Work Text:
He felt like he fit between them, Ghilan’nain’s touch gentle, Andruil’s possessive. Perhaps it was arrogant folly, but he felt like he made them both better, like he softened Andruil’s sharp edges and gave Ghilan’nain the confidence she sorely lacked.
It was an indulgence. A lie, to them and to himself. Letting himself get lost in flesh and desire and the simulacrum of improvement. A whispered, thready promise—I will be better. You will be better. We will be better.
If he laid down his plans, his goals, if he chose this… could it not lead to a different success? One less brutal? Could he not guide them, encourage them? Strengthen Ghilan’nain’s humility, gently quell Andruil’s demand? What if the three of them could lead? What would Arlathan be for them, under their guiding hands?
Andruil as a commander, as leader of their forces, with the patience of the hunt behind her every deliberate movement.
Ghilan’nain as the face, the promise that the ordinary can become more, a queen beloved by her people.
And he, the trickster, doing whatever else was necessary. A knife in the back. A promise spoken—a promise broken. Cunning and canny, wise and wary.
Andruil’s hand on his hip, Ghilan’nain’s on his face, and his body burned under their touch. He felt like he fit between them.
But he was a monster, already free of his cage. There was no turning back. No potential that was worth the price of failure. No guarantee that could be trusted.
No release. No recourse.
Nothing but the path and the betrayal.