This is my first attempt at a FanFic. To the best of my knowledge, it's also the first FE x MTG crossover. Not sure how many FE fans follow "Magic: the Gathering" lore. Anyways, give it a read and tell me what you think. If enough people like it I'll try to update on a regular basis. Any pointers from the more experienced writers on this site would be appreciated.

And now for the Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem and I sure as hell don't own "Magic: the Gathering." If I did, Wizards of the Coast would still be holding MTG tournaments every Saturday. Stupid Hasbro buyout…

Chapter 1: Trial by Fire

This is it, thought Mark. I'm going to die.

As the young tactician counted down what he knew would be his last precious moments before his time on Elibe expired, he found that he was unable to think of his family, or remember the good times in his life, or do any of the other things people were said to do when faced with their own mortality. All he could do was reprimand himself for his carelessness as he awaited the torrent of dragon fire that would send him to St. Elimine.

How could I have let this happen? I knew Nergal was trying to summon dragons. I heard his final warning. I felt the ground rumble. It was all so fucking obvious! Why didn't I put the pieces together? Why didn't I order Nils to close that fucking gate as soon as Nergal's corpse hit the ground? Emotional downtime my ass! I should have known better. I'm a fucking tactician!

Yes, in hindsight that would have been the best course of action. Now it was too late. Once the draconic onslaught began, there was no stopping it. Three fire dragon's had breached the Dragon's Gate and slaughtered the better half of Eliwood's Elite Unit. The small army had fought valiantly, but could do nothing to stop the ancient and hateful beasts. Dragon fire was an omnipotent weapon. The swiftest swordmaster couldn't dodge it. The toughest general couldn't endure it. The most learned sages couldn't resist it. There was no protection from the killing flames. Against such a weapon the most powerful fighters on Elibe could do nothing but accept their doomed fate and die with honor.

Die with honor. What a fucking joke. There is no honor in death. Only a cold dark grave awaits the dead. Oblivion. Dreamless slumber. Nothingness. What then? Where does one find honor in oblivion? What becomes of our valor and virtue when our mind is no more and our bodies have gone to the worms?

Mark had always been a notorious cynic, and his current situation wasn't exactly doing wonders for his world view. With each passing moment, more fire breathers emerged from the Dragon's Gate. There were eight of them now, and the air was becoming unbearably hot. Mark tried to breathe normally, but each gulp of air sent a searing pain through his body. The fluid in his lungs became scalding hot. His skin went dry. His lips cracked. Did he actually feel his blood boiling in his veins, or was he just hallucinating from the fire and the pain?

If I'm wrong about the after life, if there really is a glorious heaven where St. Elimine rewards her followers and a fiery hell where she punishes the wicked, this must be what hell feels like. An eternity bound in fire. Could this be a message from St. Elimine. Have I been damned to hell for leading these brave men and women to their death?

What remained of Eliwood's Elite was preparing to make their last stand against the fire dragons. Mark witnessed the final battle through heat-swollen eyes and couldn't help but beam with inner pride as they prepared to charge one last time. There was no question about it: they were the best of the best. Even on this hellish battlefield where the very air they breathed had been turned against them, they had summoned the strength and valor for one more fight. Yes, they were indeed the best of the best. And Mark had trained every last one of them. There was Lyn—sword in hand—ready to strike with her Sol Katti. Behind her was Rath, taking aim with his Reinfleche bow. The daughter of the Lorca and the son of the Kutolah. They had fallen in love on this journey. They had pledged their lives to each other. Now they would die together. Off in the distance, Mark could make out the silhouette of a small child. He wasn't quite sure who the petite figure was. His vision was beginning to go blurry, and all he could make out was a tiny feminine frame. Perhaps it was Florina or Rebecca. Maybe Nino…

"Excalibur!" With a series of complex hand gestures and that single word of command, the small girl sent a mighty blast of razor-edged wind to the nearest fire dragon. The anima spell struck its target dead-on, cutting a deep gash beneath its left eye.

Yep, it was definitely Nino.

The wounded dragon responded with a vitriolic roar. Probably more out of anger then pain. Mark wasn't sure what a dragon's threshold for pain was, but he assumed that it was quite high. Enraged or excruciated, it didn't really matter. Before the dragon could retaliate, Rath maneuvered to the right, knocked an arrow and landed a well aimed shot in the dragon's good eye. With both eyes wounded and the foe virtually blind, Lyn went in for the kill.

Against a normal foe this tactic would have worked. A blind foe can not hit his target with reliable precision. But dragon fire requires no precision. It bathes the ground in killing flames and destroys all in its path. Precision be damned; if a dragon spits fire in your general direction, you die. And that's exactly what happened to the Sacaen Princess who thought she could defeat a dragon by depriving it of its sight.

That was the end of it. Eliwood's Elite had taken all the punishment it could bare. Those who still lived lost their will to fight at the sight of their noble lady reduced to ashes. All illusions were dispelled. There would be no tomorrow for the heroes of Elibe. They were going to die in a foreign land, away from their friends and family, away from hearth and home. There was nothing left to do but say their final goodbyes. Those who had developed feelings for each other while serving in the army dropped their weapons and embraced one last time as the killing flames descended. Kent and Fiora, secret lovers who had been too modest too reveal their affections to the rest of the army, enjoyed their first and last public display of affection moments before the inferno struck. With his back turned to the approaching firestorm, Heath wrapped Priscilla in his powerful arms as though sacrificing his own body would somehow protect the young Valkyrie from her doomed fate. Sain held on tight to Florina even as the first flames hit. Florina, for the first time in her life, did not scream or recoil from a man's touch. She accepted the gesture and returned it in kind, clinging to the Green lance until the fires had burned through the last of her muscles and she could hold on no more. With his final, searing breath, Jaffar confessed his feelings for Nino. The assassin who had once served Nergal as an Angel of Death died with love in his heart. Nino died in the arms of her guardian angel.

It was over in an instant. The wave of fire passed, and Eliwood's Elite was no more. Only Mark remained in a room filled with smoldering corpses and enraged fire dragons.

This is my punishment for hiding behind my title as tactician and sending others to die on the front lines while I sit comfortably in my command tent. I get to watch my entire army, everyone and everything I've cared about for the last year of my short life die in a fire. Then I get to die alone. No one to hold me, No one to tell me they'll be waiting for me at St. Elimine's Pearly Gates. I'm going to die alone and unloved and…well…dead.

The legion of fire dragons, now numbering 20 strong and still growing at an alarming rate begins its advance on Mark's position.

In all his life, which admittedly had only been 17 years, the tactician had never felt so powerless. Here he was—bloody, broken, and covered in third degree burns—surrounded by fire dragons. Their eyes burn with anger; they know that this wretched human with the charred cloak is the one who led an army against them. In their ancient blood, they remember another time when men led armies against dragons, when humans and dragons fought for dominion over Elibe. There is no word in the human language that describes the anger and the hatred in these dragons, the ancestral memories that compel them to burn this puny human child that is Mark. The dragons have but one word for this hatred: Ignara. It is the word for blind fury; the kind of fury that can only be expressed through an overwhelming display of power.

Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.

Two dozen fire dragons chant this word in unison as they stoke their fires. Mark hears the chant and knows his time has come. He summons what remains of his strength so that he can stand up and face his slayers unbowed. Unashamed. Unbroken.

Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.

The chant grows louder. Mark waits for the fiery breath, but it never comes. These fire dragons do not slay him with their breath. That would be too quick. Too painless. Mark will receive no such mercy from these creatures. They despise him. They look at him and they remember the scouring. They remember the humiliation dragons suffered at the hands of man, the defeat that drove them from the land of their birth. For this human, only one punishment is suitable.

Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.

The chant achieves its desired affect. A blanket of fire engulfs Mark. This is no ordinary fire. Its flames are infused with an ancient magic known only to dragons. It is the magic of longevity and preservation. All at once, the magical flame strikes Mark. He burns, but he does not die. The ancient magic preserves his life as the flames slowly destroy his body. This is the punishment of the fire dragons. Mark will feel every torment inflicted upon his body. Even as the fire consumes his vital organs, pushing him past the point of mortal death, magic will ensure that he lives on in exquisite agony. Even now, as the fire blackens bone and boils blood, Mark lives. He feels the fire in his veins as his treacherous heart pumps the burning fluid throughout his body. His digestive tract ruptures in a thousand places as gastric juices and stomach acids spontaneously combust. The super heated fluids expand rapidly, ripping through Mark's abdominal cavity and lacerating the tactician from waist to sternum. Mark bears the pain in silence. He can not scream, not while his lungs burn and his voice box glows red-hot. All he can do is cough up blood, bile, and fire in a feeble attempt to expel his torment.

Ignara. Ignara. Ignara.

Now comes the greatest agony of all. The inferno reaches the spinal column. Nerves fry. Synapses fire uncontrollably, sending what remains of Mark's body into a series of grotesque spasms. The fire dragons have waited for this moment. This is their overwhelming display of power. This is Ignara. They cast their cruel gaze on Mark's writhing form and laugh. Soon they will end the spell. Soon they will allow their fire to kill Mark but for now, they will watch their victim squirm in agony.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the spectacle is over. The dragons cease their chanting, and the flames revert to their non-magical state. Now the fire dragons wait for Mark's inevitable passing. Without their life-supporting magic, he will not survive more than a few seconds. And so the dragons wait…

5 minutes

Mark still shows signs of life, and the fire dragons are intrigued. This is highly unusual…

10 minutes

Mark is not only showing signs of life, he's also beginning to show signs of recovery. Now the fire dragons grow worried. This should not be happening. Ignara is the dragon's death sentence. Nobody recovers from Ignara. It would be akin to a convicted felon recovering from a trip to the gallows.

15 minutes

Marks body is now fully healed, and it seems even healthier than it was before the fire dragons began their chant. Mark's frail body bulges with well sculpted muscles. His eyes reopen. His gaze is fixed. There is power in his newly reformed body; pure, unadulterated power. It radiates from every pore, proclaiming his supremacy to all who stand before him. The dragons recoil in primal terror. They have awakened an ancient and terrible power in this human child. It is a power easily recognized by all dragonkin from the bloodline of the five elders(1). Mark the tactician had become a Planeswalker(2).

Authors Notes

(1) In "Magic: the Gathering" lore, all dragons are descendents from the bloodlines of five elder dragon. They are:

Arcades Sabboth, the first White Dragon

Chromium, the first Blue Dragon

Nicol Bolas, The first Black Dragon

Palladia-Mors, the first Green Dragon

Vaevictis Asmadi, the first Red Dragon

All five of these dragons were (and in some cases, still are) planeswalkers.

(2) Those of you who are unfamiliar with magic the gathering lore will probably be a little lost during the first few chapters of this fanfic. At the very least you should know what a planeswalker is. Here's the Wikipedia definition of "planeswalker"

"In the fictional world of 'Magic: the Gathering' a planeswalker is a powerful being, able to travel across the planes of existence. According to the setting, the potential to become a planeswalker (called the 'planeswalker spark'), is innate—very few are born with such a spark, and anyone who does not possess such a spark cannot possibly become a planeswalker. (Such a spark can, however, be transferred from one being to another, though the process is highly dangerous and potentially fatal.)

The 'spark' is not the only requirement for becoming a planeswalker, however. Many people who possess the spark never realize their planeswalker potential. A person who possesses the spark must also "ascend", which usually occurs during a time of great stress (most common being a form of horrendous death, e.g., the sylex blast or its aftereffects). This ascension, as well as the extraordinary amount of power at their fingertips, drives almost all planeswalkers insane over time. In an attempt to prevent this, most planeswalkers are tutored by older ones.

A planeswalker has complete control over his or her physical appearance, and does not have mortal needs, such as the need to eat, drink, sleep, or even breathe (though sleeping helps them retain sanity). Planeswalkers are very difficult to kill and can't die of natural causes, or being stabbed, or even dismembered. Some, however, (such as Urza, the most well-recognized of planeswalkers among Magic) do eat and sleep in order to feel more sane. Their need to do mortal things has become a mental one. Planeswalkers rarely have relationships with non-planeswalkers due to their near-immortality. They know, as soon as they meet someone, that they will outlive them, and that they will have to live with the loss."