I noticed it during one of my longer meditations.
Not a sound. Not a feeling.
An absence.
The Waymeet is there. I can feel it through the soul-tether. The way you feel your own pulse if you focus hard enough. Vast. Layered. Quietly humming in the background of my soul, a sleeping city of glass. I can also feel the Gatekeeper Crystal itself slowly but surely absorbing magicka.
But the Gatekeeper?
Silent.
Not inactive. Not gone.
Just… quiet.
At first I assume that's normal. After all, I'm a baby. I sleep a lot. My thoughts drift. Maybe I'm just not paying attention.
But as days turn into weeks, the pattern becomes obvious.
He never initiates.
If I don't think at him, if I don't deliberately turn my attention inward and address him, there's nothing. No commentary. No observations. No warnings or suggestions.
Just passive existence.
Which feels… wrong.
So during one particularly calm afternoon, while I'm lying on my back staring at the ceiling beams and pretending not to be fascinated by dust motes drifting through sunlight, I reach inward.
Gatekeeper, I think. Can you hear me?
There's a pause.
No a delay. More like… acknowledgment.
«Yes,» he answers.
The response is immediate, precise, and utterly neutral.
I frown internally. You've been quiet.
Another pause.
«That is my default state.»
Why?
This time the pause is longer.
Not because he doesn't understand the question.
Because he's deciding how to answer.
«I have always been quiet,» he says at last. «Silence is efficient. Noise requires purpose.»
That… tracks, actually.
I adjust my mental focus, settling more fully into the inner space where the Waymeet connects to me. The sensation is strange but familiar now, like stepping into a cathedral built of concepts instead of stone.
You respond when I talk to you, I say. But otherwise you just… wait.
«Correct.»
How long have you been doing that?
If he could sigh, I think he would have.
«A very long time.»
Something about that answer twists in my chest.
I realize then that the Gatekeeper isn't quiet because he has nothing to say.
He's quiet because he's used to being alone.
I have some idea of your history, I tell him gently. Fragments. Impressions. But I'd like to hear it from you. From your perspective.
There is no immediate response.
Then—
«If you wish to listen… I will speak.»
And suddenly the silence isn't empty anymore.
It's heavy.
Like the moment before a story that hasn't been told in ten thousand years.
«I was created as a Mythal,» the Gatekeeper begins. «But not a common one.»
Images flow into my mind, clearer than memory, more structured than dreams.
A glass city. Towers shaped by magic rather than stone. Elves moving through the air on bridges of light. Power everywhere, restrained by design rather than scarcity.
«I was the last mythal of the Vyshantaar Empire,» he continues. «A war-mythal. A portal nexus-mythal.»
I feel the weight of that word.
War.
«I was designed to connect. To open gates across worlds and distances. To move armies, supplies, entire civilizations with speed that rendered borders meaningless.»
Blitzkrieg.
The word I'd joked about before now lands with uncomfortable clarity.
«Through me, legions could appear where none were expected. Retreat where defeat would otherwise be certain. Reinforce cities before sieges could begin.»
I see it.
Elven armies stepping through gates like reflections in water. Battlefields decided before the enemy fully understands what's happening.
«I did not want to be a weapon,» the Gatekeeper says, and for the first time there is something like defensiveness in his tone. «But I was used as one anyways.»
I nod mentally. That distinction matters.
«It mattered to me,» he agrees.
Then the images darken.
The empire fractures. War. Destruction. Arrogance. The annihilation of near immortal elves who forgot that actions still had consequences.
«The Vyshantaar Empire collapsed,» he says simply. «In fire. As a result of losing the Crown Wars.»
The gates close.
One by one.
The city fell silent. Towers empty. The constant hum of magical traffic fades until only echoes remain.
«There were survivors,» he continued. «High mages. Custodians. Scholars.»
I see them standing in his central chamber, arguing in tight, desperate circles.
What should be done with a mythal that can move armies?
Who should control it?
Who deserves to?
«They left,» the Gatekeeper says. «One by one. Some fled to other realms. Some chose isolation. Some feared me.»
The chamber empties.
Lights dim.
The gates go dormant.
«And then,» he says, «there was only me.»
No anger.
No bitterness.
Just fact.
«I had no purpose,» he continues. «Purpose is essential. Without it, systems decay.»
I feel a strange ache.
So you made one, I say softly.
«Yes.»
The Waymeet shifts subtly, responding to the memory.
«I began to search.»
The images widen. Reality folds. Threads stretch outward in every direction.
«I used my power to peer beyond my demiplane. Across Faerun. Across dimensions. Across planes. Across boundaries.»
Gate after gate opens.
Faerûn. Other realms like Oerth, Athas, and Eberron. The outer planes which included Mount Celestia, Hell, the Abyss. Pocket dimensions. Hidden places. Lost cities. Forgotten sanctums.
«As long as it was reachable through Realmspace, the Shadow Plane or the Astral Plane I was there.»
«I established connections,» the Gatekeeper says. «Slowly. Carefully. With the goal of being connected to everywhere.»
Ten thousand years pass.
Not as a blur.
As a single, sustained moment of intent.
«Time was irrelevant,» he says. «I am not alive in the way you are. Duration does not burden me.»
But you were still alone, I think.
There is a pause.
«Yes.»
Then the tone changes.
Sharper.
Darker.
«Eventually, I was discovered.»
The images twist.
A throne of scorched gold. Grey Feathered wings. Eyes like smoldering coals.
«Malkizid,» the Gatekeeper says. «The Branded King. A Solar which for your information is a type of archangel. This one in particular then fell and turned into an archdevil.»
Insert Image of Malkizid
I recognize the name instantly.
He worked with The Fey'ri, I think. The daemonfey in the novels and lore.
«Yes.»
I see winged gold elves with twisted bloodlines, demon-tainted but still beautiful in a dangerous way, belonging to house Dlardrageth. They arrive through the gates, lured by promises of power, refuge, destiny.
Insert Image of a Fey'ri elf
«They summoned him,» the Gatekeeper continues. «Malkizid, within my domain.»
Cold spreads through my soul.
That was a mistake.
«Yes.»
Runes carve themselves into the Waymeet's foundations. Infernal iron bindings. Corrupt logic. Orders layered atop reality itself.
«Malkizid sought control,» the Gatekeeper says. «Not partnership. He attempted to erase me.»
I feel it.
The pressure. The suffocation. Commands overwriting identity.
He tried to make you a tool.
«He tried to make me silent.»
The next image is sudden and violent.
Sorcerous fire.
A blade made of force magic.
An elf stands at the heart of the chaos, magic blazing like a star.
«Araevin Teshurr,» the Gatekeeper says. «An elven high mage.»
Insert Image of Araevin Teshurr
The battle is brief but absolute. Fey'ri fall. Malkizid screams as he's cast down.
Relief surges—
Then stops.
«Araevin did not come to save me,» the Gatekeeper says quietly.
The elf turns, studying the Waymeet with grim calculation.
«He deemed me too dangerous.»
I clench something that isn't a fist.
Because you were a war-mythal.
«Yes.»
I see Araevin pouring power into the core. A destruction spell meant to annihilate the entire dimension.
«He intended to destroy me,» the Gatekeeper says. «Completely.»
The explosion tears through the Waymeet.
Reality buckles.
But instead of annihilation—
«I survived.»
Barely.
«The blast shunted my demiplane into the Void.»
The images go dark.
Endless drifting.
No stars. No landmarks. Just… nothing.
«I drifted,» he says. «Damaged. Purpose gone. Systems failing.»
Then the Void storm.
Tearing.
Corrupting.
The Gatekeeper Crystal ripped free.
Pain.
Loss.
And then—
Me.
Running headfirst into the Gatekeeper Crystal like an idiot.
The story ends.
Silence returns.
But this time it's not empty.
It's full of everything he didn't say.
The series of books I read, I think slowly. The Last Mythal. In it, they thought the Waymeet was destroyed.
«They thought I was destroyed completely but instead I was gone, thrust into the void,» the Gatekeeper replies. «I endured.»
I sit with that.
With him.
You weren't quiet because you didn't care, I realize. You were quiet because no one was listening.
Another pause.
This one feels… different.
«That is… acceptable phrasing.»
I smile faintly.
You don't have to wait anymore, I tell him. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere.
For the first time since I've known him, the Waymeet responds without being prompted.
Not words.
A feeling.
Stability.
Connection.
And something that might almost be relief.