We’re all taught that loss is a part of life. It’s the price we pay for meaningful existence—an inescapable eventuality of a sometimes difficult reality. But loss is not confined solely to the real world. Most fiction deals with loss on some scale as well. Even the most lighthearted stories, as long as they are loved, contain a grain of grief for their audience—when we finish the story, we miss the time we spent within its frame. And while we may always go back and reread or rewatch our favorite stories, the experience will never quite be the same as that first time.
Mourning the death of a fictional character hits some of us harder than others. As well-meaning individuals have often (unhelpfully) reminded me in the past, “It’s just a story.” But for those of us who are passionate about those just-stories and the characters that bring them to life, it’s a loss that really does hurt. And, as many a mental health expert has confirmed, it’s not weird or unnatural to grieve for these characters. Loss isn’t about what’s real and what’s not—it’s about emotional connection and the pain of separation. It’s about saying goodbye, and wishing you didn’t have to.
(Caution: The following contains spoilers for recent shows like The Magicians and Game of Thrones, as well as other not-so-recent books, shows, and movies. Tread carefully.)
Fictional Character Death from the Audience’s Perspective
Over the years, I’ve witnessed the death of many characters whom I loved dearly. In many cases, I still remember them as vividly as you would any other major life event
I remember bidding Frodo and his friends a tearful, bittersweet farewell at the end of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King as he sailed off to the Grey Havens. I was just a child, and had just finished reading the series for the first time with my mother. I remember watching fireworks on the Fourth of July while mourning the death of Sirius Black in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I remember watching the infamous Red Wedding on Game of Thrones from the discomfort of the living room floor, sitting and staring in silent shock as the credits rolled and feeling utterly, irrationally betrayed.
Most recently—yesterday, as of this writing, though it will have been longer for you, dear reader—I was forced to say farewell to a character very near and dear to me on The Magicians. From episode one, I felt an instant connection to Quentin Coldwater. He wasn’t just a character I enjoyed spending time with. I recognized so much of myself in him—so many of my best qualities and so many of my worst weaknesses—that I couldn’t help but desperately want him to be okay. His death in the season four finale was shocking because it was our first true main character death, but more than that, it was painful because it touched on some particularly sensitive issues for me (and, I’m sure, many others in the audience as well).
And I think that’s the thing that people who don’t understand mourning the deaths of fictional characters tend to miss: that it’s never just about the character’s death.
Often, we see ourselves in fictional characters. Why else would there be so many “Which Character Are You?” personality quizzes and “spirit animal” memes? The more we identify with a character, the stronger our connection is with that character—and the more painful it is when we lose them. Their death may remind us of our own personal journeys, our own close brushes with death—or simply remind us that we are mortal, and will eventually die someday. It’s a hard pill to swallow any day, but seeing it played out for us on screen or on the page by a character we love can make it that much harder.
Character deaths may remind us of real-life deaths. Shortly after a beloved pet died, I attempted to watch episode 27 of the 2003 Fullmetal Alchemist anime series with one of my best friends. In this episode, a little girl’s cat dies giving birth to kittens and she wants someone to “fix it,” only to be told (gently) that even alchemy cannot undo death. I wound up curled up in my friend’s lap, crying my eyes out, missing my own kitty terribly. Even when a loss isn’t as raw as it was for me that day, character deaths remind us of the various roles death plays in our real lives—sometimes cathartically, sometimes painfully. In either case, it can be almost as devastating as the “real” thing.
Sometimes, we just plain miss them. This is the hardest point to get across to people who don’t understand the process of grieving the loss of fictional characters. All I can say is that, while the majority of us do know the difference between our “real” friends and our “fictional” ones, our hearts don’t seem to care. To us, these people feel incredibly real, for one reason or another. And thus, their deaths feel real as well.
Often, when mourning the death of a fictional character, it’s easy to blame authors or writers and lash out at them for the loss they’ve “inflicted” on us, even if we only ever do so in our minds. But do writers grieve for their characters, too?
Fictional Character Death from the Writer’s Perspective
It may seem cruel and cold-hearted of a writer to kill off a character of their own creation—particularly when a death seems untimely or undeserved. I’ll admit, I’ve called G.R.R. Martin quite a few unkind names over the years in casual conversation—probably rather unfairly.
But, believe it or not, writers do mourn the deaths of fictional characters. At least, some of us do, some of the time. After all, the secret of writing good death scenes is, generally, to tear your own heart out and then stomp on it as hard as you can. When writing a certain death scene for a current work in progress, I based the scene on a real-life loss of my own—even going so far as to steal some of my own words from that day to use as dialogue. It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to write, and after I was done, I wept almost as hard as the day the original loss happened. I was completely drained.
So why did I write it? On a selfish level, I did it for closure—it was a way for me to finally face something I’d had trouble coping with for years. But on a more responsible level, I did it because I needed to, for the story’s sake and for my audience—because the entire story revolves around learning how to let go, how to face a loss and find a way to move on. You can’t tell that story without including a gut-wrenching death. So I “killed my darling,” as Stephen King would put it. And yes, it hurt.
I’m not the only one. J.K. Rowling has famously apologized for several character deaths over the years. In one tweet, she confessed, “Arthur lived, so Lupin had to die. I’m sorry. I didn’t enjoy doing it. The only time my editor ever saw me cry was over the fate of Teddy.” G.R.R. Martin, an infamous killer of characters, has pointed to Gandalf the Grey’s death in The Lord of the Rings as a huge influence: “Gandalf dies! … I can’t explain the impact that had on me at 13.” And I’m sure there are other writers—many others—who have felt the same.
Again, this is only natural. After all, while audiences may spend hours, even years, with these characters, we writers spend even longer with them. They’re a part of us, from the moment we first imagine them to the last word we write about them and beyond. Killing them is like killing a part of ourselves. Sometimes it feels good to separate ourselves from a character that represents our own worst parts. But we may also grieve for the things we’ve lost, or are afraid of losing, that have died with the character we’ve just killed off.
For me, my own reaction to one of my character’s deaths can also be a barometer. If writing the scene doesn’t make me sad, how can I expect my audience to cry over it? But at the same time, I never want to write a scene just to make my readers sad. A character death should always mean more than that, whether it’s a victory for the good guys, a means of retribution, an opportunity for closure, or a chance for some social commentary about life and death in the nonfictional world.
We writers may not be responsible for how our audiences react to our stories, but we are responsible for making sure we are conscious and careful about the narrative decisions we make when we are writing—particularly when we’re writing death scenes.
How to (Productively) Mourn the Death of a Fictional Character
So we’ve established that mourning is healthy when there is a loss, even if the person (or creature) lost is fictional. I also want to point out that there is no right or wrong way to mourn a loss—of any kind—as long as you do no harm to yourself or to others.
But I will suggest that, as is so often the case, something which seems inherently negative can be used to create something positive, if you only know how. In my case, I’m attempting to cope with the loss of Quentin Coldwater by writing about character death in a way that I hope is helpful to others.
Similarly, fellow authors and would-be writers know that grief can be used as fuel for the fire to write something truly poignant, something that may move others to action or simply move them. As for grieving audience members, you can write about your sorrow, too. Or paint it. Or sing about it. Or simply talk about it with your fellow fans and remind yourselves—and each other—that you are not alone.
Because if character deaths are reminders of our own mortality, they must remind us of one other thing, too: that we are not dead yet. And as the saying goes, “While there is life, there is hope.” Please don’t ever forget that.
