The skies over Helm's Deep had darkened into a steel-colored veil. A cold wind pushed through the Deeping-coomb, carrying with it the scent of rain—and blood yet to be spilled. From the ramparts, horns called out again and again, warning of the storm massing beyond the hills. Saruman's army was on the march. And it would not be long.
Below, the people of Rohan braced themselves: men with shaking hands gripped spears, boys sharpened blades too heavy for their arms. Aragorn moved among them, offering what courage he could. Legolas notched his arrows and said little. Gimli checked and rechecked the edge of his axe. Near the inner wall, Yuna tightened the ribbon of her floral obi sash and drew her summoner's staff close to her side. She still wore her traditional attire from Spira—the deep-blue pleated skirt that brushed her boots, her pink and white kimono sleeves, and the sleeveless top that left her shoulders free. The colors were soft, flowing—but her stance was anything but fragile.
She turned—and found Éomer watching her from the shadows of the wall, armor already buckled across his chest, helm tucked under one arm.
He approached, quiet but resolute. "You should be in the caves. With my sister, and the other women and children."
Yuna didn't look away. "I can fight."
"You've done enough," he said. "You've healed the wounded. You've guided the frightened. That is more than any could ask."
Her voice was calm, but firm. "And yet, I can't ignore the battle that is to come."
Éomer frowned. "You summon beasts of wind and flame, Lady Yuna. Creatures even the stoutest of heart mistake for demons. How much of yourself do you lose each time you call them?"
Yuna stepped closer. "They don't steal from me. They protect through me. We are bound."
There was a stillness in her eyes—blue and green, like land meeting sea. "If I stay behind," she said, "I will regret it. Just like if I choose to quit my pilgrimage."
"You are not of Rohan," he said quietly.
"No. But I am of this world now. And I choose to stand and fight."
He studied her for a long moment. The torchlight flickered across the polished steel of his armor—and her silk sleeves.
"If you must fight," Éomer said at last, voice softer now, "then fight beside me."
Her smile was faint, but genuine. "Okay."
The battle raged like a storm given flesh. Flaming arrows lit the night, casting jagged shadows across the Deeping Wall. Below, the Uruk-hai pressed in waves—black armor glinting, ladders slamming against stone, crude weapons hacking at the shields of the defenders. Aragorn shouted orders. Éomer fought near him, blade flashing in rhythmic arcs. Gimli roared with glee every time another foe fell. Legolas's arrows flew with deadly elegance.
And Yuna—Yuna moved among the wounded, robes catching in the wind, her kimono sleeves streaked with blood, mud, and rain. She pressed her hands to a man's chest, whispering healing into torn flesh, even as thunder rolled above.
Then—
a blinding flash.
The wall exploded.
With a deafening roar, stone and bodies were thrown into the air as the blast from Saruman's black powder tore a gaping hole in the Deeping Wall. Flames and debris rained down like hail. Screams rose all around. The Uruk-hai surged through the breach like floodwaters.
Yuna fell to her knees, arms shielding her head. Dust and smoke filled her lungs. Her ears rang.
She looked up—and saw a boy trying to crawl away, a broken spear in his hand, an Uruk raising its axe over him.
She didn't hesitate. She stood and ran forward, throwing herself between them, her staff raised—
—and Éomer arrived a breath before the axe fell, cleaving the Uruk down with a roar.
"Get to safety!" he shouted, turning to her.
But she didn't run.
She planted her rooted herself into the ground, hair and sleeves whipping in the wind. "No more running," she whispered. Taking up her staff, she held it vertically in both hands in front of her. Gravitational energy pooling as pillars of lightning arced down from the sky and scorched the ground in a perfect circle around her. She raised her staff and the lightening collected at the tip in a large shining orb. She threw the orb to her right and it exploded into a rune, with a line of electricity running from the tip of her staff, to the middle of the rune. A horn peeked out from the middle, as if a force was pulling, and with a small grunt, Yuna pulled the horse-like thunder-aeon from the rune, shattering it. As the aeon landed, sparks of electricity sparked at its hooves, and he reared with a might shriek, his magnificent horn glinting.
The Uruk-hai shrank back, snarling, blinded by the brilliance.
From the rampart, Gimli gawked. "What in the mines of Moria is that?!"
Legolas's eyes narrowed, breath caught. "She's summoned a god…"
"No," Aragorn murmured. "A protector."
"Please, fight with us," Yuna said to the aeon.
Ixion reared with a thunderous cry and charged, crashing into the oncoming Uruk-hai. Bolts of lightning arced from his hooves, splitting through enemy lines with merciless speed. The air stank of ozone and burned flesh. Yuna's staff crackled with energy, her robes flaring like wings. She guided the aeon with precision, a dancer in a storm, her movements as fluid as they were fierce.
Éomer stood beside her, sword forgotten in his hand. For a long moment, he simply watched.
And then he said, with something raw in his voice, "You are… radiant."
Yuna didn't look at him—her focus still on Ixion, the battle—but she answered:
"I fight for those who cannot. That is a duty of a summoner. That is what I was made for. "
The screams had died down. For now. Ixion's lightning had torn a path through the Uruk-hai ranks, scattering them with blinding fury—but even an aeon could not hold the tide forever. As the summon dissolved into arcs of orbs of light, Yuna staggered back, catching herself on a shattered beam. Her breath came in soft, shuddering gasps. The summoning had taken much from her. She felt the familiar ache deep in her chest—the price of calling power from beyond.
"Yuna." Éomer's voice cut through the smoke.
She didn't answer at first. Her staff trembled in her hand.
He reached her, a gauntlet settling gently on her shoulder. "You're hurt."
"No," she said softly, eyes closed. "Just tired."
He studied her—this woman who wore silk in a war zone, who called down gods from the sky, yet bore herself with the grace of a dove. There was nothing weak about her. And yet, the effort it cost her—it wasn't invisible to him anymore.
"You shouldn't have done that alone."
"I never am," she murmured, eyes fluttering open. One blue. One green. "They come when I call. And they leave when they are defeated, or when I no longer need them."
Éomer didn't move. "Do they leave you whole?"
Yuna blinked. No one in Spira had ever asked that.
"No," she admitted quietly. "Not always."
For a moment, the sounds of the fortress faded: the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded. There was only them—a Rohirrim warrior and a far-off summoner, drawn together in the eye of the storm.
Then came the horns again. Not the deep, brutish howls of the Uruk-hai.
A clear, triumphant note—blown from the heights.
Gimli scrambled up to the wall. "They've come!"
Yuna looked toward the rise beyond the Deep.
"Éomer!" Aragorn called, gripping his shoulder. "Your men—your kin—answer the call!"
Éomer was already moving, striding to the front. He turned only once to Yuna, eyes lingering.
On the ridge, bathed in the gold of morning, stood Gandalf the White, his staff shining like a beacon. At his side rode a young Rohirrim captain—Éothain, stalwart and proud, his banner flaring behind him in the wind. And behind them—the Riders of Rohan.
Hundreds strong. Fresh. Fearless.
They descended the slope like a thunderstorm, hooves pounding, blades raised high.
"Forth Eorlingas!" Gandalf cried, his voice ringing across the valley like a spell broken.
From the keep's gate, Éomer stood bloodied and bruised, helm in hand, watching them ride—his kin, his kinsmen, riding to reclaim what was nearly lost. He exhaled, chest heaving. Beside him, Yuna climbed to her feet, leaning briefly on her staff.
"They came," Éomer whispered.
The Riders crashed into the rear flank of the Uruk-hai with devastating force. Screams filled the gorge as panic rippled through Saruman's army. Some tried to rally. Most fell where they stood. Inside the keep, Aragorn and Gimli rallied the last defenders. Legolas loosed arrow after arrow from the battlements, his quiver emptying with unnatural speed.
Yuna did not summon again.
She had nothing left.
But she stood tall beside Éomer, robes streaked with ash and blood, her mismatched eyes gleaming as she watched the tide of battle turn.
Below them, the Uruk-hai were being crushed between two great forces—Rohan's fury from the front, and Gandalf's light from the rear.
And then—the trees came.
From the deep woods behind the fleeing enemy, Huorns stirred. Silent. Watching. Wrathful.
The remaining Uruk-hai vanished into their shade and did not return.