuff out to focus solely on my analysis, so bear with me. This section will also be looser in structure, simply because I’ll have to present evidence in chronological order.

In chapter 25 the Triumvirate make their grand return in the climax of the story. They storm the throne room with no army; according to the logic of liberalism, they don’t need one. The characters will instead use the power of persuasion to make everyone stand down.

“Someone seize them,” Beryl said. She pointed to a WildWing near Monarch. “You! Throw that SilkWing to the floor before she runs away again.” Monarch turned to meet the WildWing’s eyes. “Hello, Pademelon,” she said affectionately. “Your little one must have mastered catching hawks by now.” “Oh, she has!” Pademelon said, beaming. “I can’t believe you remember!” “Enough!” Beryl roared. “Silence her!” Pademelon glanced nervously at the dragons around her, then squared her shoulders. “No,” she said. “I—I won’t do that.”

Because the triumvirs personally know many of the dragons, the power of empathy makes one of the guards stand down.[10] Either the King’s Teeth were never that loyal in the first place—and given none of them are given any motivations for working for the regime, that is plausible—or empathy is just that strong in the liberal fantasy.

“Fine,” Beryl said, vibrating with rage. “You’ll regret it soon enough. You do it.” She pointed at another dragon. “I won’t either,” he said. “I’ll give you first access to the Gathering every morning,” Beryl said shrewdly. “No,” he said, a little more slowly. He also kept checking the faces of the dragons around him, Umber noticed.

This is interesting, because it’s a clear example of someone acting in self-interest. He is reading the room, trying to figure out who will be victorious, and has considered Beryl’s offer (the Gathering is a dining area where food is kept, meaning he’ll get first pick of morsels). Also interestingly, he doesn’t get a name, unlike most of the guards in this scene. The dragon whose actions make the most sense from a structural angle is also the one who isn’t individualized at all in the narrative, because liberalism and structural politics are at odds.

“Kill them,” Snakeroot snarled. He hit the closest member of the Teeth with his tail. “All three of them. Right now.” The guard obediently jumped forward and so did the other King’s Teeth in the room. “Stop!” Umber cried, throwing himself between their spears and the Triumvirate. “Listen,” he said, addressing the King’s Teeth directly. “You can stop this. They need you to keep their power. If you say no, they have none.” “But if we say yes,” said one of the SkyWings, chuckling slightly as if Umber was daft, “then we have power, too.”

Umber, one of the Great Dragons of the story, jumps in to save the day. If it weren’t for him, the Triumvirate would be dead. This passage touches on the idea that people who serve regimes often do so for structural reasons, such as getting special privileges or status in exchange for service; here the King’s Teeth are shown to have a material stake in whether the Triumvirate fails or succeeds. However, notice how the story intentionally leaves the idea of “power” vague, because it doesn’t actually know what collaborators want. The liberal narrative is utterly uninterested in exploring or answering what these structural incentives are, because it doesn’t fit its framework of individuals making good or bad choices. So it ignores the question it raises, and Umber instead pivots to other means.

“Maybe for a little while,” Umber said. “But Ravine, why do you need it? You could be with your dragonets right now, playing that ball game you invented. Wouldn’t you rather be doing that? Instead of arresting Aurora and knowing everyone hates what you’re doing?” Ravine hesitated. “And Goana, what about your song?” Umber said, turning to the WildWing beside her. “You’ve been working on it for so long—didn’t you want to share it with Aurora? Weren’t you hoping she’d bring you onstage to sing it?” “I could have my own concert,” Goana said, but her talons were clenched around her spear. “I could make everyone listen to me.” “The king and queen don’t care about you,” Umber said to all of them. “They are using you, but if you die following their orders, they will forget your names by tomorrow … if they even know them now.” […] “Scorpionfish,” Umber said, stepping closer to another dragon. “I know your leg still hurts from that old accident, but you’ve always worked harder, lifted more, and flown faster than I asked. We could end this here and you could rest. You could decide for yourself what you do tomorrow, instead of waking up to another day of training and fighting and treating fellow dragons like lizards.” Scorpionfish nodded with a thoughtful expression.

In the liberal fantasy, individual appeals to conscience work like magic. Furthermore, oppression is simply a communication breakdown: the King’s Teeth don’t know what they are doing, and they need to be persuaded by the heroic Umber into standing down. All Umber needs to do is do a little talking, making personalized appeals to each guard, and once he does the communicative barrier is lifted, and each guard will make the right choice. The book frames Umber’s speech as capable leadership, like how the triumvirs know everyone and treat the Court dragons with kindness. However, this concept is a fantasy that only works in the constructed realm of fiction.

Umber knew it was easier to trust the dragons above you. He understood that so deeply. It was much easier to go along, to follow the group—easier to let someone else make the decisions. He looked around at the guards he had trained every day, all the dragons he’d worked so hard to remember and understand. They weren’t just a mass of obedient ants with sharp objects, stabbing whatever they were told to stab. They were each their own dragon. They could make a different choice.

Within the story, the King’s Teeth guards are simply dragons who have forgotten they are individuals with their own interior lives. Liberals believe that collaboration is caused by social inertia and groupthink, and all collaborators need is an empathetic speech to make them gladly switch sides. It is an astonishingly spineless stance that again resists the question of collaboration.

Scorpionfish put her spear on the floor. “I’m not killing anyone today,” she said to Umber and Snakeroot and all the dragons around her.  […] “If Scorpionfish is out, so am I,” said another WildWing. “Me too,” said Ravine. They both set their spears down.

In a final triumphant sequence, the guards drop their weapons and the deaths of the triumvirs are averted. In the story, this collective act is presented as a cascade of individual choices. Again, liberalism cannot envision collective action.

Then Taipan appears and holds a knife to Mulberry’s throat so we can have some last minute shenanigans in Chapter 26 because the book is desperately running out of ideas. (Taipan is a recurring bully character and is about as shallow as a cat’s water bowl.)

“Yeah, right.” Taipan glared around at everyone. “No one ever listens to me. I could be special, too, but no one pays attention.” […] “I can,” Taipan insisted. “I’m the one with the knife and the precious prince. I’m the only one who’s standing by our true rulers!” Umber glanced around, thinking desperately. He wished they had more dragons in the rafters. No one was close enough to get to Taipan before he hurt Mulberry. He saw a flash of black, orange, and purple scales nearby in the crowd. Was that … ? He edged closer, trying to move slowly to avoid catching Taipan’s attention. The WildWing was explaining how everyone had wronged him and disrespected him, starting with Mulberry but including everyone in the room.

Taipan is the only character who is a true loyalist to Beryl and Snakeroot, sticking with them even when they are losing, and he is presented as a whiny little #@%$ who wants attention. He is committed to the monarchs because of his ego and grievances. Again, the liberal story doesn’t want to address why people work for evil regimes. We have already covered the King’s Teeth, who work for the monarchs because of groupthink and are easily snapped out of it. In the liberal mind this is one type of collaborator and Taipan is the other, the kind who works for an evil regime simply because they are evil themselves. Because liberalism cannot conceive that regimes build genuine ideological blocs, it must resort to an individualist explanation; in this manner the regime loyalist is pathologized and made as nasty and pathetic as possible. Again the story dodges the difficult question of why people choose collaboration.

Umber spots Royal, who is the son of Monarch, one of the triumvirs. He initially tries to appeal to Royal’s conscience, but it doesnt work. So he tries a different tack.

“Imagine if [your parents] were back in charge instead of Beryl and Snakeroot,” Umber said. “Then you’d basically be the prince here, wouldn’t you? Instead of Mulberry?” Royal’s wings twitched. He stared at his parents for a long moment, then back down at Umber. “Interesting,” he said.

This is presented as the turning point in the conversation: Umber gets Royal on his side by invoking his bloodline privilege. There is a monarchist framing in this, where Monarch being one of the leaders equals status and privilege for her son Royal. No one would talk about a president or prime minister’s son in this manner; it is simply not how healthy democracies work.

“Go sit down,” Taipan sneered. “This is out of your league.” Dugong puffed up his shoulders. “No, it isn’t. I’m from the royal MudWing bloodline,” he said. “You always tell me that.” “So?” Taipan said. “So … uh …” “So maybe you should listen to us for once,” Royal said, gliding onto the stage. He nudged Dugong aside and gave Taipan a condescending face. “If ‘royalty’ is so important to you, technically Dugong and I are both princes and you’re … not.” “Shut up!” Taipan yelled. […] “You’re so boring, Taipan,” Royal said cuttingly. “You’re so petty and small and proud of your own stupid cruelty. Imagine getting onstage to whine to the entire court about how no one pays attention to you.” A few dragons in the crowd laughed. “Shut up, shut up!” Taipan shouted again. He swung Mulberry around to face Royal. “Nobody laughs at—” As soon as his back was turned, Platypus whipped around and sprayed her venom at Taipan. It splattered across his wings and he shrieked, dropping the knife and Mulberry as he flailed backward.

Platypus’s attack is more of an afterthought than anything; in the story Taipan has already lost by being humiliated by Royal in public (complete with laugh track). Bloodline privilege is invoked again, wherein Royal asserts his superiority by pointing out that he and Dugong are of royal blood while Taipan is not. Rather than arguing back, Taipan is reduced to a sputtering mess, screaming at Royal to shut up. Liberalism values the art of a cutting argument to own the opposition (think The West Wing), wherein the hero uses clever and witty rhetoric to shock their opponent into speechlessness, or in this case, reduce them to irrationality, thus showing that they are incapable of reasoned debate. Rather than a typical liberal argument, however, the story reverts to monarchist logic. Royal and Dugong are simply superior because they are royalty. This is because the story is monarchist at its core, likely without consciously realizing it.

Also, this is just bullying, but I guess it’s okay because Royal is on Team Good Guys now and Taipan deserves it or something.

The restoration of the Triumvirate I’ve already covered in previous sections, but here’s a brief recap: the extra throne is taken out of storage, everything is back to where it should be, and the dragons sing “Fly Through the Fire” as a victory song. There is no mention of reelections and no mention of the King’s Teeth; evidently the only dragons that need to be punished are Beryl, Snakeroot, and Taipan. We are only told, “Platypus had decided to stay at court, partly to keep an eye on Beryl and Snakeroot’s trial and partly to make sure no one else caused trouble for the Triumvirate.” (Chapter 27) Once again we loop back around to Great Man Theory of heroic individuals like Platypus who maintain the system and make sure no one else can overthrow it. And this is how the story ends: Great Dragons play their part, restore the rightful rulers to their thrones, and all is well again.

Conclusion

In 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. wrote an open letter from Birmingham City jail; he had been arrested earlier during the Birmingham campaign, a series of marches and sit-ins protesting racial segregation in the city. “Letter from Birmingham Jail” would go on to become one of the most important documents of the civil rights era.

In the letter, King outlines how negotiations and talks in Birmingham have consistently failed, forcing the protesters to resort to nonviolent direct action. He also explains that while some laws are just, others are not, and people have a duty to break unjust laws. Then he brings up the white moderate, what we today might call the white liberal.

[…] I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

Does all this sound familiar? It should, because what King describes as a great stumbling block on the path to freedom aligns precisely with the principles and ideas of liberalism as I have outlined in this post. The devotion to law and procedure; the dismissal of direct action; the theoretical alliance with radicals that is undercut by everything else the liberal believes in.

Much like throwing paint on something invisible, my post has endeavored to reveal the outline of a set of pervasive beliefs, embedded deep in the social fabric of America. The Hybrid Prince strives to be political art, but ask yourself: what does it truly believe, and is it as radical as it wants to be?

That will be all. Have an excellent day/night, folks.

[1] I find the name “Triumvirate” an… interesting choice. It is typically used to refer to two political alliances from the late era of the Roman Republic: the one of Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus and the one of Octavian, Antony, and Lepidus. Neither were particularly interested in upholding the institutions of the Roman Republic. So why assign this name, with this baggage, to your fictional democratic leaders? Of course, “triumvirate” is also used casually to refer to a group of three leaders, but most likely the name just sounded cool.

[2] There is a cowardice in how Wasp’s beliefs are portrayed as well, but that is neither here nor there.

[3] The most likely reason for this is that the book wanted a revolutionary firebrand character. However, the story is structured like a “restore the rightful ruler to the throne” story far more than a story about a rocky transition to democracy. It is a monarchist story with a democratic skin, and as a result, the resulting logic and language of monarchism slipped into the character of Platypus without much thought.

[4] I know both LoK S1 and TFATWS had production issues, but I’m invoking my death of the author card here. I am looking at them as texts that stand alone, without outside context. This is also the reason I have chosen not to reference other WoF books.

[5] This series has heavily relied on flashbacks to convey plot information for the past three books in a row. I’m starting to think flashbacks are the writer equivalent of heroin.

[6] Children typically stop finding toilet humor funny around the age of seven.

[7] In addition to Aurora genuinely giving off Taylor Swift vibes in the book (at least for me), it’s also notable that somehow Tui/Scholastic somehow got Christina Perri to sing an expanded version of the song from the book. Which feels strange to me given the WoF show isn’t even out yet, but hey, what do I know about marketing. The added stanzas not present in the book are the first one (“Welcome to the sunlit isle”) and one near the end (“So watch us break our chains”).

[8] In Mulberry’s case he is popular because he is the only individual who can cross the enchanted Barrier that keeps the populace trapped on the island.

[9] There is also a Chapter 27, but it’s more of a pseudo-epilogue, followed by the actual epilogue.