Brief note: I don't own Fire Emblem. I don't own the characters, places... Let's just say I don't own anything that appears in this story.

Another Note: Hello! Thanks for reading and all. As a sort of warning, as I currently have it planned, this story's gonna jump around quite a bit and some segments may or may not be... erratic, let's say, in mood or content. The idea of this sort of thing came from stories like "Ice on the Rhine" by IamInferior, which is a Frozen + Tangled crossover. I'd recommend giving it a go, but be prepared for lots of violence, language, and other... ahem, mature things. It is rated M after all. On the ratings note, this fic is T. Mostly for safety. That is all.

Together, they hobbled into the large space. There were about thirty-seven of them- students, that is. They're all in what you'd probably dub modern times. Their current location is the Some-name-or-other-for-old-as-balls wing of art museum. Of course, only a few of them could be bothered to remember the real name, since most were not art history students by choice. So, in addition, they couldn't be bothered to pay any attention to the teacher leading the tour, especially after walking for a straight forty-five minutes around the other parts of the museum. Said teacher, a thin man in his mid-thirties, was currently in the process of directing his horde to gather around a fairly large piece, a seventy-two inch by ninety inch oil painting that once adorned a conference room in some antiquated government building. Once the shuffling of feet ceased, the teacher turned around to face his students, only to be met with their thoroughly unamused expressions. Nevertheless, he attempted to go along with his plans, enthusiastic teenagers or no.

"Anybody recognize this painting?"

Silence.

"Come on now, I know I've shown this one in class before."

And... Nothing.

Oh, you showed it, Shadis. Towards the back end of the group there stood a fair-skinned, messy-haired young man of average height- not tall enough that he poked out from the crowd, but not short enough that he drowned in it. He appeared slightly less miserable than his peers, if only because some miniscule portion of his brain enjoyed artwork. Or he just liked to stand and stare at things. But of course, such idle activity only entertained him for so long, and Mr. Shadis continued to prod the brain dead mass of bodies around him to no end. At this rate, we'll be here all day. Which wasn't too bad of a predicament. The museum was a humongous place. But then we won't have lunch. He sighed.

"Don't tell me you were all sleeping-" Mr. Shadis cut himself off as he saw the most lazy, half-hearted raise of a hand he had ever seen in his life. "Yes, go ahead," he said hastily. The owner of the hand sighed, and, looking at the painting, said in a complete monotone,

"Lucina slaying a Risen. Jean-Paul Levi. Oil on canvas."

Rewind about a few centuries shy of a millennium, and indeed Princess Lucina is slaying a Risen. Around her the clashes of weapons could be heard, mixing with the screams, cries, and death throes of human and monster alike. She and her comrades are in an Ylissean stronghold in the far outskirts of the capital, under siege. Under normal circumstances, the Princess of Ylisse would be entertaining suitors, enjoying a cup of tea amidst the peaceful, green gardens, or whatever pastime was possible in an extravagant dress befitting the future exalt of Ylisse. Yet, here she is, late teens, ragged, blue eyes dull as death, hands calloused from a sword grip, clothes torn and burnt from spells and blades, skin covered with sweat and specks of blood. Behold, Naga, your daughter. Her ladyship leads a charge of the more elite portion of the border guard against the waves of Risen pounding on the fortress. Just as she wrenches her sword free of the Risen corpse, she hefts it up to meet the axe of another rotting shell of a soldier.

"And can anybody tell me which period this is from?"

Silence. Heaving another heavy sigh of resignation, he raised his hand again.

"Yes?"

She decapitates her opponent, and in the same motion turns to find another. In that moment, Lucina catches a glimpse of how her men are faring, and begins to feel her heart drop. We're getting overwhelmed. However, it's only for split second, for she shakes it off and throws her mind back into the fray. Have to keep fighting. Don't stop, don't give up-

"And what gave you that impression?" He scratched the back of his head and studied the painting tiredly before answering.

"Well, the...er, had this subject matter- Lucina, I mean- been painted in any other period, it'd look much more pretty or...uplifting, I suppose? Or maybe grandiose? Because Lucina was royalty in her own time and eventually the Church of Naga made her a saint. But here, the artist didn't really make anything... Spectacular about her. She looks... Well, plain. Not royalty. In fact, the whole thing looks plain. So... I guess the toned down representation of the subject matter." He was rather proud of himself for that answer, but it quickly faded as he caught a sly smile forming on Mr. Shadis's face. ...And he's gonna keep going.

"Does anybody know why the artist chose to do that?" One can guess what happened next.

Silence, followed by a long, drawn-out sigh and a slow raise of a hand.

"Yes, back there."

"When... uh, Jean-Paul Levi painted this, there was this really, really large gap between the rich and the poor, which could be helped, but, um. Waaay too many of the rich people thought they were above interacting with the common masses. So, uh, then he painted a figure that was generally considered above everybody else and... Presented her like everybody else?"

The lance grazes her right arm and leaves a gash, but she knocks it out of the way, creating an opening to finish off its wielder. Upon completing that action, she turns once more to face another foe- a large, muscular Risen wielding an axe whose height matched the owner's. Risen leaders usually remain in the back. That means most if not all of them are in the fort-

The nod Shadis gave provoked some hope in him that the mini-lecture was over, but to his disappointment the teacher continued. "Then why have her fighting? Why not just paint her as a commoner, tending to the fields?"

"...Because-"

Morgan, where are you!? Her mind snaps back into focus as the Risen chief lets out a feral battle cry... And charges at her, axe raised high.

"-it adds a bit or morbidity, you know. Killing something. The truth is, no matter what your status is-"

She sidesteps, and the axe rings sharply as it cuts into the stone below. Quickly, she steps on the handle of it to keep it down, and takes a swing at its torso- but unfortunately, the Risen chief is fast, and she finds herself hurtling to the ground courtesy of a punch to the abdomen from the undead warrior. A sense of dread washes over her as she realizes that her grip on her sword had faltered, and now was on the ground as well as out of her reach. A shadow falls over her just as she escapes from her stupor, and she looks up to see the Risen chief's glowing red eyes... and the axe held above its head.

"-we all meet the same end. So, really, no one is better than anyone else, for in the eyes of death-"

Her mind screeches- movemovemovemove- and she scrambles toward her weapon.

"-we're all the same."

The axe falls.