What am I doing? What am I doing?
Rulalin Tarasir sat with his head in his hands. He sat alone, because he was always alone these days. No one wanted him now, not after what he'd done.
He really wondered sometimes what he'd been thinking. He'd been thinking, of course, that killing Joraiem would somehow make things better. He'd thought nothing could be worse than the pain of watching one of his closest friends love and marry the woman that Rulalin himself had pined for all these long years. But this was worse. A lot worse.
Before he'd had friends. Not many, because most people found him a little hard to understand. But he did have Joraiem at least; who'd been with him since even before they came to the place they called the Summerland. And there'd been Wylla, who stayed with them despite Rulalin's infatuation with her, because she loved Joraiem. Rulalin got to see her, to be close to her, even though he knew that she was edging out of his reach for good.
Even as he watched Wylla and Joraiem grow closer, it never really sank in that Joraiem would actually steal her until they were already married. The jealousy that had been smoldering in him had flared to sudden and intense life then, and Rulalin had become blind to all else except the need to have Wylla Someris as his bride. He'd been so far gone on his jealous ire that he had truly believed that with Joraiem out of the way, Wylla would see that he was truly better for her. Either that, or no man would have her. Another man would perhaps have killed Wylla herself. Rulalin could never bring himself to touch her.
He took it upon himself to touch Joraiem instead, take him out of the picture. Rulalin chuckled ruefully to himself. How could he have thought that the murder of his best friend would make anything better? He plastered his hands over his ears to try and block the memory of the sound the blade had made as it stole Joraiem's life.
Surely as that dagger had stolen Joraiem's life, it had also stolen Rulalin's. When he'd killed Joraiem, the whole of Sulare had been turned on its head looking for him, trying to revive Joraiem, and trying to comfort his grieving widow. Rulalin knew that if ever he were to be captured by Aljeron or any of the other Novaana they would kill him first and ask questions later.
Rulalin sobbed as the ache of the loss wracked him. He'd been willing to die rather than live without Wylla. He'd wanted to die, had even given the dagger to Joraiem and offered his breast to the blade. But Joraiem Andira was a good man, an innocent man, and had sworn he would never kill his friend. "I've killed an innocent man," groaned Rulalin, fighting tears.
Now he had to live without Wylla, without Joraiem, without true friends of any kind. His only allies were Malek's servants and he didn't think for a second that they would spare his life if his death would better serve them. He shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed angrily at the tears pooling there. Enough of this foolishness. Self-pity never accomplished anything.
He was alone. And that was just fine with him. If there was anyone who could redeem his mistakes and win Wylla back, it was Rulalin Tarasir alone and no one else. He drew his sword and looked at his reflection in the polished blade. "I will serve no man unless it serves my own purpose," he promised his reflection. "I walk alone."
Oh, yeah, that's right, I'm doing me.