[ It's during the scant periods of January daylight that Konstantin leaves the safety of the cabin sometimes, and heads out. Perhaps more than he should, considering his condition — and he's reminded of it in all the worst ways as the days become colder, as winter stretches on. The thing's no longer just in chronic discomfort by the environment around it, but actively in pain. The warm shelter of his body isn't enough when the wind whips cruel and stinging into his senses, when there's never enough hours of sunlight to warm the landscape at all.
It hurts, and he hurts, too.
But he's been reminded of something else, these days. The glint of so many strings seemingly attached to his fingertips, as delicate and yet unbreaking as spider's web, and each one.... a person. Konstantin figures that out quickly enough. These are people, people he knows. (And one that he's never met, but can recognise all the same. How could he not recognise his own child? This one hurts the most of all.)
....There is no escape in this place, not really, but he tries to find some. He heads towards town sometimes, to the library or store, seeking solitude and constantly aware that he can't have it. The threads keep him tethered, and his heart skips an unpleasant beat at the thought. There's more gold than he knows what to do with, even if most of them are dulled or frayed or flickering. Slowly, cautiously, he starts letting himself approach each one, picking through them piece by piece, flinching back if he starts feeling, hearing, knowing too much.
They're not all too much, though. Some are more gentle, quiet. (One is still and cool and feels like taking in a breath of fresh morning air. Something soft and sad ripples behind it. When he realises who it belongs to, he heads out to Basin Overlook one day when he's already in town, bundled up against the cold.)
It takes him a good while to trudge up to Kieren's cabin, half leaned over, one arm wrapped almost protectively around his middle. He's pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose to try and filter his breathing, keep the sharper hitches of cold out of his lungs and bloodstream and insides, keep the thing from feeling it. By the time he's reached the cabin, though, he's pale as a sheet and panting irregularly from pain that blossoms from the inside out. He slouches against the porch railing for a moment — at least he isn't throwing up blood onto it this time — before moving to the door to knock. He knows Kieren is in, because he'd followed the string, a gold that's bright enough to gleam, but is slightly frayed in parts. ]
— Kieren Walker.
It hurts, and he hurts, too.
But he's been reminded of something else, these days. The glint of so many strings seemingly attached to his fingertips, as delicate and yet unbreaking as spider's web, and each one.... a person. Konstantin figures that out quickly enough. These are people, people he knows. (And one that he's never met, but can recognise all the same. How could he not recognise his own child? This one hurts the most of all.)
....There is no escape in this place, not really, but he tries to find some. He heads towards town sometimes, to the library or store, seeking solitude and constantly aware that he can't have it. The threads keep him tethered, and his heart skips an unpleasant beat at the thought. There's more gold than he knows what to do with, even if most of them are dulled or frayed or flickering. Slowly, cautiously, he starts letting himself approach each one, picking through them piece by piece, flinching back if he starts feeling, hearing, knowing too much.
They're not all too much, though. Some are more gentle, quiet. (One is still and cool and feels like taking in a breath of fresh morning air. Something soft and sad ripples behind it. When he realises who it belongs to, he heads out to Basin Overlook one day when he's already in town, bundled up against the cold.)
It takes him a good while to trudge up to Kieren's cabin, half leaned over, one arm wrapped almost protectively around his middle. He's pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose to try and filter his breathing, keep the sharper hitches of cold out of his lungs and bloodstream and insides, keep the thing from feeling it. By the time he's reached the cabin, though, he's pale as a sheet and panting irregularly from pain that blossoms from the inside out. He slouches against the porch railing for a moment — at least he isn't throwing up blood onto it this time — before moving to the door to knock. He knows Kieren is in, because he'd followed the string, a gold that's bright enough to gleam, but is slightly frayed in parts. ]