The sun crested low over the plains as the company rode hard toward Isengard. Mist clung to the earth like a stubborn memory, curling around hooves and trailing behind capes soaked in blood, ash, and victory. Yuna rode between Legolas and Éomer, perched sidesaddle on a borrowed Rohan steed. The beast was massive beneath her, all muscle and wind, but it responded to her touch with the same quiet reverence all things alive seemed to offer her. Even now, birds wheeled above her like a slow-drifting prayer.

Éomer rode beside her, guiding the line of riders with eyes always scanning the horizon. But his gaze drifted to her more often than he would ever admit. Something about her presence—soft-spoken yet grounded in steel—had rooted itself in his thoughts. He spoke first, low enough that only she would hear.

"You don't ride like a warrior."

She smiled a little. "I'm used to riding chocobos. But I'm no warrior."

"But you carry yourself like one," he said, half to her, half to himself. "Even the men have noticed. They watch you as if you might start glowing again."

Yuna's cheeks colored faintly, but she only replied, "I hope not. Not while we're moving."

They rode on in silence for a while, the wind threading through their group, stirring cloaks and hair. Far ahead, Aragorn and Gandalf spoke in low voices, Gimli grumbling between hoofbeats, Legolas riding light as a feather upon the wind.

Then Éomer asked, more gently this time, "When you left your world, were you close to finishing your pilgrimage?"

Yuna hesitated. Her fingers brushed the cloth tied around her staff.

"No," she said. "I still had a ways to go."

He nodded slowly. He did not press further—not yet. But the weight of unfinished purpose sat between them like a second saddle.

Behind them, Gandalf slowed his steed until he was riding alongside Legolas. The wizard's gaze passed over Yuna—not harsh, not suspicious, but thoughtful. As if reading lines not written in any book.

"She walks in two songs at once," Gandalf murmured.

Legolas tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"She is bound to a rhythm we do not hear," the wizard said, "and it follows her even here."

Legolas nodded slowly. "I have seen it. The light around her is not of this world."

"But it is not against it, either," Gandalf said. "Not yet."

Smoke rose in the distance, but not the smoke of war. It was… green. Strange. Wild. The forest itself had shifted, moved, grown. And something ancient stirred behind the walls of what had once been Saruman's stronghold.

Gandalf smiled faintly. "We are near the Entwood. I hope you are ready."

Yuna looked toward the strange trees in the distance, something like recognition flickering in her expression.

"Ready for what?" she asked.

"To meet the world's oldest anger," Gandalf said.

And with that, they pressed on.


The forest had marched. Even from afar, Yuna could feel it—the strange pulse of life woven through every leaf and root. As the company crested the final rise, the wreckage of war unfolded below them.

Isengard had fallen, but not by sword or flame.

By nature.

The great walls had been split open, crumbled by gnarled roots and stone-wrapped trees. The river, once dammed by Saruman's hand, now flooded the valley in glimmering vengeance. Smoke and steam hissed from ruined forges, and still the scent of sap and moss warred with the acrid tang of scorched earth.

Treebeard stood among the ruin like a sentinel grown from the bones of the world—taller than any giant, older than the deepest cave, eyes slow but endless. Around him, other Ents moved like thunderclouds taking root. They had no need for torches or axes. They were the storm.

Yuna's breath caught.

It was like nothing in Spira, and yet… something in the Aeons stirred. A quiet resonance. Valefor, perhaps, or Ifrit or Ixion, some thread of ancient power whispering recognition. These trees knew time. They rode cautiously into the remnants of the stronghold. The Rohirrim behind them muttered in awe and fear, but Gandalf rode tall and undeterred.

Treebeard turned with the creaking grace of an age-old bough.

"Ahhhh… Mithrandir…" His voice rolled like hills in thunder.

Gandalf raised a hand. "Treebeard, old friend. You've been busy."

The great Ent rumbled with something that might have been laughter. "Saruman's fire could not burn deep enough. The roots remember. And we have long memories…"

Yuna dismounted quietly, her boots touching the mud and moss with a reverent hush. Treebeard's eyes moved to her—slow, watchful. He bent just slightly, bark groaning.

"This one… is not of this world."

"No," Gandalf replied. "But she bears its pain already."

Treebeard let out a long breath. "Mmmm… she carries sorrow. And silence."

Yuna watched him with quiet reverence. "I've never seen anything like you."

Treebeard blinked slowly. "And I've never seen anything like you, child of another breath of world."

"You can tell?" she asked, surprised.

"Oh yes," Treebeard said. "The song in your spirit doesn't rhyme with Middle-earth's. But it sings all the same."

Yuna bowed slightly, her sleeves brushing the damp stone. "Thank you."


The Tower of Orthanc

As the company drew closer to the base of Isengard, Yuna could feel something stirring in the air. The weight of history, of secrets buried beneath layers of deceit and power. It was not simply the presence of Saruman she sensed—it was the twisting of fate itself. Something old. Something dangerous.

They stood now at the base of the black tower. Water lapped at its feet, cold and deep. The wind here carried whispers—faint and sharp. Yuna's skin prickled. She reached instinctively for her staff.

Gandalf stepped forward, his voice like flint. "Saruman. Come down."

Saruman's voice rang out, smooth and dangerous from the tower. The words dripped with venom, yet they carried an eerie calmness that sent a shiver down her spine. "So the old forest creaks, and Mithrandir plays shepherd to trees… Have you come to lecture me, Gandalf the White?"

Aragorn's hand rested near his sword. Legolas stood with a single arrow notched and ready. Gimli spat into the grass.

Éomer, beside Yuna, bristled. But Yuna's gaze remained steady on the tower. She could feel it—the distortion in the air. This place had once been a beacon, a thing of knowledge. But it had twisted. The sorrow here was old, but not ancient. It was the kind that came from betrayal. Like Yevon. Knowledge bent by power.

Saruman's voice continued: "So, Gandalf… you bring a child of another world. A summoner," he voice said, almost playful. "But you carry more than that, don't you, girl?"

Yuna's heart tightened. Her name had not been spoken, but he knew her. The words pierced her as though he had struck directly into her soul. There was a flicker in her chest. A tug. He knew something. Something she hadn't said aloud. Her grip tightened on her staff, and Éomer moved closer, hand resting near the hilt of his sword.

Éomer stepped forward, hand on hilt. "Speak not to her."

But Gandalf held up a hand, stopping them both. "He seeks to draw us out. His tongue is poison, no longer truth."

Saruman's laugh was cold, echoing in the vast emptiness of Isengard, as though it rose from the very stones of the tower. "I see it, you know," Saruman continued, his voice like a velvet blade. "You came to this world, child, not by chance. The fabric of time has unraveled to bring you here. But what you do not understand, yet, is that you can return. There is a way back for you."

Yuna froze, her breath catching. Her eyes flickered up at Gandalf, who stood with his head bowed, deep in thought.

Saruman's voice lowered, almost to a whisper, but it echoed across the clearing.

"But such a journey requires sacrifice, does it not? There is a price for such an undoing, a cost greater than you yet comprehend. You will walk the path of your predecessors—those who gave themselves freely for the world they once knew… and yet, the journey back is not so simple."

Yuna swallowed. A memory flickered in her mind, distant and shadowed, like a half-remembered dream. Sacrifice. She had read of it—of the deep sacrifice that tied summoners to their fate. She had heard of it, but the words she had never dared to speak, let alone confront.

Saruman's eyes glinted from the tower, his voice like a soft, curling smoke.

"You will have to choose," he said, an oily sweetness in his tone. "The cost is not paid lightly. And in the end, you will not return the way you think. The one who walks your path… must give all to the journey."

His voice paused. Then, a slow, knowing chuckle echoed from the darkened tower.

"Do you understand now, summoner? You are not alone in your burden. But you will be when the time comes. All must be given."

Yuna felt her pulse quicken, and for a moment, the world around her seemed to close in. Gandalf turned toward her, his eyes narrowed, though his expression was unreadable. But she could feel him watching, calculating.

Saruman's voice broke through her thoughts again, sharp and insistent. "You may not wish to hear this now, but you will. You will learn the true cost of your journey, just as your kind always has."

Yuna's hand trembled around her staff, but she remained standing tall, not letting the fear creep into her voice.

"I will find my way," she said softly, almost to herself, but enough to be heard. "Even if the cost is greater than I know."

Saruman let out another low laugh, but there was no humor in it. It was the sound of a man who had seen too many fates collide and believed his own understanding of destiny was absolute.

"Then you will walk it, child," Saruman said. "And you will know the price of being lost."

Saruman's last words echoed in the air like the fading rumble of thunder, his voice growing fainter as the wind carried it away. But it was the final act that made all the difference.

In the blink of an eye, Saruman's tower began to tremble. The dark wizard had been backed into a corner, the last vestiges of his power slipping from his grasp like sand through fingers. His face twisted in anger and defiance, but even that could not stave off the inevitable.

Saruman, once the White Wizard, was no more than a figure of arrogance now.

And with one final cry, he fell.

A terrible shriek broke the stillness of the air as Saruman toppled from the tower, his robes billowing like dark wings behind him. The earth below caught him with a sickening thud, his life extinguished as quickly as a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind.

The company stood in silence, watching the place where he had once stood, now just another ruin in a land that had long been steeped in corruption. The Ents stirred, their ancient faces unreadable, as they turned their gaze back to the forest, their duty done.

Yuna closed her eyes, but she did not flinch. There was no relief, no joy in Saruman's demise. Only the quiet weight of knowing that the world's balance had once again shifted, and she was still caught in its tide.


The company moved in silence through the ruined forest, the air thick with the scent of decay and the weight of unspoken thoughts. The distant sound of water trickling, the soft crackling of hooves, and the rustling of branches were the only things that filled the silence. Yuna rode with her head slightly lowered, her mind far away from the world around her.

Éomer, noticing the quiet tension that had settled over her since their encounter with Saruman, couldn't help but feel concern stir within him. There was something unsettling about the way she carried herself—a burden that weighed heavier with each passing day. He couldn't quite place it, but it had been growing ever since they had first met.

"Yuna," he said softly, his voice cutting through the thick silence. "Before Saruman fell, and he spoke to you—about your journey. He said there was a way for you to go back to your world… but that it would come at a cost."

Yuna's gaze flickered toward the ground as she rode. She could feel his eyes on her, the weight of his curiosity pressing down. But she didn't want to answer. Not now. Not in this moment.

Éomer pressed on, not yet fully understanding the depth of what Saruman had implied.

"He said your sacrifice would be great, but he did not explain how," He tried to keep his voice steady, though there was an edge of worry in his tone. "What did he mean by that?"

She kept her gaze ahead, the uncertainty swirling within her. Her fingers tightened on the reins. She was used to this by now—the carefully constructed walls she'd built around the truth.

Éomer frowned, brow furrowed. "What did he mean? What price?" he repeated.

She looked away, staring ahead. "He's not wrong. There's always a cost, Éomer. There is always a price. And sometimes, that price... is not something you can control." She paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I've always known. The the price of being a summoner. To defeat Sin, I have to give everything." She hesitated for a moment, then added, "It's what we do. It's why we're chosen."

She didn't give him the full answer—didn't tell him that she would die in the end. Instead, she said what she knew he could understand: that this path was the one she had chosen, and there was no turning back. She would protect this world, even if she couldn't survive it. The words she couldn't speak, the truth she couldn't share. It was the same as when she had told Tidus nothing—because how could she explain the reality of her sacrifice, of what she truly faced? How could she tell him that the only way to bring peace was to give up everything, including her life?

But she couldn't say that. Not now. Not to Éomer, who had already carried so much weight of his own. She didn't want him to see her weakness, her uncertainty. She didn't want him to feel the same helplessness she had when she first understood her fate. Her journey was suppose to be full of laughter.

Éomer studied her closely, trying to understand the distance between her words and her gaze. There was something in her eyes—something she wasn't saying, a weight she wasn't revealing. He could feel it, a subtle tension hanging in the air.

But all she did was smile at him, and it confused him even more. He could tell that she was holding something back, something important, but the smile was so serene, so kind, that he couldn't press her further.

"But Saruman said… there is a way back for you. He said you could return," Éomer pressed, his voice more insistent now. "You could find peace. You could go home."

"I don't know what Saruman meant," she said slowly. And it was the truth. She didn't know what sacrifice he was referring to. Perhaps sacrificing her life and experiences she's made in Middles Earth? She shook her head. "But I can't think about that right now. I have a mission. I have to focus on what's in front of me."

She pulled her horse forward, pushing the conversation into the past, hoping he wouldn't press further. Éomer slowed his horse beside hers but said nothing more. He didn't understand. He couldn't.

"You're right about one thing," he said, riding Firefoot beside her. "You have a mission and a duty. But that does not mean you have to bear it alone."

Yuna smiled softly, though it was tinged with sadness. She looked up at the stars, her heart heavy with the truth she couldn't share.

"Thank you, Éomer," she whispered. "For believing in me."

Éomer studied her for a moment, sensing that there was something she was holding back—something more than what she had said. But he said nothing more. He had learned, in his travels, that some things were better left unsaid. At least for now.

He nodded, his eyes softening. "I will always believe in you, Lady Yuna. And I will be here. For as long as you need me."

Yuna turned her gaze back to the stars, the weight of her unspoken truth lingering between them. She had a long road ahead, and she would walk it alone. But for now, she had Éomer's strength beside her—and that, for the moment, was enough.