Chapter Text
They find the pond one day when they are small. It is a day when Inys’s older sister is still alive, a day when the sun is shining bright, and they are on a quest to slay a mighty dragon (read as: chasing a bunny.) It is a day they are chase each other, when they yell and talk indiscriminately, when they are adventuring just for the sake of adventure. They chase the bunny to its borough, a place with dense plants and ferns and trees and flowers of every color imaginable. It is just beyond this borough that they find the pond, in a small clearing. It is a large place, large enough to be considered a very, very small lake, but they wade out anyways, and find that it is not deep enough to reach their necks, and that the water is clear and there are fish all around them in reds and oranges and browns and other beautiful colors. They splash around in the shallower part of the pond for the rest of the day, and when it starts to get a bit cooler, when the sun starts to look like it might slip below the horizon soon they head back to the castle, and spend the rest of the night talking about their new discovery.
They used to go to the pond every day when they were younger.
But things change. Things change a lot. Artair gets new baby siblings, a boy and a girl –twins; Inys’s older sister gets sick and is bedridden in the servant’s quarters. Things change when Inys starts working in the kitchen when he is about seven or eight, and they change more when Artair begins learning about the world around him, things like math and writing and reading and history. Things change even more when Inys’s older sister finally dies, and he is some degree sadder for a long, long time.
They still manage to escape to their pond whenever they can, which is on average a couple or a few days a week.
When they are thirteen, Artair informs him that there may not be as much time to visit here, because he is supposed begin his lessons on becoming a prince soon, and well, those can take a while, because there’s lots of dancing and patience involved and “Let’s face it, I’m not good with either of those things”, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. And, of course, if he’s becoming King one day, then that means he’ll have to stop “fraternizing” with his servants, but Artair vehemently denies that this will ever happen. So they promise, they make a promise to each other, that they will meet here every Saturday. They swear on it, they spit on it, they pinky-promise on it. And you can never break a pinky-promise.
Inys starts noticing some differences in Artair, once the older male turns fourteen and begins his lessons. He won’t talk to him in the castle, at least not without looking taking a good long (thorough) look around first. Soon he asks –doesn’t tell, telling would be rude– Inys to not hug him or talk to him in public anymore. Inys has to oblige, because that’s what friends do.
But he never breaks his promise. He always shows up at their pond, even if it’s late and Inys thinks he might not be coming, but he shows up and apologizes, and it is just like old times, even if Artair’s speech seems a little more formal, a little more stop-and-go, and his voice is a bit deeper. Inys’s voice hasn’t even begun to drop yet, and yeah, they tease each other about it, because that’s what friends do, because they are friends.
It is on Inys’s fourteenth birthday, a Saturday, that Artair finally breaks his promise. It hurts all day, because he’s sitting there at the edge of their pond, staring out into the water. He watches the sun travel across the sky all day, hoping that he hasn’t forgotten. He sits there, knees to his chest and arms curled around them, well after the sun goes down. He does not care that it is dark, or that it might be dangerous, or that he will be catching Hell from the ladies in the kitchen for “staying out so late and worrying them,” because right now, he does not care, because there is really only one thing on his mind, and that is the fact that Artair broke his promise.
It hurts all week, and Inys is sulking and Artair notices. He takes him aside and asks what’s wrong, and Inys snaps back that he’s not supposed to be talking with him right here, right now. Then the green eyed male storms off, finishes with his duties for the day, goes to the pond (alone) again, and cries.
He comes to the pond on Saturday, still in an absolutely dreadful mood, and he is thoroughly surprised to see Artair there. When Artair opens his mouth, he cries a little bit, shouts a little bit, and Artair apologizes and explains and gives him a hug. Then they start talking, and just like that, they’ve made up, because that’s what friends do. Artair teases him about his crackly voice, and Inys tells him to shut up, because six months ago his wasn’t any better, and to trust him, in less than a year his voice would mellow out and be smooth like Artair’s too.
They come to the pond every Saturday, sitting and talking about people in the castle festivities that will begin soon –Artair’s fifteenth birthday is coming up soon, and they both know it. Inys isn’t really allowed at the private celebration the family is having, so they have their own sitting there at the pond. Inys can’t give him much, but he bakes a pie and they eat it with their fingers to celebrate. And yes, it’s messy and their fingers are stained red with cherries and other dark fruits, but it’s worth every bit of it.
After his fifteenth birthday, Artair starts coming less and less. Inys isn’t sure what it is, whether it’s really the lessons running later and later or whether he even wants to come at all anymore. When Artair does appear, they treat it like any other day when Artair is there, the way they used to treat everything, and Inys tells him that he misses him.
Artair says he knows, and looks ashamed. Inys wonders if there’s any importance in the fact that Artair says he knows, not that he misses him too.
Inys doesn’t say anything for the rest of the day, just stares at the water. He doesn’t even hug back when Artair bids him farewell, another thing that has become less and less common. He just sits, curls up and hugs himself tight, telling himself that it’s just a phase, that everything will go back to the way it used to be once these stupid lessons of Artair’s are over. He has never been surer of anything in his life.
He is wrong.
Artair stops coming altogether shortly after Inys turns fifteen. He stops making excuses for his tardiness, for why he can’t come, for why he forgot; he just stops one day. He doesn’t talk to Inys in the castle, even when they are alone, and he stops passing notes to him on parchment and in the library, no matter how many times Inys tries to start a conversation.
Inys cries all day the next Saturday, sitting at their pond, and Artair does not come late and try to comfort him. Every time Inys sees him, he wants to say something, anything, and he opens his mouth to do so, but the words always end up slipping away. He gets used to his awkward, gangly, slim body on his own, tries to feel comfortable in his skin and ends up not being able to, not alone, which is exactly what he is.
He tells himself it will get better; that Artair will figure out what he’s trying to tell him.
Artair’s sixteenth birthday comes and passes, and the only reason Inys is allowed to be there at all is because he’s helping in the kitchen, and helping serve. He makes a cake and pies and bread and sets them out on the table, and all the while he watches. He watches how Artair barely even looks at him, how he jokes with his family and noble friends just like he used to joke with Inys, and he knows what it feels like to be forgotten, what it feels like to be “past tense.” So he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and walks out of the room, tears running down his face. He asks the women in the kitchen if they need any more help, and they say no: Inys is willing to bet that even if they did they wouldn’t say so, not with that look on Inys’s face.
He goes to the pond, hurls stones out onto its surface, and watches them sink. He lies down, curls up, and cries. He cries until he can’t cry anymore, because this is it, there is no turning back from here on out, because he knows, he knows things will never be the same between Artair and he ever again.
Predictably, Artair does not come to make sure the younger male is okay later on that day, likely after all (or most) of the other nobles have left.
Inys doesn’t know why he keeps coming to the pond after that. He doesn’t entertain the idea, the possibility of Artair coming on this Saturday or any other Saturday. The pond makes him so sad, so very sad, but so calm and happy too: some of his best memories lay here, along with some of his worst. He still finds himself hurrying through his duties on Saturday mornings and afternoons just so he can spend the rest of his day here, even if the reason he comes has changed so very much since the routine was first started.
He celebrates his sixteenth birthday with some of the women in the kitchen. It is nothing special, just a greeting, a day off from chores, and bundle of grapes. It isn’t much, but it’s more than he’s use to now, so he thanks them, takes it gladly, gratefully even, and sits at the pond all day, wondering what things might be like if they were different, if he and Artair were still present tense.
Artair does not come to the pond. He doesn’t even smile at Artair when they pass in the castle’s corridors on Inys’s way out and Artair’s way in. Artair just looks slightly weary and angry and tired from training –he’s still in his armor –even though Inys forces a smile to his lips as a way of saying hello. Artair brushes right passed, as if he doesn’t exist, and just like that, his birthday is ruined.
He eats his grapes one by one, slowly, when he gets to the pond, imagining what it would be like if they were not the last sweet thing in his life.
He still comes to the pond every Saturday, grateful for the secluded spot that has only ever been his and Artair’s.
That changes the week Artair turns seventeen.
One of the ladies in the kitchen is sick, and there are festivities and large dinners that need to be cooked and served, so they’re all working more than usual, Inys picking up more than his fair share of slack because there’s nothing else to do, because what is he waiting on? He’s not finishing early to go celebrate with anyone or go anywhere, so he figures he may as well just entertain himself for longer. It makes that Saturday, after he finishes his chores and duties, more worthwhile somehow.
It changes very quickly when it does change. One moment, Inys is laying there, minding his own business, lost in his head, and the next, he hears voices, one familiar and a couple that are less so but still somewhat recognizable. He sits up and cocks his head to the side, looking curiously to see where they come from.
He loses his breath when the figures appear out of the trees, and the only thing he can think other than No, no, no is Artair, Artair, Artair. He’s torn between grinning, staying frozen in shock, or breaking out into tears.
He prays they don’t see him, because a minute later he still has no idea what he’s going to do, voluntarily or otherwise. Unfortunately, Inys has never been the lucky type and as soon as one of them lays their eyes on him, they jab an elbow into another’s ribs, speak something Inys cannot hear, begin guffawing and chuckling and making their merry way over to him. He can’t help but hear their laughter as cruel.
“Stand up,” the blonde one orders when they finally arrive right in front of him. He may be the tallest, but to look him in the eyes Inys doesn’t have to look up much at all. Inys does what the boy tells him to, simply because he knows the way things work: it doesn’t matter who or why someone tells you to do something, but when you are told to do something, you do it.
The boy sizes him up, and Inys can’t help but think that Artair is right there, right next to this boy, probably observing the things that have changed since they have last spoken (a very long time ago.)
“What are you doing here, you filthy peasant?” the boy spits. His eyes are wide and blue and his hair is blonde and like straw, and he is tall and muscular and everything Inys isn’t.
“I come here every week, every Saturday since I was thirteen.” Inys hears himself say, and he wonders if Artair even remembers those days, if he even likes to remember them, because Inys sure does.
The boy nods his head, and if Inys didn’t know the look in his eyes, he would say it was of approval.
“I don’t want to see you here ever again. This is our pond now.”
His lips quiver and wobble. “But–”
“Are you talking back to me, servant?”
“No m’lord, but–”
Inys is cut off by a sharp smack to the face. His cheek burns, he’s sure it’s red, and he holds his hand up to his cheek tenderly, in what must look like some protective gesture. He knows there will be a bruise –this boy hit hard, hard enough to make sure Inys knows he’s in charge –and there is an embellished ring on his hand, and Inys can feel the mark that’s already forming, can feel the indentation on his cheek exactly where that ring has hit him
“Then get back to the castle.” The other boy crosses his arms, holds his head up high, a look Inys is all-too familiar with. It is a snobbish look, the look nobles get whenever Inys or some of the other servants in the castle do something that is “not proper,” a look that says “I’ve been better than you since birth, and I know it.”
“Artair.” He says, his voice desperate, turning to the older male with his green eyes big and pleading, begging for him to say no, it’s okay, just go somewhere else for a little bit, I’ll have them gone in a few minutes and then we can talk again.
“…Go back to the castle, Inys.”
“’Tair, you can’t –” he doesn’t believe this; he can’t believe this is happening.
“That’s an order, Inys.”
Inys feels like the world is falling to pieces around him. If the earth below him were to crumble, form large cracks, and suck him in, he would let it, he would be more than happy to let it swallow him up. “You promised me,” he whispers, eyes overflowing with tears. “You promised me this wouldn’t happen. R-remember, you said, you said to me you wouldn’t let this happen. You said you would come every Saturday, you swore on it, you said –said that we would still be friends, said y-you wouldn’t f-forget me.”
“The times change, Inys.” To his credit, it doesn’t seem like Artair is having an easy time dealing with this either, but there isn’t a tear shed or a frog in his throat or anything at all and it makes Inys feel like he might be sick to his stomach.
“I don’t want to see you here again,” he repeats, though admittedly, his tone is a little softer than the other boy’s, though not by much.
“You weren’t doing much of that anyways,” Inys snaps, before he can stop himself. He can’t help it, really, he’s just so angry and sad and incredulous that Artair is doing this to him now, now of all times.
Artair’s eyes flash dangerously, that look that Inys has previously seen given to other people, used on other people who have made the dark-eyed male really genuinely angry and not just peeved, but never, never on him, never on his best friend. “Back to the castle with you.” His voice is rough, stony, and oh so very stern. Artair leans in close, eyes burning on him. “Do you understand me?”
And Inys gets it now.
Best friend, past tense.
It was their pond; past tense.
The tears keep coming and coming. “Y-yes m’lord.” He says, trying not so sob and failing miserably, because this can’t be happening, it can’t, but it is and Artair is standing right next to the mean (rude, snobby) boy and doing nothing about the whole situation but looking a bit guilty, and trying (of all things) to hide his guilt.
So Inys goes back to the castle. He goes back to the servants’ quarters, lies down on his bed (which is little more than a sack stuffed with straw) and sobs. He sobs and sobs and sobs because everything is wrong, and he’s so alone and now there is definitely no chance of going back to how it was before. He doesn’t like to admit it, he won’t admit it more like it, but even when things were bad before, he had always clung to the (futile) hope that Artair might change his mind and show up one day and apologize for his absence and the way he’s been treating his best friend.
He doesn’t realize it until that day, when all the hurt he has caused finally hits him, but Inys realizes he loves him –loved actually, past tense: Inys doesn’t know if he particularly likes the way Artair treated him today, and he knows that’s how things are going to go from now on and he doesn’t know if love is what he saw. But then again, he never said Artair loved him back, he never even thought of the idea, and he knows that it’s not right at all. No, what he means to think is that he doesn’t know whether love is strong enough to get him through what he was put through today. He has never been surer that it isn’t, never been surer of anything in his life.
It is.
He watches Artair and his friends when they leave for the pond every Saturday. He watches them every single time, and every time he wishes that Artair would stop and convince them not to go, or at least to let the servant boy to come along too, because Inys will be quiet and they won’t even notice he’s there, but it never happens, no matter how many times Inys imagines it and plays it over and over in his head.
Artair doesn’t talk to him when he turns seventeen, doesn’t even act like he remembers, doesn’t even look at him. Inys doesn’t try to make him talk to him anymore either, he doesn’t try to smile at him or anyone else, doesn’t try to tell himself that things will get better.
He throws himself into his work. One of the cooks in the kitchen becomes ill and dies in her sleep soon, and Inys finds himself quickly taking over her job. He cooks and bakes and chops and does everything expected of him and sometimes more, and he does it to keep his mind off of Artair. They find someone else to serve the dinner, after all, a full-time cook in the kitchens doesn’t have time for two jobs, and Inys doesn’t even have to look at the older male anymore, doesn’t have to look at his sharp cheekbones and stunning eyes and his amazing facial structure and smooth skin in general. He does not have to size himself up against this male, who is more muscled than Inys could ever hope to be, who is tanner and more lithe than Inys could ever hope to be, whose eyes are not so buggy and sad like Inys’s are.
Most of all, he does not visit the pond anymore. He hasn’t dared, not since he was told not to. Besides, he promised himself he wouldn’t go back, and Inys has never been one to break a promise, past or present. He spends his free time in the library instead, reading and absorbing tales as much as he can. He has never been so grateful that his sister insisted he learned how to read at an early age. He spends what time he can there, and when Artair or one of the equivalent nobles enters, he learns how to shut the book quickly, memorize his page, and leave silently.
He learns his place quickly: it only takes a year. He’s eighteen by the end of the ordeal, and he gets another day off from the kitchen for it. It would be nice, if it didn’t give him so much time to think.
He still remembers Artair’s birthday, even if the older male has forgotten his when he forgot him, almost two years ago now. He sits in the library, reminiscing of days he wants to relive again and again, trying to read a book but letting his thoughts wander instead. He lets his mind wander to what it would be like if he were not Artair’s best friend past-tense.
Inys has been informed that the boy who pretty much smashed the remnants of his life (read: embarrassed him in front of Artair and banned him from his own pond) is named Colm Thorsquaff, a horribly pretentious and snobby name for a horribly pretentious and snobby boy. He also learns, not through someone else’s mouth, but with his own eyes, that this boy is very much sweet on Artair, and Artair has no shame in meeting him in the library when they’re supposed to be sleeping for a good kiss or rut or shoving-of-the-tongue-down-the-throat.
They don’t even pay attention to Inys, who tries to drown out the sounds. Not when he starts crying, not when he slams down his book and leaves.
He stops going to the library too, after that.
It seems that Artair, and now Colm, have taken over every aspect of what used to be good in his life. They go to what used to be Artair and Inys’s pond, and Inys suspects they’re doing more than talking and innocent kissing. They visit the library if for no other reason than make-out, and soon enough Inys finds Artair taking shortcuts through the kitchen a few times a day, making it nearly impossible for him to concentrate whenever the older male is in there.
He’s tempted to find somewhere else to live. There are small villages in the countryside, and he’s strong enough to be of use there, smart enough to be of use there, and in some of the larger towns he’s pretty enough and soft enough and feminine enough to be of use to at least some of the people there. He’s no stranger to kisses and the like, one of the older boys, Ghede, has told him how things work and shown them how wonderful it can be to be with someone else, and finds that he actually really likes it, and it’s not just because Ghede is nice about it and compliments him and kisses him like he means it.
He’s contemplating the idea of just leaving, just up and leaving, zoned out when he shouldn’t be, and then he’s brought back into reality by a very sharp pain, and when he looks down, he has sliced his palm open. He doesn’t know quite how it happened in the process of simply chopping up a carrot, but it did happen, and he’s bleeding and there’s blood on the chopping board and on the carrots and Edith pulls the knife out of his hands and wraps his injury and tells him to take it easy, maybe just organize something or check on the breads or take inventory of the storage room.
All he can think about it how good it felt. Not the cutting itself, no, but the reality the pain brought. He hasn’t felt that clear-headed in years, not since… It hits him them: he hasn’t felt that clear-headed since Artair actually visited the pond with him every Saturday.
Thus begins Inys’s long and difficult tango with harming himself. He’s careful at first, making sure no one is watching, making sure that no one can see when he steals one of the smaller (still sharp) knives from the kitchen. They don’t even notice its absence, and they don’t notice the cuts either: Inys is very careful to keep those hidden away under a couple layers of clothing, on the tops of his thighs. He starts running out of room a few weeks in, because he’s never been very big, so he has to move to his calves.
The ladies in the kitchen do seem to notice the way he flinches whenever someone accidentally nudges his legs with their feet, when legs bump against legs and things tend to spill.
They start noticing more when he starts wearing his long-sleeved shirts all year round, a problem he does face because it does do on for a whole year, and the kitchen is unbearably hot in the summer with minimal on. Not only does it get hot in the kitchen with all the ovens going, but it is decidedly impractical to have sleeves that get caught in the way or get batter or dough rubbed or ground into them. He rolls up his sleeves one day, forgetting all about it for only a few moments, when Ms. Eldbruss notices and pulls him aside and gives him a firm scolding about it. “Knives are for bread and meat and fruit and vegetables and sweets, not for our bodies,” she says, and then he counters with “Swords are nothing but big knives.”
She coordinates their schedules after that. He doesn’t have a moment in any of his days where she or someone else is not right next to him, and truthfully, he’s kind of grateful. Ms. Eldbruss takes his knife away, makes him throw it out with the rubbish, and checks his arms daily to make sure there are not new marks appearing. He’s embarrassed at first, and kind of angry, but “tough love is just what you need” she says.
The wounds disappear soon enough and leave only white scars, which are visible to anyone, no matter if they are looking for them or not, and he doesn’t care. He rolls up his sleeves whenever he pleases and dismisses the strange looks that he is sometimes “graced” with. He feels better, for a while. The While is long, boring, and is missing something, something he can do nothing about. And The While is just what it claims to be –a while –before Inys finds that everything has changed again.
The While lasts until after he turns nineteen, when Artair is well on his way to twenty, and after he does not see or hear much of Colm Thorsquaff anymore: Inys is happy he was a lover, past tense. The While lasts until Artair is cutting through the kitchen one day, and Inys is turning to bring the roasted lamb ribs to Lani, where she will finish dressing it before dinner, and Inys isn’t being careful enough and Artair isn’t paying enough attention and Inys slams straight into the older male’s chest, and knocks the food right to the ground, but not before it stains Artair’s shirt and knocks Inys off balance.
Artair skillfully catches him by the wrists and pulls him back up, holding him close for just a moment before pushing him only slightly away, looking down at the day of Inys’s work wasted all because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Artair holds on to his hands, his arms for just a little too long. He stares at them intently, and Inys doesn’t dare move, because not only is this his lord –the man he may as well as owe his life to, but for a moment he can pretend to see some of the old Artair in his eyes. “What have I done to you?” Inys hears Artair whisper, his voice mildly horrified, his eyes wide and staring straight down at Inys’s arms, his hands clenching Inys’s wrist a bit too tight. It’s almost painful, really, and that’s what helps Inys, in the end: it helps him clear his mind.
Inys plays innocent, something he has gotten awfully good at doing lately. “What are you talking about, m’lord?”
Artair opens his mouth for a second, like he wants to say something, and then promptly closes it, and Inys hopes the older male knows how it felt all those years ago when he was constantly doing the exact same thing. “Can I talk to you… later?” Artair asks, almost like he isn’t thinking at all.
“Of course, m’lord.” The words have little passion, little meaning behind them, because again, he has gone numb. It’s something that keeps happening, a defense of some sort, something that keeps him from getting hurt again and again, though it is already too late to employ that method and have it be of good use.
They don’t say when or where, only later: they already know the where.
He goes to the pond again, for the last time that night. He has not been there for two years, and a very long two years it has been: things have changed. The pond is a bit deeper, the trees are a little less green, and the grass is a bit longer, but other than that, it is the same pond Inys grew up with.
He beats Artair there, a pattern that has set in whether it is intentional or not. He expects them to make up, but he is wrong.
It’s like the world is falling apart all over again. He sits there and takes it when Artair yells at him about “what he’s been doing to himself” and “you could have just told me” and Inys shouts back that he really couldn’t, that he promised himself he wouldn’t, and unlike Artair, Inys has never been one to break a promise.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, Inys thinks. They’re supposed to have a teary reunion, hug it out, and move on with their lives. It doesn’t happen that way, simply because Inys just isn’t that lucky.
Artair (heatedly) says how he can’t help the things he’s been taught, and yeah, he would redo it if he could, “but this is the way things are supposed to be” and it “was going to happen one way or another” and that Inys “didn’t have to resort to this” and he says it pointedly enough that they both know he is talking about the scars that pretty much cover all of his arms and legs, not that Artair knows about the ones on his legs for that matter.
Inys responds just as furiously that no, it did not have to happen, and “no, this is not how things have to be,” and “no, you could have at least kept talking to me you swine” and “yes, I did” because it was the only way he could think without getting sad about three seconds later, “because don’t you get it, I loved you.”
Artair pauses for a moment, before spitting back that if “you ever loved me, you would have known that I didn’t want you to do that” and Inys spits back just as venomously that he “wouldn’t know what you want, it’s not like you ever said anything” and it deteriorates and deteriorates until they’re just yelling foul things at each other, practically throwing acid back and forth, when Inys wonders when things got this vicious, when they got so poisonous towards each other.
He wonders why his best friend has left him, why he has been replaced with this Artair that is Not Artair. Inys thinks it must have something to do with those stupid lessons he started when he turned fourteen. He falls silent, lets his former best friend keep shouting at him, and when it seems to have died down, he says softly, so that it is no more than a whisper, “You told me I couldn’t come to our pond.” The emotion in his voice is plain and raw.
And it quiets Artair down, makes him look at his feet in shame, before the older male says quietly “I know.”
“You ordered me not to come back.”
And again, he says “I know.”
“You brought other people to our pond. You brought someone else to our pond.” Inys’s voice is delicate, like thin stained glass, and it seems that it may break at any moment.
Artair gulps. “I know.”
Inys says nothing for a while, then chews his lip, and stands. “It’s your pond now.” He says, looking down at his feet. He has to do this before he loses his nerve, before it seems like a stupid idea, which is precisely what it is. “It hasn’t been our pond in years.”
He wades out into the pond for the last time. At its deepest, it goes up just a hair over his waist. He sighs, and lies back, allowing himself to float for a moment, just a moment, savoring the literal deep breath before the plunge. He can hear Artair splashing and calling out for him, but it is dark, hard to see, and Inys is a man with a purpose.
He likens himself to a rock, and lets himself sink.
He can hear the movement in the water around him, the sound of legs that are bigger and stronger than his trying to find him, and he would cry if he were not totally submerged.
He takes a deep breath, and lets the water fill his lungs. It burns, it really does, and he thrashes around wildly because he realizes how stupid he was being, because he realizes then that maybe there is a chance that he wants to live, that he can live through this pain, maybe there is (was) a chance of him and Artair getting better –the older male did chase after him when he got in.
And he knows it is too late, even if he wanted to change his mind (he doesn’t: present tense.) He thinks I’m sorry when the black water goes blacker, and he fades away like he did in Artair’s memory, all those years ago, and the next moment, he is unconscious for a final time.
Artair finds him not a few seconds after he goes still. He picks up Inys’s body, and holds it close, crying, and all the while repeating “what have I done?”
Once, when they were little, the water used to be warm, just like Inyswas warm (past tense.) But now, the water is cold, and so is Inys Hampton (present tense.)
Artair visits the pond every Saturday now, and every Saturday he brings Inys flowers. He brings him the flowers he should have showered him with in life, sits and talks to him like he should have through the years; he compliments him and tells him nice things like he should have said on the Last Night instead of yelling at him and criticizing him, he cries, like he should have when he realized what was going on when he was still a young teen.
He always remembers how on the Last Night, Inys told him he loved him.
Artair doesn’t know how he let things slip away so easily:
He loves Inys, present tense.