Dawn broke over Helm's Deep in fragile gold, filtering through the broken walls like the breath of the gods. The fortress, battered and soaked in the blood of heroes and monsters, had fallen quiet. Yet not in peace. Not yet. The dead were everywhere.

Rohirrim moved with solemn purpose through the ruined courtyard, finding and helping the wounded, covering the fallen. Some wept openly, others gritted their teeth and worked in silence, lifting comrades onto litters or laying them gently out for burial. Orcs were dragged to the edges in grim piles for burning. But the men of Rohan—every hand touched their fallen as if to say goodbye.

Yuna stood apart, her face shadowed beneath her hair, her feet rooted in a shallow pool left behind by the storm. Her eyes traced the sorrow in every movement around her, the grief pressing on her like a second skin. And then she felt it.

The call. A pull of her duty. It's all she knew to be when she was surrounded by so much death. She turned to Éomer, who had been silently watching from a short distance away, his armor dented and stained with the night's horrors. Their eyes met. She didn't need to speak. He nodded once, as if understanding passed between them without words. He saw the need in her eyes to do something, but he had no idea what that need was.

She bent down and unlaced her boots, covered with mud and blood, and stepped out of them. Then, she made her way to where the the wall was breached. The ground had collected rainwater, big and deep enough to be like a small pond. Her feet touched it with barely a ripple.

The air grew heavy.

Some of the Rohirrim stopped their grim work, drawn to the sudden stillness. A hush passed like wind through tall grass. And then—a sound. It came not from her lips, but the air itself. The people of Rohan did not recognize the song or the music, because it's not from their world. It was not a song of Rohan, nor from Gondor. But one from another world. The Hymn of the Fayth. Distant, ghostly. As if remembered by the world rather than sung by any living voice. Ethereal and echoing, it curled through the stone like a memory rising from a dream.

Yuna lifted her staff and took a gentle breath. Then she began to dance.

Her body moved like the wind across water—fluid, mournful, divine. Her arms swept wide, her staff cutting arcs of shimmering air behind her. Each motion was deliberate: not for spectacle, but ceremony. Her feet skimmed across the water, barely touching it. It clung to her like mist.

Suddenly, the light of the fire from the torches burst from their red and orange flames, to a cool blue. And in the space between heartbeats—light. Soft motes of energy rose from the fallen. At first, only a few—like fireflies blinking awake. Then more. Souls. Pale blue, pink, and golden spirits rising gently from their broken vessels.

Gasps rang out across the courtyard. Some soldiers dropped to their knees. Women and children cried out for their fallen husbands, fathers, and brothers. They watched as the spirits, drawn by her movements and the quiet echo of the Hymn, began to ascend—spiraling upward in slow, celestial arcs. Not just men, but elves, even the twisted echoes of the orcs—released from their torment, no longer bound to rage.

The song grew louder—not deafening, but deeper. As if the stones of Helm's Deep had learned it long ago, and now remembered. The Hymn seemed to pour from the very sky. Yuna danced at the center of it all, her staff spinning once, twice, casting light through the misty morning. Her skirt twirled like petals in the wind. Her face was serene—but beneath that, grief. Compassion. Steadfast sorrow.

Éomer could not move. Could hardly breathe. He had fought alongside elves and seen the magic of wizards, but nothing—nothing—compared to this. She was no mere summoner. She was a priestess of light and mourning. A guide of souls. A bridge between what was and what must come after.

Gimli lowered his head. "I have seen many funerals," he murmured, "but never one like this."

"That was not of this world," Aragorn said softly. "She carries another burden than ours."

"She gives them peace," Éowyn whispered, hand clutched to her chest. "Even here, even now…"

Even Gandalf watched, not in wonder, but with quiet knowing. As if Yuna had simply revealed something he had long suspected. "She walks between life and death as if born to it," he said, "A child of another realm, yet not lost here."

As the last soul vanished into the sky, the Hymn faded into silence. Yuna stopped moving. Her staff stilled. She stood in the water, chest rising and falling with tired breaths. For a moment, no one moved.

Then Éomer stepped forward, slowly. Soldiers parted for him without a word. He removed his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. Her skin was cool with mist. She looked up at him, eyes shining, the weariness in her soul laid bare.

"You've done this before," he said.

Her expression turned distant. "Too many times."

Éomer lowered his eyes, the silence between them charged with something unspoken. Respect. Wonder. A flicker of something deeper. He took her hand—gently, reverently. "I have seen war my whole life," he said. "And yet I think this is the first time I've truly understood the cost of it."

Her hand trembled slightly, but she didn't pull away. "We never forget them," she whispered. "But we must let them go."

"Where… do they go?" asked Aragorn at last.

Yuna's voice was quiet. "Not the Far Green Country. Not your Halls of Mandos. Somewhere else. Where their pain no longer follows."

Gandalf inclined his head, staff gently tapping the earth. "And yet you stay."

"I have to," she said. "There is still so much death to come."

In the background, funeral fires began to be lit. The Rohirrim returned to their rites, but they did so with a new reverence. A calmness had settled—something sacred left behind in Yuna's wake.

And Éomer stood with her, silent as the sun rose, watching the smoke curl upward like the spirits had, into the sky which was just starting to turn into dusk.

The pyres had burned low by nightfall, casting the ravine below Helm's Deep in long shadows and fading embers. The wind carried the scent of smoke, ash, and something clean—like earth after rain. The fortress still bore the scars of battle, but the atmosphere had changed. There was a stillness now. The kind that follows great grief, when silence no longer feels like absence—but presence. Beneath the open sky, near the edge of the rampart, a small fire flickered. Around it sat the victors and the weary: Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf. They spoke little, their voices low, more often falling into long stretches of quiet.

Gimli poked at the fire with a charred stick, smoking on a pipe, grumbling half-heartedly. "Still don't know what to make of her, that one. The girl dances like a river sprite and commands spirits like they're old friends."

"She does not command them," said Legolas, his gaze fixed on the stars. "She guides them. There is a grace in it. And sorrow."

"Mm," Aragorn nodded, hands clasped around his knees. "I have seen many rites in the East. But never one that felt like… mercy."

Gandalf puffed his pipe and gave a faint smile, the kind that hinted he knew far more than he would ever say. "She is of another world, yes—but grief is a language even worlds apart can understand. She carries it with dignity. And burdens no one."

They turned, then, as light footsteps approached. Yuna walked quietly into the glow of the fire, her hair still damp from the mist of her Sending. The cloak Éomer had given her rested around her shoulders, oversized but warm. She looked tired, her eyes rimmed with shadows—but peaceful.

"May I join you?" she asked gently.

"You are always welcome here," Aragorn said, gesturing beside him.

She sat with folded legs, hands in her lap. For a time, they simply watched the flames dance.

Gimli broke the silence, gruff but not unkind. "That song—what do you call it? It's nothing like anything I've heard before."

"Nor I," Aragorn added.

"Nor of the elves," said Legolas.

Yuna was quiet for a moment. Then, "In Spira, it's known as the Hymn of the Fayth. A song of prayer," she said. "We sing it to soothe the souls of the dead, and pray for a time when we are free from Sin. You hear it at every Temple of Yevon."

No one replied immediately. It was not the time for questions, or doubts.

Then Legolas, with a quiet awe in his voice: "It sounds like the stars were listening."

Yuna smiled faintly but said nothing more. Her eyes drifted toward the shadowed path that led along the ramparts. Éomer stood there, just beyond the firelight. Watching. Waiting.

Gandalf followed her gaze, then leaned forward, brushing ash from his robes. "Go," he said quietly, with the trace of a knowing smile. "Not all healing is for the dead."

Yuna blinked, then rose silently. She nodded in thanks, and with a final glance at the firelight gathering, slipped into the dark.

The night wind tugged gently at her hair as she stepped up beside Éomer, who leaned against the stone wall, looking out over the darkened plains of Rohan.

"They're at peace now," she said softly.

He glanced sideways at her. "Do you mean the people… or the souls?"

"Both, maybe," she said, with a small laugh. "Though I think the people still dream of the battle."

A beat of silence passed.

"You carry a terrible beauty with you," Éomer said, his voice low and rough around the edges. "That dance you did—it was like watching grief take shape… and then be set free."

She swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of his cloak. "It's always hard. Each soul feels different. Sometimes, I think I'm just… dancing for myself. For what I've lost."

Éomer turned fully to face her, the firelight from below painting his armor in gold. "What have you lost?"

Yuna looked up at him, and for a moment, the still mask of serenity slipped. "A world. My faith," she said. "A home. People I loved."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached for her hand—not to pull her close, but to hold it between both of his, callused palms brushing against her soft skin.

"You should not have to carry that alone."

"I'm used to it."

"I do not want you to be."

She blinked, surprised—but there was no fear in her gaze. Only surprise that someone would say it out loud.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above the wind. After a few moments, she tilted her head back, eyes on the stars, and sighed.

"You should go rest," Éomer said softly.

"I will," she replied, still watching the sky. "I just needed a little more time under the stars."

He stopped beside her, following her gaze. "They're different here, aren't they?"

Yuna nodded. "In Spira, they're warmer. Closer. As if the sky is trying to whisper to you."

"And here?"

"Here," she murmured, "the stars feel older. Quieter. As if they're waiting for something."

He looked at her, his brow furrowed in quiet thought. "You were not trained for war, were you?"

"Hmm, it depends on what you mean by "war". War has been a great part of Spira's history." She smiled faintly. "But I've not been trained in the ways of the Crusadors or warrior monks of Yevon. I fight a much greater one."

They stood like that for a while, hands entwined beneath the stars, Helm's Deep quiet below them. Somewhere far away, a faint breeze stirred the grass on the plains. And for once, there were no souls calling. No battles to fight.

Only the warmth of another hand. And the beginning of something unspoken, but real.