The ride back to Edoras was solemn but victorious. The sun greeted them through parting clouds, banners waving weakly in the breeze. The city of the horse-lords opened its gates, and the people flooded the stone streets to greet their returning warriors. Yuna rode near the front, robes fluttering like seafoam in wind, her staff across her lap. Her eyes—blue and green—still drew countless gazes. She did not flinch from them.

Inside the Golden Hall, Théoden stood tall once more, free of shadow. Yet whispers had already begun to stir.

"She conjured fire from the sky," murmured a nobleman from the Westfold.

"No... not fire—spirits," said another.

"I heard she walks among the dead."

"They say she came from beyond the sea…"

"Did you see her eyes? She's not one of us."

Even in gratitude, fear crept in like frost. Gríma was gone, fled like the snake he was—but his poison lingered in the hearts of many.

Éowyn met Yuna at the stables, embracing her tightly. "You should have seen their faces when the spirits rose," she whispered with delight. "Half of them looked ready to faint."

"They don't trust me," Yuna said, gently pulling back. "Not all of them."

"They will," Éowyn said. "Let them whisper. They whispered about me, too—when I dared to raise a sword."

Inside the hall, Théoden called a gathering of his council. Yuna was invited to stand beside Éomer and Gandalf. She remained silent for most of the meeting, but when one elder—old and grim—spoke up with suspicion in his voice, Gandalf silenced him.

"She is no servant of darkness," the wizard said, voice sharp as steel. "She stands where many would fall. And without her, Helm's Deep would be a grave."

Aragorn added, "You saw that she gave peace to the dead. Can any of us do the same?"

The hall fell quiet.

Only Éomer spoke last, with simple clarity. "She stood with us in the fire. For Rohan. That is enough for me."

Afterward, as the sun dipped low and the court began to disperse, Théoden turned to Yuna.

"You have the thanks of Rohan, Lady Yuna. And my protection. For as long as you remain here."

Yuna bowed her head. "Thank you… my lord."

But as she turned, her eyes swept the stone pillars and torchlight—and caught the lingering stares of those who still wondered.


The Golden Hall thrummed with preparation.

Messengers came and went, hooves echoing through the courtyard. Supplies were packed, wounded tended. Théoden King would ride to Isengard—not as a supplicant, but as a victor, with the smoke of Helm's Deep still clinging to his cloak.

Inside, the lords of the Riddermark gathered. Éomer stood near the firepit with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. Gandalf paced, ever restive.

And in the shadows of the council, stood Yuna.

"She will come with us," Éomer said firmly when questioned by a skeptical thane.

Théoden only nodded. "If she wills it."

Yuna inclined her head. "I do."

One of the older councilmen leaned forward. "Forgive me, my lady, but is it wise to bring such… power? Some say Helm's Deep was saved by her. Others say it was nearly drowned in fire and lightning."

Aragorn spoke before Yuna could. "And others still remember the legions of orcs turned to ash by that same lightning."

Gandalf gave a soft snort. "Power is not dangerous in the right hands. Fear, however—that is always treacherous."

The room quieted.

Éowyn, standing behind Théoden, glanced to Yuna and gave a faint smile of support.

After the meeting, the companions gathered near the stables. The sun had dipped low, washing the fields of Edoras in gold.

Legolas adjusted the reins of his horse and murmured to Yuna as she approached, "They'll come around. The good ones already have."

"I'm used to strange glances," Yuna said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not so different from Spira. People fear what they do not understand."

Aragorn watched her for a moment, then said, "You carry it with grace."

"And a stubborn streak," Gimli added. "She nearly summoned a storm spirit after the victory feast, just to prove she could."

Yuna smiled—soft and amused.

"Would've made a fine fireworks show," Legolas said.

They laughed, but behind it all lingered a solemn thread. War had not ended. Saruman remained. And the road to Isengard promised more reckoning.


That night, after the moon rose and the camp outside Edoras quieted, Yuna found herself drawn once again beyond the walls. She stood near the overlook that gazed out toward the mountains, arms folded around herself. The wind tugged gently at her sleeves and sash, the blue-beaded earring shifting over her shoulder.

She felt him before she heard him.

Éomer approached with slower steps than usual, not wearing armor this time—only a dark cloak and the silver clasp of the house of Eorl. "I thought you might be here," he said softly.

Yuna tilted her head. "You always find me in quiet places."

"I think you go where the noise doesn't reach." He joined her at the overlook, their gazes cast out toward the horizon. "What is your world like? You've spoken briefly of Spira, but you do not talk much of it."

She turned to look at him—not startled, but searching. Something about his presence seemed to settle her. Yuna was quiet at first, thoughtful. Then, as though the floodgates had eased open, she began. "Spira is… beautiful," she said. "The sea is everywhere. Blue beyond imagining. The sky's always open, and the wind never forgets you. There are islands shaped like crescents, waterfalls that pour down from cliffs into glowing lakes. And temples—white stone and crystal—hidden in forests, under a lake, and on mountains."

Éomer listened in silence, imagining it through her voice. Her words painted color and sound and light in the dark.

"There are Chocobos, too," she added, smiling faintly. "Big yellow birds. You can ride them."

That earned a surprised laugh from him. "Impossible!" he scoffed, and then paused with a serious, curious, look. "Bigger than horses?"

"Feathers instead of hooves," she said. "But they're fast. And proud." She paused. "Like you."

Éomer chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. "I think would like to see one of these birds."

"You'd like them," she said. "They're stubborn."

He glanced sidelong at her. "You've spoken of beauty, and wind, and islands… but not of peace. You given whispers about your duty as a summoner and sacrifice. Was it a safe place?"

Yuna's eyes drifted upward to the stars, and her smile faded into something quieter. "There was a threat," she said. "Sin. A great beast that brought ruin wherever it went. Whole cities would vanish beneath the waves when it appeared. People lived in fear of the sea, of their own past… of each other." She paused. "No one really know where Sin came from, but it is said that it is our punishment for our greed for power. And only when we atone for our sins, will it one day disappear for good."

He frowned, jaw tightening. "And you fought it?"

"I'm a summoner," she said. "It's my duty to make a pilgrimage, to gather strength. I travel to the temples of Yevon, learning to call upon the Aeons—spirits of those who've given everything to protect Spira."

"You speak as if you had defeated it."

Yuna hesitated, then shook her head slowly. "No. Not yet. But I have fought it. With my guardians. The first time I battled it I had just gotten my first aeon, and was heading to a nearby island for another one. We were ambushed at sea."

Éomer studied her face, the quiet steel behind her words.

"You are very young for such a burden."

A soft smile graced Yuna's face. "My father, Braska, was a summoner," she said. "He defeated Sin ten years ago. He brought the Calm—peace—for a little while. People still speak his name with reverence, even 10 years later." Her voice grew quieter. "I was just a child when he left on his pilgrimage. I never saw him again. But I...I always knew I would follow him." She looked up at Éomer, not with sorrow, but a calm resolve. "I wanted to make his sacrifice mean something. To make people smile again. That's why I became a summoner."

"Your father, does he not live still?"

A bitter smile made it's way on her lips as she shook her head. "He...never came home." She didn't say anymore.

And Éomer didn't press.

Instead, he took in her words with a kind of reverence of his own—not for her power, but for the grace with which she bore its weight. "You're not finished, then," he said.

"No," she replied. "I still have a duty."

They stood in silence, the wind whispering around them. Something shifted in her voice when she said that—calm, but heavy. Not burdened. Chosen. But she said nothing more.

"I was brought here by the Fayth."

"The Fayth?"

Yuna turned to him. "My aeons. The 'beasts' and 'gods', as you called them. The guardians I summon."

Éomer hummed for a moment, part of him a little skeptic, but part of him curious. Then he asked, "To find peace?"

"No. To remember why I fight for it."

There was something more behind her eyes, something shadowed and unspoken—but she tucked it away behind a serene smile.

"What about you?" she asked, nudging his shoulder. "Your world, Rohan?"

Éomer looked out across the open land. "Grasslands that stretch farther than the eye can see. Horses that run faster than the wind. A people born for the saddle. Fierce. Proud. But war has touched us more than most. Too many songs in Rohan are written for the dead."

Yuna's expression softened. "Maybe our worlds aren't so different, then."

He looked at her again, long and quiet. "No. Maybe not."

A pause.

And then.

"Will you go back?" he asked.

"I have to," she said. "Spira still needs me."

"But for now?"

She paused.

"For now, I'll walk a little farther in this world," she said, "if you'll walk with me."

He didn't answer with words—just reached over and quietly took her hand.

And for the first time since she'd fallen through that impossible light, Yuna felt steady again.