Hello! Welcome again to my... story, I... guess? Anyways, I really don't want to keep jabbering. Basically, if you couldn't figure it out from the title and description of this story, it will go into in-depth descriptions of (hopefully) every ending for each character. The pairings? Well, you'll just have to wait and see. I'll tell you one thing, though... I don't like Ninian going through Dragon's Gate; Nils can go all by his self, I say. :D Anyways, I hope you enjoy this!

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING THAT MADE THIS GAME! FIRE EMBLEM IS NOT MINE!

There, I said it. I said the complete and total truth. Okay, without further ado... THIS STORY!

Fire Emblem: An Unending Saga

By: Knight of Ilia

The Sword Demon: Karel's Story

Part I: Fate & Prophecy

Sister... Please, please be safe... Please...

The old man stood in the dark, misty night, the golden lantern in his hand slightly swinging in a light but chilling breeze. Wrapped in thick black fur robes, the man stared out into the black expanse, his eyes searching for something, something more... He shook his head; the request must have been phony. As he turned back to the cozy fire within his abode, he felt the presence of another—a hostile and volatile presence—behind him. Still clutching his lantern, the man turned and smiled.

"Elder Mukhari..."

Elder Mukhari turned around, staring back into the silvery velvet folds of the misty night. There, coming from the blackness, was a man he had long foreseen. The man dressed lightly in a swordsman's robes of dark blue, lined with a fabric rare amongst commoners. The man's piercing gaze seemed softened by compassion, but still lined with the ruthlessness only a killer could experience. His strong muscles and tan skin rippled from under his attire, and the swordsmaster's face was wizened with a bloodbath few could even imagine...

"I have awaited this moment for quite some time. Come in, my friend," Elder Mukhari said, coughed slightly, and turned back into the house. With his wizened left hand, he made a motion for the lone killer to follow him into the small cottage. The night-faring man nodded slightly, and followed obediently.

"Come, sit around the fire," Elder Mukhari said. "Doubtlessly, your journey has been very troubling. Please, take a seat." The swordsman nodded again, and silently sat down upon a loosely blanketed chair in front of the warm flames that danced and flickered in his cold eyes. Although flecked with kindness, they were still as cold as ever.

They stayed in silence for a while, until a young girl entered the room. Although she must've only been seven or eight, her body language revealed that she was quite wise in how she acted. The swordsman was quick to note that she must've been one of the Last Prophets in Elibe, and closed his eyes momentarily in brief reverence towards their vanishing race.

The girl's hair was wispy and the color of periwinkle. Like a silk curtain it extended far past her shoulders, reaching past even her knees only to end where her ankles began. Her eyes were dark and mysterious, appearing as spheres of a dark purple mist that were ever-changing. She wore a white and blue silk robe, and two white ribbons in hair, which seemingly supported none of her long and beautiful tresses. She had a slightly tan and slim complexion, and she appeared shy only because she had not uttered a single noise. In both of her hands she clutched a circular stone slab; on the slab rested two small white cups, intricately painted, in which steam rose. The swordsman knew at once they were two cups filled with herbal tea.

"You will have a drink, of course," Elder Mukhari said. The swordsman nodded, taking a cup from the girl, who slightly curtsied and turned to Elder Mukhari. He, in turn, took the second cup, and in unison the elder and swordsman took a piping sip of the hot liquid. Both then rested their heads upon the softness of the chairs they sat in and sighed. "Thank you, Kirin," Elder Mukhari said as the young girl, who bowed and swiftly exited the room.

"She... She is one of the Last Prophets, Elder, is she not?" the swordsman inquired. He took another sip of his tea.

Elder Mukhari nodded. "Kirin and I have lived in this small house for many, many years," he spoke. "I, since the end of the Scouring, when the Mamkutes were divided into many sects. Many years later, I found Kirin on the banks of a river outside the Nabata Desert. I took her in as my own, and she thrived under my care of her needs... She, like the famed Sophia, is half-Mamkute, and her powers in foresight are quite potent. However, of the Last Prophets... My power is the most potent of all." The old man's voice shone with truth.

"I... I presumed she was," the swordsman said quietly. "Why do you say that you have awaited meeting me for such a long time? Surely you have not—"

"Surely I have," Elder Mukhari said before the swordsman could finish. "I have foreseen all who would seek my ability, you amongst only the seven that will come. Sophia and Kirin... They will see more, past the time when my life shall end." His voice did not falter; he was not afraid of death.

"Elder..." the swordsman asked briefly. "What..."

"I know why you have come," Elder Mukhari said slowly. "You have come to see the future through my gift, and see what will happen to your sister, her husband, and her daughter."

"Elder... Please, I must know, I must know—"

"Karel."

Karel stopped speaking so quickly; Elder Mukhari's gaze was solemn. "Karel, you realize that not all is meant to be seen by my gifts. You know this, do you not?"

Karel looked down, feeling slightly foolish. He had expected some limit to the famed High Seer's ability, but had not actually come to a conclusion within his own mind. "Elder... I care little of what Elimine—"

"My gift is not of Elimine's grace, Karel," Elder Mukhari said slowly. "The origins of my power come from the grace and essence of the Sacred Dragons." His wise gaze met Karel's. "My power knows only the limits of the Sacred Dragons. They cannot see what I cannot see; I cannot see what they cannot see."

"Elder... I must know what will happen to them, I cannot live otherwise!" Karel said, alert. "You must overcome your limits! You must—"

"Karel!" Elder Mukhari shouted, and a zealous Karel immediately fell back into his chair on command. "You shall not tempt me." His voice was as cold and sturdy as iron, and Karel knew that Mukhari's resolve would not waver. Karel nodded slightly.

"Elder... I am sorry," he said. Elder Mukhari nodded slowly.

"Karel... Your zeal and passion are two of your outstanding attributes; they are what have given your mastery of the sword and your lust for blood." His words were truth, but even so they had a strange effect on Karel. His stony eyes went misty, as if tearing up, and then suddenly reverted back to how they had always been. It was as if... Karel was ashamed of his crimes, but unashamed of the lives of those he had so swiftly snuffed.

"Your zeal has led you many places, where you honed your arts as a swordmaster and slaughterer." His words brought along a less severe, but still apparent, effect on Karel. "It has now led you here, into the house of the High Seer, to seek the truth behind the lives of the sister you never appreciated until... until now."

Karel looked almost on the verge of tears. "Elder... I regret nothing but my lack of care..."

Elder Mukhari continued, ignoring Karel. "You now request a vision of what is to come." Karel nodded slowly, his eyes brimmed with moistness...

Elder Mukhari's eyes went misty; a cold wind blew through the house despite the fact that the doors and windows were tightly locked. The flames in the hearth died to a faint smolder and the steam rising from the teacups began to blow in all directions. Karel suddenly felt bombarded by a presence he had never felt before... He let out a cry as he blacked out.

"You... Your love is not sufficient!"

Karel stabbed them again and again, until the life left their limbs and the warmth left their cheeks. Their eyes were rolled back; their skin was lined with shiny beads of sweat. Their muscles, once moving, were now rigid. His mother's hair was sprawled about like a black spider's web; a pool of blood formed from beneath the corpse of his unmoving father.

He had stolen their sacred sword, and had stabbed them far past their entrance into death. He was sick of them, sick of their love, sick of their weakness, their complete weakness. They said they were swordmasters, but were really dirty liars. They were weak, insignificant beings worth only one prize: death. He had given it to them on swift wings, swift wings of judgment.

"Karel... What have you done!?"

He turned around, face to face with her. Her soft hair blew slightly in the breeze, her white robe wrapped tightly around her beauteous frame... She was beautiful, and would always be beautiful. But her gaze was fierce and fiery, her lip trembling with a mixture of fear, sadness, and wrath. She took one look at Karel, then rushed to the mangled bodies of her parents, trying to find out what she had done wrong.

"Karla... They were weak, could you not see it? Their death is inevitable, like all mortals. All pathetic, pitiful—"

He had intended to finish his speech on his parents' weakness, but Karla stopped him unexpectedly. Her outspokenness had won out over his cold words.

"Karel... That day, when I was lost... You carried me home. That was an act of kindness. I thought you were my brother... But instead you are a heartless, ruthless demon!"

Her words stung, and Karel did not know why. But he was angry by his sister's insolence and weakness. "Karla, do not even check to see if they are still alive. I have slain them all. You and I are all that remain of our parents'—no, our family's—legacy... I plan to become the ultimate fighter, a fighter without human weakness. What do you want, Karla? To be a pitiful fool, bound by emotions until death grabs you by the throat and squeezes every drop of life from you? Do you want to be immortalized as a legend, or a pathetic love-driven fool?"

"Karel... You seek the wrong things," Karla said. "You seek to perfect yourself, when in fact... Karel, you will find that without a soul, you have nothing besides the sword you carry." Her voice was now strung not with anger or sadness, but a shining resolve even Karel could not match. "You have not my love, brother, but my faith, my faith in you that you will find that what you seek for is wrong. You will find... Love is the most fickle thing of all, and without it even the hardest warrior will become unstrung. Remember that."

With that, Karla turned around and left, her small shape fading into the distance like a snowflake in the starry winter sky...

"Karel?"

Karel's vision was a blur of color and light; he could not distinguish flesh from air. "Elder... I... I saw..."

"Do not speak, Karel. Be still."

He felt coolness upon his throbbing, heat-stricken forehead, and he sighed. "Ah..." he sighed, closing his eyes slightly...

Karel!

Her voice rang out; he bolted upright, eyes wide and fearful. "Elder! She spoke to me... Elder…"

"Karel," Elder Mukhari said as Karel's sight slowly resumed its clarity. "I have seen what you have requested."

Karel stared into the wall, boring holes into it with his hollow gaze. "What... What have you seen?"

"I believe what you have seen might be more important, Karel," Elder Mukhari said.

Karel's gaze turned to the Elder; he could not admit that he was right. "I... I want to know, but—"

"Tell me what you have seen, Karel," Elder Mukhari commanded, and Karel did as he was told. He told, with utmost stolidity, the memory that he had just seen so vividly within his blackout.

"I... I was such a fool, to not listen to her," Karel said when he was finished. "I... I thought that she was doomed, doomed to die a painfully mortal death. I wanted to change her mind; she was the only one I felt worthy to die in a fair swordfight. But I never got the chance. My... I..."

"You love her, Karel," Elder Mukhari said. "That is love that you feel."

Karel's vision blurred, but it was not from the fogginess of his mind. It was from the tears that now brimmed in his eyelids. Blinking, he slowly began to cry. "I love my sister dearly," Karel said. "She is the only family I have left... I have slain all those I thought I would never care for. But now, once I look back," Karel stopped, took a sip of his tea, and continued, "I see... I only killed them because I loved them, and I wished not to be bound by such emotions. I wanted to be emotionless, soulless, inhuman..."

"It is impossible for a human to become inhuman, Karel," Elder Mukhari explained. "Your wishes were all for naught. You knew, that with every life you ended, that your conscience was slowly getting blacker and blacker. But your emotions never died, and that is a factor instilled by Karla." A silence followed his words.

"Elder Mukhari... I am ready now," he said. "Tell me what will happen to Karla. Tell me everything... Everything that you saw."

"It was slightly fogged," Elder Mukhari said. "That means it is ridden with emotion. Sadly, I do not know whose emotion has caused such a fog, whether it is you, her loving husband, or her strong-hearted daughter."

"Go... Go on," Karel said, wiping a tear from his cheek.

He turned to Karel. "What I have seen is grave," he said slowly. Karel was still crying. "Karla will be stricken by a disease, a terrible disease. Whether she survives or not... I do not know. But one thing is for sure: You will never speak of this meeting to anyone, not Fir or Bartre. They will find you and speak to you of Karla's sickness, but you cannot visit her. You will only learn what Karla's fate is a long time from now, when your youth is spent and Fir now enters the world you exist in now..."

Karel stopped crying. He still had hope... No matter what, he still had hope.

"That... That is all I see, Karel," he said solemnly. "I see no more, despite mixed fragments of emotion." Karel nodded respectfully.

"Thank you, Elder Mukhari," he said, rising to his feet. "This meeting has been... Now I know..."

"Do not speak of this, Karel," Elder Mukhari said. "This meeting never occurred. I do not know you, you do not know me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Karel said, finishing off his tea and standing up. "Thank you so very much, Elder Mukhari. I cannot thank you enough."

"You must leave quickly," Elder Mukhari explained. "Dire consequences will ensue, Karel, that could change the outcome of my prediction. You... You must leave, now."

Karel felt a bit vexed, but did not protest to the Elder's command. He bowed one final time, and then headed for the door, opening it and walking into the misty fold of the dark and unforgiving morning. Truth be told, he would never see Elder Mukhari, or the cottage again, not even when he would return several decades later purely by chance. When Karel left that tiny house, its inhabitants—Elder Mukhari and Kirin—were doomed.

Two hours past Karel's leave of the house and those that lived there, the house was burned down by a band of inquisitors of the Church of St. Elimine on account that Elder Mukhari was a heretic and blasphemer. The two were burned alive in their own home.

Their fate was sealed. Karel's was not.

Part II: From Demon to Saint

The sunlight of the morning sun had just risen past the trees, casting a golden glow on the forest and the river that wound within it. The woods slowly and lazily sprung to life; the birds began to chirp and the deer began to prance. The aroma of flowers wafted sweetly throughout the air in clouds of perfume, and all seemed peaceful. All was peaceful.

The river itself was cold by night's chill, and its unforgiving waters would only become warm by the light of sunshine. That was its daily cycle of heat and cold, light and darkness. Several boulders had been laid within the frosty waters as stepping-stones, rather large stepping-stones in fact, so that one may cross without much trouble. Fish darted like slivers of silver through the chilling stream, and frogs caught flies amongst its waterlogged banks.

The fish and frogs passed by one spot, a stepping-stone large enough for a man of considerable width to stand upon. It was high, wide, and mostly flat, although it was slightly rounded at its tip. It was the perfect place for meditation, and at that moment that was what it was being used for. A swordsman—a very troubled swordsman—sat peacefully upon it, meditating and concentrating. He had been there since the beginning of twilight the previous evening.

He had thought of many things, of all the events in his life, beginning from his childhood. He had grown up alongside his sword, his faithful sword that he still carried. The Wo Dao, the sacred sword of his family, was a treasure he had prized even above his ancestors who had given it to him. Love, devotion, and trust were weaknesses to him, and thus his "weak" parents would have to go. So, he ended their worthless lives. When his siblings rose up in efforts to avenge their fallen parents, he slaughtered them too. He slaughtered them all... All of them, except for one. He did not kill sweet, misguided Karla. He believed that love and all its insignificant counterparts were the bane of a warrior, while Karla believed that without love and soul, a warrior was nothing but one who carried a weapon and killed without purpose.

He had become what Karla had feared he would become: a ruthless demon with only a sword to distinguish him. He had become soulless, heartless, and mindless in his endeavors to become the ultimate warrior; he had slain hundreds upon hundreds of innocent souls for the fun of it. He had drank the blood of children, speared their decapitated heads on iron lances, and left them out to frighten off the guard... He had been on the run for decades, and all those who had attempted to capture him only found themselves impaled upon his sword.

Now, he was making an effort to change himself from within.

He had been Karel the Sword Demon. Now... Now, he was fighting to become something more, something different. He had to change, for his sake, for Karla's sake, for Fir's sake... Fir could not have a bloodthirsty uncle to look up to. Karla could not have a ruthless murderer to weep for. He himself could not live with his own sins...

The Sword Demon, the feared swordsman, was changing drastically. Physically, he was just as brawny and lithesome as ever. Mentally, his mind was in never-ending flux between sin and virtue, good and evil. Spiritually, he was in turmoil. He was trying to prove that he would no longer do wrong, but only right.

He was lost in his own thoughts...

"Where... Where is she, Bartre?"

"She's sleeping right now. If I'm not mistaken," the warrior said, his eyes glowing mistily, "Karla should be singing her a lullaby as we speak."

Karel nodded, walking slowly into the cottage.

At the time, it was before his visit to Elder Mukhari. He had changed temporarily, but had not changed permanently. His ruthlessness had been replaced with emotionlessness, not with gentleness. He was excited, however, excited because he was no longer just a brother. He... He was an uncle.

He stepped silently into the small room, eyes darting to and fro. Sitting upon a chair in the center of the room, fondling a bundle of cloth, was Karla. Her hair was limp with sweat, her eyes revealed exhaustion, and she appeared weak... almost sickly. But she was happy, and that was all that seemingly mattered.

She was singing a sweet lullaby in her angelic alto voice, eyes glowing with mingled fatigue and joy. She did not seem to notice that Karel had entered the room, and resumed singing, her music pleasing to Karel's ears. When she finished minutes, or seconds, or hours later, the infant she clutched was fast asleep.

"Hello, Karel," she said, getting up. She walked over to him in a slight limp, and grabbed him around the shoulders in a tight hug. "It... It's great to see you looking so well." She coughed slightly, or had she just cleared her throat? He couldn't tell.

"Karla... You seem... unhealthy." His words shone with his feelings. He was quite worried; what if Karla was ill?

"It's... It's just the birth," Karla said shakily, slowly releasing her brother. "I'll be better soon." Karel could sense uncertainty in her voice, but was not insensitive enough to point it out.

"How... How is the girl?" he asked. "How is my niece?" He put certain emphasis on the word "niece," as he was quite proud to be an uncle. Karla laughed.

"Your 'niece' is doing fine, thank you," she said with a softhearted laugh. "Fir is everything I'd ever imagined."

It was the first time he had heard her name.

"Bartre says she'll become a great swordmaster," Karla explained. "I have to agree. Even though she's just an infant, she has a strength that is truly amazing. She broke the bars of her cradle yesterday; Bartre is busy building a new one."

Bartre. It was the name of the dim-witted meathead that Karla had wed.

"Karla... You... You love him, do you not?" The air of the conversation changed drastically. Karla, who was gazing lovingly at Fir's sleeping form, turned to Karel with narrowed eyes.

"Of... Of course I do, Brother. I would not have wed a man I did not love."

"But... Do you truly love him? Can you really feel the need to devote yourself—"

"Karel, stop speaking like this. Of course I love him, our love and devotion shall never be torn. You can't change that." Her voice shone with the resolve he had heard so many years ago, that fateful day where he had murdered their family...

Karel was silent.

He had never truly appreciated Bartre, although Karla had spoken the truth. They both loved each other deeply. Bartre, even through his dim-witted innocence, devoted all of his time to Karla, and she to him. Fir was, in his words, "just a chip off the ole' block, eh?" He had always admired that quote, but Bartre himself... That was a different story.

Bartre...

Fir...

Karla...

They were a happy family. He couldn't—and wouldn't—break them apart. His determination to keep them together, to him, proved his willingness to change his heart and feelings for life. Karla... She had taught that to him through her gentleness, her devotion, her love. He would honor that, whether or not she fell at the hands of sickness.

He loved Karla, and she loved him. He loved Fir, and in time, Fir would love him. He appreciated Bartre, but he was unsure of Bartre's reactions towards him. It mattered little. They were a family, and he loved that.

He had changed. Karel, the Sword Demon, had changed.

No longer would he be known as the Sword Demon. Now... Now, he would be known by a different title.

He would be known as the Saint of Swords.