Beneath Eternity’s Gaze-Micro-stories.

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I haven’t done much reading lately—music takes up most of my time now. But many years ago, I was constantly buried in books. The ones that stayed with me were full of mystery and myth—King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, Greek mythology, and stories that blurred the line between the real and the imagined.

I was drawn to the darker side of things too—Atlantis, the Tarot, Egyptian gods like Isis and Osiris, Thoth, Anubis, and the hidden threads of the Knights Templar. I liked stories that hinted at something just out of reach, just out of sight.

Places like Stonehenge would come up now and then—quiet, massive, and full of questions. They felt like part of that same world, where the past never really ends.

Writers like Anne Rice and Tolkien left a strong impression on me—stories about quests, choices, power, and the unseen things that shape us. This micro story comes from that space. It’s not a full tale. Just a moment held still.

An adjourned story.

Image by WiX

Beneath Eternity’s Gaze

She made her way across the threshold, just beyond the treeline, where the air did hang still and the hush of the wood held its breath.

There, in the half-light, she saw it shimmer—a wavering veil, like silver mist drawn 'twixt two worlds. It moved not with wind, nor bent to the earth's pull, but seemed to wait—as though it knew her name, though none had spoken it aloud in many years.

In her hand, a token—small, worn, wrapped in linen. Not a gift, but a returning.

She stepped once more, her footfall light upon the moss, and the shimmer grew closer—no longer a thing seen, but a thing felt.

When she stepped through the Veil, she was once more whole.

Her countenance, fair yet unearthly, bore the stillness of starlight and the sorrow of long-forgotten time. Her eyes held the colour of places unnamed, and her grace was not of any age known to man.

Among The Elder Kin—those who walk neither in shadow nor light, but in the quiet spaces between—her name was still spoken in hushed tones, like a memory too old to fade, yet too sacred to summon.

Her voice did carry 'ere she could speak, and lo—the heavens did open.

“Where art thou?” she called, though no breath had yet left her lips. The words unfurled from the air itself, as if the world had long awaited their return.

’Twas two full centuries since last she stood upon this ground, and still she held his name in the hollow of her soul—unspoken, unspent.

No stone did mark his rest. No tale bore his end. Yet here she came, drawn not by memory, but by the quiet echo of a vow made beneath the waning moon.

And as the wind turned and the light grew thin, she turned her face toward the warmth of the heavens, and willed the celestial guardians to bestow upon her the magic and the grace of the one that once held her.

And in that stillness, something stirred—not seen, not heard, but felt.

As though the stars themselves did lean closer, to listen.

Her fingers uncurled about the token she bore, and for the first time in an age, it pulsed with light—not bright, but steady, like breath returned to a sleeping flame.

“If thou hearest me,” she whispered, “come forth—not as thou wert, but as thou art now, beneath eternity’s gaze.”

A shadow crossed the Veil—no form, no voice, only presence.

And though her eyes knew not what they beheld, her soul did answer it.

by Lyia Meta

Composed: Guy Renardeau | Lyrics: Lyia Meta