The mountains rose sharp and unyielding as the caravan wound its way into the gorge, moonlight painting the cliffs silver. Helm's Deep loomed ahead: carved into stone, ancient and defiant, its towers flickering with torchlight. Even under threat, it stood proud—a bastion for the last hopes of Rohan. Théoden led the procession through the gate as watchers atop the ramparts called out their approach. Within, soldiers bustled to reinforce walls and tend to the injured. Supplies were offloaded in a flurry of urgency. The people of Edoras, weary and silent, were ushered into the Deep like shadows seeking refuge from the dark.

Éomer rode beside Théoden, his face unreadable. But when he dismounted, his eyes found her. Yuna stood near the last wagon, staff in hand, quietly murmuring a healing spell over a wounded child. Her magic glowed faint and light, so unlike the inferno of battle. Even now, with her hair wind-tossed and eyes tired, she carried a calmness Éomer could feel in his chest.

He approached slowly. "You never tire, do you?" he asked.

Yuna glanced up. Her smile was small, but it warmed him more than the firelight. "Only when I stop moving."

Éomer knelt beside her, his gauntlets resting across one knee. "That creature—Ifrit. You called him like it was nothing."

"It's not nothing," she said softly. "But I only call on him when I must. As I do with the others."

His eyes lingered on her face—the way the flickering torchlight caught the two-colored gaze, one sea-blue, the other green like the plains of Rohan in spring. "And after, you go back to healing," he said. "As if the fire never touched you."

"It always touches me," Yuna replied. "But healing is how I remember who I am."

A long pause followed, filled only by the wind brushing across the stone walls.

"You came to us a stranger," Éomer said, his voice low. "But you carry yourself like someone who's fought many battles. Not all with blades."

Yuna looked away, toward the people settling inside the Deep. "I've seen what happens when power is worshipped without question. I know what it means to be used by others. To have your choices taken from you."

There was something raw beneath her words, something that stirred quietly in his chest.

"I won't let anyone take your choice from you again," he said simply.

She met his gaze—steady, solemn. "You're kind, Éomer. But war doesn't always let us choose."

His expression softened. "Then we carve our own path."

She smiled at that—tired, but sincere. "You sound like someone I used to know."

"And did you trust him?"

"I did," she said. "He was very...special to me."

He rose slowly and held out a hand to her. "Come. The healers have set up near the inner wall. You've done enough for tonight."

After a pause, Yuna slipped her hand into his. His grip was warm, calloused. Strong. She didn't let go right away.

The rain hadn't come yet, but the clouds hung low and heavy. The garrison prepared below—hammers on stone, blades being sharpened, voices hushed.

The calm before the storm.

Yuna stood near the edge of the wall, cloak drawn around her, watching the black horizon.

Footsteps approached.

"Mind some company?" said Gimli, lifting a steaming tin cup in offering.

She accepted it with a grateful nod. "Thank you."

"I admit," he said, "when you called that fire-beast earlier, I nearly jumped off the ridge."

Yuna laughed softly. "I'm glad you didn't."

"Would've been worth it to dodge a Balrog," Gimli muttered. "Took out all my kin of Moria, and was not easily taken down by Gandalf, a wizard. Then Legolas tells me it's not a demon, just one of your friends."

"It's... complicated," she said. "But he protects what I protect."

"Then he's welcome here," Gimli said, giving a small grunt of approval.

They stood in silence for a while, the warmth from the drink and the firelight behind them softening the cold.

"Your people—do they know you're here?" Gimli asked.

Yuna stared out at the night. "I think... I was sent here. Not just to help. But to remember. There was a time I walked forward with no fear, only duty. I think I lost that somewhere."

Gimli tapped the mug thoughtfully. "Well, lass, maybe this world needs you as much as you need it."

She looked over at him, surprised. "That's kind of you to say."

"Kind?" Gimli snorted. "No. True."

The Deep hummed with motion—blades being sharpened, barricades reinforced, scouts reporting movement in the hills. The Hornburg, that old sentinel of stone, braced for the storm. Beneath its towering walls, soldiers and villagers alike moved with a singular, grim purpose.n Yuna passed through the courtyard with a steady calm, offering healing where she could. The wounded lay beneath canvas shelters, some groaning softly in their sleep. Children huddled with their mothers. Soldiers prayed with white-knuckled hands clenched around their swords.

She felt it in the air—the hush before fury, the kind of silence she had known before great battles in another world, like Operation Mi'ihen. She found Éowyn near one of the outer rooms, staring out toward the main gate with her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her hair was loose, unbound, caught in the wind. She wore no armor—only a simple wool cloak over a linen dress.

"Everyone expects me to pour soup and look away," she said, her voice low as Yuna approached. "They forget I am a shieldmaiden of Rohan."

Yuna stood beside her. "You haven't forgotten."

Éowyn's jaw tightened. "No. But remembering is bitter when no one else does. My uncle and brother go out there, risking their lives. And I sit behind walls, waiting for death or victory like a ghost."

"They love you. They don't want to see you hurt," Yuna said quietly.

Éowyn turned to her, frustrated, her voice trembling beneath her pride. "I know how to fight, Yuna. I was trained. I was not born only to comfort children and tend to the sick."

There was silence between them, heavy with truth. Yuna looked down, her fingers trailing along the edge of her staff. "I understand," she said softly. "From my world, there are people who protect summoners on their pilgrimage. They were called guardians. 'Protect the summoner even at the cost of one's life'. That was their code. Guardians would give their lives if it meant protecting their summoner." She paused, pondering on what to say next, and then said, ""You're not alone in this feeling, Éowyn."

Éowyn turned to face her fully. Her expression softened a little, surprised, and then she said, "Then what must I do? Sit and watch while others die for my land and people?"

Yuna matched her gaze. "You endure," she said. "And when the time comes, you'll choose your moment. You won't be forgotten."

A long pause stretched between them. Wind rustled the banners overhead.

"…You're very strange," Éowyn said at last. "But I think I'm glad you're here."

Yuna smiled gently. "So am I."

Elsewhere – Within the Armory

Down in the stone-vaulted armory, Éomer stood beside Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli as they surveyed racks of spears and shields. The men of Rohan moved like ghosts, each preparing for battle with eyes that spoke of doubt.

"They are farmers," Éomer said quietly, "hunters, potters, tanners. Not warriors. But they'll fight for their homes."

Aragorn picked up a blade, testing its weight. "Courage is not born from bloodlines. It's born from love."

Éomer looked at him then—this stranger from the north who spoke like a king—and offered a brief nod.

Gimli smacked the haft of his axe into his palm. "They'll hold, if the walls do."

Legolas, already stringing his bow, said nothing—but his gaze flicked toward the mountains.

"Storm's coming," he murmured.

Éomer's jaw set. His thoughts strayed not to the Uruk-hai—but to Yuna. The way she had stood in firelight. The strength in her voice. The sorrow behind her smile.

If the worst came to pass, he would not let her fall unguarded.