THE LAST OATH (Micro-stories)
- Lyia Meta - My Ink Bleeds
- 6 days ago
- 3 min read
Foreword
by Lyia Meta
Many years ago, I became utterly absorbed in the story of Jeanne d’Arc, better known to many as Joan of Arc.¹ Her name, her courage, and her steadfast loyalty to the Dauphin², Charles VII, the heir to the French throne, stood out to me in a way that few historical figures ever had. Back then, I remember spending hours reading a book — one I believe was published by Penguin Books — that contained a translation of the transcripts from her trial. While I can’t say with complete certainty that it was the exact edition, a brief check suggests it may have been Joan of Arc by Edward Lucie-Smith. That, along with W. S. Scott’s translated version of the actual trial records, shaped much of how I came to understand her world — particularly her role in the lifting of the siege of Orléans and the coronation of Charles VII, events that defined her brief yet extraordinary journey, and of course, her absolute belief in the voices.
Religious sentiment aside, it was Jeanne d’Arc’s conviction, resilience, and sheer will in the face of cruelty that left a lasting impression. Equally compelling was her unwavering faith in what she believed were divine messengers — voices that guided her to lead and win crucial battles during the Hundred Years’ War, ultimately altering the course of French history.
Recently, watching 'Martin Scorsese Presents: The Saints', I found myself drawn back into her story — once again paging through old books and familiar accounts. Some things linger just outside the edges of our awareness, quietly influencing us over time.
This is a small piece that emerged from that space between memory and imagination.
¹ Pronounced “ZHAHN dark,” Jeanne d’Arc is the French name of Joan of Arc.
² Dauphin (pronounced “doh-FAN”) was the title for the heir to the French throne.
The Watcher of the Western Wall
(A quiet tale of loyalty and time)
She arrives before first light, as she always does.
The tower leans with age, its stones softened by rain and centuries. Moss threads through its base like veins on a forgotten hand. No guards remain. No orders are issued. No armies approach. The war is long over — though no one alive remembers what it was about, or who won.
And yet, she returns.
Her armor is worn, dulled to pewter where once it gleamed. The surcoat she wears bears an insignia long faded, a symbol that even the village elders no longer recognize. Her hair is bound in the old way — not for ceremony, but for purpose. For vigilance.
She takes her place on the high parapet, eyes scanning the horizon where the sea meets the sky, her breath steady, hands clasped behind her back. The air is silent but never still. Winds whisper through arrow slits and cracked stone, tugging at her like ghosts asking to be remembered.
Below, the town stirs. A boy chases a dog. A baker loads his cart. A merchant’s wife hangs linen in the breeze. One or two villagers glance up, noting her silhouette in the tower’s shadow. Some nod, respectfully, if absently. Most do not look.
To them, she is just 'there', like the stone, like the mountain, like memory itself — something ancient, quiet, unmoving.
They think she’s a relic.
They don’t know the oath she took.
They don’t know it was not to a king or god or country, but to a cause. A promise made not in glory but in silence. She gave her word, and she returns each day to keep it, even if no one asks her to.
Even if no one remembers why.
Some days, she wonders if it mattered — the battles, the banners, the blood.
Then the wind shifts. The sky dims.
And she feels it again.
A weight, a warning, a whisper in her bones.
She straightens.
And waits.
In a world that forgets so easily, true loyalty is often the quietest act — not the flash of battle or the roar of victory, but the steadfast presence when no one watches. Sometimes, the greatest courage lies in simply keeping a promise, day after day, long after the reasons have faded.
by Lyia Meta
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