Tyrion Lannister (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
littlelannister) wrote2012-06-21 09:42 pm
littlelannister) wrote2012-06-21 09:42 pm
[TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of non-con] In hiding
[Thursday, June 21]
Since arriving aboard the Proserpina, Tyrion Lannister was becoming a bit of an expert at disappearing. His skills grew more pronounced right after the madness left him, and he became haunted by the memories of his actions. His appetite left him, but he forced himself to eat what he could coax from the machines, much to his stomach's great chagrin. He spent more time expelling food than downing it. Truth be told, it was easier weathering enormous storms at sea than abiding this existence aboard the station.
For one, he was fairly certain that Sansa still wished to kill him, and in that, he found no fault. He earned that hatred, true and clear, for though his actions were spurred on by the temporary madness, he still recalled how utterly right they felt at the time. So beneath this facade I've so carefully constructed for myself still lurks the abomination. The monster. You were right, Father. I'm sorry for ever doubting you.
For another, he knew he could not kill himself because of the station's strange propensity for keeping the populace alive no matter what the cost. Yet for the first day or so after his head cleared, he pondered how far he could cause harm to himself before landing in that bloody quarantine cell again. Would the gods who controlled this place (and Tyrion already understood them to be cruel) ever grant him peace?
So instead, he flit from area to area of the station, wherever those damned communicators weren't needed as keys, never staying long in each place. And since he never required much sleep, he found he could evade detection. But he did need rest, so eventually he found a dark corner of the station and settled himself on the floor, a shadow among the shadows, readying himself for a fitful few moments of sleep.
Since arriving aboard the Proserpina, Tyrion Lannister was becoming a bit of an expert at disappearing. His skills grew more pronounced right after the madness left him, and he became haunted by the memories of his actions. His appetite left him, but he forced himself to eat what he could coax from the machines, much to his stomach's great chagrin. He spent more time expelling food than downing it. Truth be told, it was easier weathering enormous storms at sea than abiding this existence aboard the station.
For one, he was fairly certain that Sansa still wished to kill him, and in that, he found no fault. He earned that hatred, true and clear, for though his actions were spurred on by the temporary madness, he still recalled how utterly right they felt at the time. So beneath this facade I've so carefully constructed for myself still lurks the abomination. The monster. You were right, Father. I'm sorry for ever doubting you.
For another, he knew he could not kill himself because of the station's strange propensity for keeping the populace alive no matter what the cost. Yet for the first day or so after his head cleared, he pondered how far he could cause harm to himself before landing in that bloody quarantine cell again. Would the gods who controlled this place (and Tyrion already understood them to be cruel) ever grant him peace?
So instead, he flit from area to area of the station, wherever those damned communicators weren't needed as keys, never staying long in each place. And since he never required much sleep, he found he could evade detection. But he did need rest, so eventually he found a dark corner of the station and settled himself on the floor, a shadow among the shadows, readying himself for a fitful few moments of sleep.