Malcolm Albright - Gatekeeper (Patreon)

A/N Takes place before Malcolm's death, during his years as the Gatekeeper.

“What exactly happened?”

Malcolm hissed in pain, falling back on the soft bed of kelp. His shirt was discarded somewhere, having been torn through with sizzling cracks of electricity, the lines of which burned across his skin, slashing through his tattoos and previous scars.

“Too many gates,” he said through gritted teeth. “There were too many to close at once. Not with magic at least. Had to do some of them by hand.”

Kamille looked at him, crushing bits of oyster within a small bowl and adding the glittering waters from the pool held within the corner of the room.  “You can’t keep doing this, Malcolm. I don’t want to keep patching you up.”

Malcolm looked up at her, a small smirk etched painfully across his face. “Oh, Kamille. I know you just want to get your hands on me. Ours is a torrid love affair.”

She rolled her eyes before scooping out a handful of the concoction and slapping it on the sizzling wound. Malcolm flinched in pain but held himself still.  “You have friends. You have family,” she pointed out.  “Your co-worker is not the one that should be patching you up at the end of the day.”

“You’re far more than just my co-worker,” he pointed out, eyes cast downwards to look at the crushed shells. It was a salve that Hazel would have loved to get her hands on.  She didn’t work much with the ocean but it would still be a handy one to know.

“What even happened today?” Kamille sat next to him, crossing one dark leg over the other.  Malcolm almost preferred it better when she had the tentacles.  Felt more Kamille like than the human form she took.  “Is this another sign of the market dying?” she asked.

“I don’t see how it couldn’t be,” he said, trying to relax as she tended to him. Her fingers ran across his chest, over the moon shaped scars. Long ago he had learned that Kamille was a tactile person.  A former courtesan of the market, he thought she might just miss touch.  “There are too many trade gates open,” he continued.  “People coming and going freely from different worlds is causing everything to be split.”

“And then you keep opening the doors to the refugees.  You need to close one before you do that.”

“I should just close all the trade doors.  I shouldn’t have to make permissions to save someone's life.”

“Most would find it an inconvenience, though.  Closing off their yearly shopping trips.” Her tone was laced in bitterness. He always had liked Kamille’s dry sense of humor.

“It doesn’t matter.  They’re slowly falling out of my control.  That’s what’s more concerning. I open one and then three more pop open in areas of the market I didn't even know existed.  How many gates do you think are open in the outlands?” he asked with a raised brow.  “Because I can feel them, Kamille. Like these endless voids in the pit of my stomach.  There’s just so many.” Head falling back on the settee wrapped in soft green seaweed, Malcolm closed his eyes, lashes sweeping across tanned skin, dark hair falling in font of his face.  He blew it out of the way with a huff of breath.

“You really feel them?” Kamille asked curiously.

He nodded.  “Yeah.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Constantly,” he laughed. “It's like this dull ache in the base of my skull. Then, each time a new gate opens it feels like there's some sort of laceration against me.  Or an endless void that is trying to consume me.  I wouldn’t wish this power on anyone. Not even my worst enemy.”

Kamille frowned.  “I didn’t feel anything like that upon becoming a Baron.”

“I have a suspicion that becoming a Baron and becoming a Gatekeeper are two very different things.”

Shifting, he winced.  The salve was doing its magic, along with the squid ink he had ingested early.  The doors were now more like a dull ache despite having taken strips of his skin to bind them closed.  He was tired. So very, very tired.

“Why have you not told your sister yet?” Kamille’s tone was admonishing.

Malcolm laughed a bit.  “Because she would want to help.  Hazel had a bleeding heart, Kamille. A beautiful one.  If she knew what I was, she would be consumed with my own pain and refuse to live her life.  I’m not going to do that to her.”

“Your mother?”

“Dead. Hopefully forever.”

“Is there anyone else that cares for you? I do not like you alone when you go home.  Baron’s need more than what we seem to think we deserve.”

Malcolm smiled wryly.  “We’re on a break.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means he stabbed me years ago and is currently elsewhere licking his wounds because he’s scared to come say sorry. Milo always did have a little bit of a problem with taking accountability for his actions. Or shouldering responsibility.”

“But you care for him?”

“What can I say. He’s a mess of a man.  I may have a type.”  Eyes closing again, he sucked in a sharp breath, thinking of Milo. Thinking of Hazel. He wanted to tell them. He had wanted to tell them the second he became the Baron.  But he had never known how. And then the pain had started coursing through his veins and the market began screaming in his head. So much pain contained within a cosmic being and all of it on his shoulders. Malcolm didn’t want to just make the screaming stop, though. He wanted to ease the pain. To soothe the weeping and the tears that he often cried that he knew were not his own. Malcolm wanted to save the Night Market.  But he didn’t know if by doing so, if it would cause him to fall into nothing.  Yet, he would willingly sacrifice himself if it meant they were safe.  Malcolm supposed falling in love was like that.

A soft blanket was pulled up over his chest and tucked under his chin.

“I still think you should tell someone,” Kamille said.  “This secrecy thing will kill all of us.”

Rolling on his side, Malcolm curled the blanket close. “I will. One day. Either when my hand is forced or when we can laugh about it all.  Until then, let them live in bliss.  Those two deserve happiness.”

When Kamille’s lips pressed against his temple, she ran her hand across his cheek. “You do too.”

Malcolm smiled. “Told you. Torrid love affair, you and I.”

He could feel the eye roll as she walked out of the room, dimming the lights.  Gates were still open across the market and each one of them burned through Malcolm like a live wire. But, he had closed so many as well.  He could feel the content that created through the market itself. How they were happy.  As Malcolm tipped into slumber, he listened to that happiness.  In his dreams, he listened to the Night Market sing.