#tresnes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marija180468 · 6 months

Text

KADA SAM POCELA DA ZIVIM... ( IZ SASVIM MOG UGLA )

Zivot pocinje u 40-tim kaze jedna lepotica.

Zivot pocinje onda kada se otresemo iluzija i pocnemo istinski da ga zivimo! Kaze moj prijatelj.

Uvazila bih oba zapazanja.

Gledano iz mog ugla reci cu kada je zivot poceo za mene...

KAD SAM SHVATILA DA ZIVOT POCINJE KADA SE OTRESEMO ILUZIJA

Istina. Nije lako otresti se iluzija jer ih gradimo od kako smo dospeli na ovaj svet. To je prilicno bolan process u kom istraju samo oni koji umeju da se nose sa realnoscu.

Istina. Dok sam sanjala, lebdela sam u nekakvom polusnu kroz zivot i neprestano se spoticala o te svoje iluzije sama sebi blokirajuci put ka sreci njima.

Kad te zivot tresne pa shvatis da ga mozes izgubiti za tren bas kao sto mozes izgubiti i sve sto imas...naucis da cenis svaki lep trenutak i da iste trenutke stvaras sam koliko god je to moguce. Dok sanjas vecito trazi jos I nezasit si. Kada se otreznis...shvatis da si ti taj koji sopstveni zivot kreira.

KADA SAM PRESTALA DA PRIMAM K SRCU ZLURADE KOMENTARE, DUSEBRIZNE SAVETE I NEBITNE LJUDE

Ovo moguce zvuci lako ali postoje ljudi koji su emotivni i ranjivi i koje pogadjaju price i opaske dokonih ljudi.

Samo cu ovo reci...AKO ZNAS KO SI, TAKVE TE STVARI NECE MOCI POVREDITI.AKO SI SIGURAN U SEBE SVAKA CE SE OPASKA OBITI O TVOJU DUSU I VRATITI ONOME KO JU JE UPUTIO.

KADA SAM NAUCILA DA KAZEM NE!

Koliko puta radimo ono sto ne zelimo zarad drugih ? Zapitamo li se rade li oni isto ili su tu samo kada je njima potrebno tako nesto?

Ne je ne. Ne znaci ne radim ono sto mi ne prija. Ne znaci postujem sebe pa ni po koju cenu ne radim ono sto mi je gnusno zarad ma koga.

KADA SAM PRESTALA DA ZAVARVAM SEBE DA SE SAMO DOBRO ZEZAM NA NETU I OTISLA NA JAVU

Jedno vreme, bese bas tesko vreme na privatnom polju zivota za mene Tada sam provodila na netu dosta vremena.Lagala sebe kako se divno zabavljam i kako mi je lepo. A onda sam shvatila koliko mi isti taj net oduzima ono vreme koje mogu da provedem sa dragim ljudima. I kako zabava ne moze biti zabava ako traje citav dan.A kako je zavaravanje na netu veoma opasna stvar.

Tada sam otisla na javu.

I ponovo videla boje zivota.Na net svratim da nesto napisem, procitam i iskljucivo komuniciram koliko je to moguce sa ljudima koji su mi dragi.

KADA SAM POCELA DA CINIM SEBI MALE TRENUTKE SRECE

Spakovacu se. Otici u Italiju. Zvati onog od pre da se vidimo, onako neobavezno. Otici cu sa posla ranije i kupiti haljinu koju najvise volim. Buditi se pre svih da udahnem jutro novog dana. Onako. Tek za sebe i samo za sebe. Zato sto ja tako zelim. Zato sto mi tako odgovara.

KAD SAM SE OTRESLA SVIH FORMI I NAUCILA DA UZIVAM

Nije lako to za jednu zenu niti malo. Jer je vaspitavana da postuje forme. Forme su kalupi u koje nas stavljaju. Van njih smo cudaci sa druge planete. Ili budi rob ili budi na slobodi. Sloboda kosta, tek da znate iako je neprocenjiva!

Zivela sloboda izbora!

A kako ce ko da me gleda nije me iskreno briga.

OD KAKO SAM DOBILA DEVOJCICU

Kada se ona rodila shvatila sam da nista pre nje nije imalo smisla. Ona mi je udahnula zivot i nacrtala osmeh na lice.

Tek kada postanes roditelj dobijas tu crtu saosecanja, odgovornosti i zrelosti. Do tada mislis da se citav svet vrti oko tebe a zaprvo se ti sam vrtis neprestano u mestu.

I za kraj...

POCELA SAM DA ZIVIM ONDA KADA SAM POCELA DA RADIM I ZARADJUJEM!

Od trucanja i mlacenja prazne slame nemamo ama bas nista. Od objasnjavanja, upadanja u rasprave ili zivljenja tudjih zivota takodje!

Od preteranog analiziranja nekoga, necega, zivota takodje!

Od laganja sebe kako se dobro zabavljamo dok nam zivot tone takodje.

Sve nabrojano je odlika ljudi koji imaju previse slobodnog vremena.

A kada ga gotovo i nemate jer se trudite da stvarate?

Kada vam radni dan pocinje u 5 a zavrsava se u 11 navece sa kratkim pauzama, crpite energiju ka stvaranju necega. Kanalisete je u pravi smer I postajete zadovoljni.

Shvatete da je za odmor tela potreban samo jedan dan a dok ste dokoni za odmor duse je zaista potrebno mnogo vremena.

Dok radis , mislis na one lepe momente koje ces da priusti sebi i dragim ti osobama i osecas se korisno.

Dok radis zivis!

Rad je stvorio coveka, dokonost ga unistava.

Maja

#poem #words #roses #aesthetic #art

0 notes

7deadlycinderellas · 5 years

Text

if the summer of our lives could just come again, ch27

Ao3 link

Winterfell

Benjen ends up back at Winterfell a week after the wedding.

His face is scarred deeply, his lips torn to bits by his brothers in black’s attempts to remove the perverse stitching job. It hurts him to talk.

The only words he gets out are “they’re coming.”

Ned shushes him.

“We know.”

Shireen pushes him a stack of papers and a pen.

“Don’t talk if it hurts.”

She sits with him for several hours, over steaming mugs of broth. She writes down near every word.

Benjen carries a letter from Stannis, calling for aid. The wall may soon be overwhelmed, he says. Wights attack day after day, night after night, piling themselves upon each other to try and break the stronghold down.

He has used one of the caches of wildfire Sansa sent. He says it lit part of the forest on fire, and kept the dead at bay for most of the next day and night.

But that was only one point in the whole wall.

Ned called the banners, like he had said, immediately following the wedding. Representatives have appeared slowly, too slowly he thinks, but at least they’ve come.

He addresses his bannermen over a map of the north. He sighs deeply

“Each house will send aid, but most of our forces should remain in their keeps, for the time. If our intelligence is correct, and the wall falls, we will spread our forces in a straight line across the north. Right now, our immediate priority is to begin immediate evacuations.

“There is room for the listed numbers of non-combatant women on Bear Island,” Robb explains. Robb has escaped from his wedding night with only a black eye, and the Stark’s bannermen look to him as much as Ned.

Robb nods towards Maege Mormont for confirmation. The lady had arrived with her three eldest daughters; Dacey, Alysanne, Jorelle and had left the island in the hands of the younger two; Lyra and Lyanna.

“More than capable of keeping the women of the north safe,” Maege assures, with a stature imposing enough to back up her words, and question whether she would have ever needed protection herself. The arrangement had been Sansa’s suggestion, thinking that many of the women who were not willing to learn to fight in the previous years might feel more comfortable under the protection of other women.

While the decision making is going on, Benjen’s followed Shireen’s lead and ended up in the library, with her, Jon, and Bran.

He notes the sky, growing darker gray by the day, through the tiny window. He looks around, at the tall shelves and winding staircases.

“I haven’t been here in years,” he admits, “Even before I took the black, I was never one for books.”

While Shireen takes down his words, Bran lays out what he’s been doing with the ravens.

“I sent Una to Castle Black, Dosa to Eastwatch, and Tresn to the Shadow Tower. Quatri’s in the mountains to the west, Quinta to the east of the Kingsroad. Sexen I sent to King’s Landing, and Septima along with Theon to Dragonstone. When the wall falls to the dead, we’ll know. If either the Dragon queen or the Lannisters decide it would be a good idea to sneak up on us in the middle, we’ll know too.”

Benjen looks at Bran with a steady eye. True, he had known he would not find the same eager child as he had known the last time he’d visited home but…

“The story all of you have spun is unbelievable...As is the fact that you’ve spent years knowing this was coming and not having lost your minds.”

“I really do agree,” Shireen interrupts, pausing her writing. She has done her best to hold herself apart from what the others have told her of her demise. She tries to focus on the fact that she’s come past it, gone beyond it, but sometimes it still creeps back in. Sometimes in her dreams, she swears she can still smell the fire, hear the screams from her own throat.

Bran laughs to himself.

“It’s all we can do.”

He tries not to think too much of what it would have been like if this had all happened and it turned out that nothing could be changed at all. That they would have all been forced to watch as those they loved died around them regardless of their foreknowledge. Bran shudders at the thought of feeling the raven’s visions take over his mind again.

Once he’s done, he tells Benjen that Jon had wanted to meet him in the Godswood once he was free, and left for the training yard.

At some point, Sansa has left the group planning strategy in the Great Hall, and sits along one of the posts in the training yard with her bow across her lap, watching the others train in spite of the snow. Bran joins her.

Arya, Meera and Brienne are taking turns switching off with weapons. They aren’t taking up much space. Most of the yard is being taken up by Val and Ygritte running through the Free Folk women and children who have made their way to Winterfell. From children barely old enough to learn their letters, to women old enough to wed, they show what they can do with a spear or bow or axe. Val and Ygritte are rather ruthlessly tagging those who need to evacuate with the group the next morning.

“It won’t do any good if you stay if you can’t fight,” Val insists slowly, “You may think you’re being brave, but all that will happen if you die, is you’ll become one of them. A mindless, ice blooded, blue eyed abomination who could be responsible for the deaths of your friends and family.”

Ygritte doesn’t add anything, but if any of the children try to mouth off, she will go into details on the ones she picked off over the wall. How they barely even looked human anymore and seemed to be able to stand up and shake off near anything. She has lots of these stories.

“Just watching from the sidelines today?” Bran asks Sansa.

Sansa laughs softly.

“I’m going to be evacuating anyway, not right away, I’ll wait until the last group out of Winterfell...but it was foolish to think I was ever going to be a soldier.”

“No one ever thought you would be a soldier,” Bran insists, “Very few here are. But we all understood your reasons for joining with the rest of us. Human monsters are different from ones from Old Nan’s stories.”

Bran’s quiet for a moment. He watches the women spar. Meera catches his eye for a moment, and Bran feels the back of his neck go red. Sansa pretends not to notice.

“I’m not staying either,” he admits, “I’ll leave when you do. I’m a hundred times better a fighter than I was...but I can’t run away. If someone corners me, I’m a goner. Like you, I’m not a soldier.”

Sansa gazes upwards at the sky. It’s dark gray, it’s been that way for over a week now. It seems to be getting darker, like the very weather knows what’s to come. Or maybe they just weren’t paying attention the first time.

She turns her eyes back to the training yard, and squints,

“Where did Arya go?”

“Gendry came out a second ago, said something and they went back towards the smithy.”

What Gendry had come to tell her was that he’d finished with the set of chainmail he’d made for her.

“I’m going to make the other ladies at the training yard so jealous,” she tells him while pulling it into place.

“I’ve got more punched out,” he tells her, “Mail’s easier to make from approximate measurements. If there’s gaps in plate armor, it’s worthless. I’ve got another hauberk I made for Meera when I made yours, but she didn’t want it.”

“She doesn’t like mail,” Arya comments, “Says arrows can break straight through it. Prefers leather.”

“Well thankfully,” Gendry replies, patting her shoulders and planting a kiss on her, “We have most of the arrows.”

Arya’s quiet for too long, and she shakes her head, darkness behind her eyes. Gendry’s hands have moved to her cheeks, concerned, and she indulges herself by kissing him full on the mouth, tongue slipping between his lips.

This is what Sansa gets a glimpse of, before turning at the door and leaving. She can talk to Arya later.

It would be a lie to say she doesn’t feel a twist of envy in her chest. She seems to feel this twist nearly everywhere she goes now. The impending darkness is making the people of Winterfell cling to each other. Ned and Catelyn seem to have somehow, silently mended their fences. Meera had made an offhand comment that Summer wouldn’t leave her be nowadays, making her ears grow pink. Even Val seems to have settled in. Sansa had overheard her speaking to some of the other Free Folk women and had heard a snippet of ‘Didn’t know southern boys had it in ‘em!’.

She thinks to the letter she sent with Theon, and wonders if there’s any chance for her to find someone to cling to, even if it’s later, among the ashes.

When she needs a moment to distract herself, she finds herself seeking out Brienne.

“Lady Sansa” she greets her every time, even in defiance of Sansa’s laughing that it was unnecessary.

Sansa looks at her for a bit before speaking.

“You seem to be taking this all quite well.”

“All what, my lady?”

Sansa’s mouth puckers. She would think she was being mocked if that was so incredibly unlike Brienne.

“You follow us here, to a place you’ve never been before, and we’re all going on about fighting a war against the dead, and you don’t bat a single eye.”

Brienne shrugs. She’s so tall, that in armor even her shrugs have a note of intimidation, well, they would if it weren’t for the entirely innocent look on her face.

“As sworn shield, it is my duty to defend Lady Shireen, whether it be from nursery tale monsters or ordinary men. In my experience, there’s not always a difference.”

True enough. She continues,

“And it doesn’t matter much if I believe it or not. They’ll come or not regardless.”

Sansa studies Brienne. Even before, she had been the picture of loyalty, in face of incredible odds.

“Lady Shireen is quite sensible,” Sansa comments, “Protecting her shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

She lets the silence sit between them heavy for a bit.

“You were the truest knight I ever met before,” she tells Brienne quietly.

Brienne’s response is halting,

“My lady, I-”

Sansa shushes her.

“You were. Both by the technical definition, and in every word you spoke and every step you walked. You were brave and honorable, and always defended those who needed you.”

How foolish her younger self would have thought her. Admiring a plain faced women who wore armor and carried a sword, who was often seen in the company of Jamie Lannister at that. But Sansa has known enough false knights to know the value of a true one. Sansa’s word speaks the truth.

“And if you’re willing to stay here and fight with us, then the north will be in your debt.”

Dragonstone

Danaerys Targaryen is an impressive figure. Head held high, surrounded by her attendants as she walks towards the castle off her dragon.

Tyrion’s heard the stories, if only second hand from Varys. Of how she walked into the fire and remained unscathed, bring forth three baby dragons. Of her purchase and freeing of the Unsullied, of her takeover of Slaver’s Bay, and renaming it.

They’re great stories.

Despite this, most of what Tyrion can think when he sees her is, “She’s barely more than a girl.”

A girl who managed all of that, though. And with the flying figures behind her on the water, makes the stories easy to believe.

Once they sit at the table and begin to talk things out, the situation grows hair.

“You’re only allies here, present company excluded,” Varys points out, “Are a population known entirely as raiders and pirates. You’re combined forces could probably take Storm’s End, and secure this keep, if nature did not decide to keep you out. But beyond these borders, you will be met with hostility and a great deal of military might.”

Hostility, Tyrion thinks, in the form of his own family. He wonders if the punishment for a traitor is as harsh as that for a kinslayer.

The arguments over the table go back and forth and Tyrion feels like he spends a part of every day glancing over his shoulder, and the horizon, for whatever is going to ambush them, and crush this whole thing in one blow.

Somehow the only thing that comes over the horizon is a merchant’s boat, carrying Theon Greyjoy.

The young man has not changed physically much since Tyrion had seen him last at Winterfell, but given that their meeting does not involve a single dwarf joke, he supposes he must have matured some.

Watching the lad reunite with his older sister is the greatest entertainment Tyrion has had in years though. Between Theon’s exclamations that Yara used to resemble a fat little boy, and that despite her age, Yara could still overpower him with an expert knuckle burn, Tyrion sips his wine and just watches. There’s shades there of his relationships with his own brother and sister, unmarred by years of bad faith.

But Theon does not just bring news of the north, nor did he come to bend the knee in their stead.

“I come to inform you,” he begins in a voice that is half dead serious, half seriously practiced, “that the north is currently in heavy preparation for an incoming invasion from the far north...of creatures from stories. Of the dead, risen from the earth at the hands of creatures like men with skin of ice.”

Yara howls from her spot at the table.

“Are there grumkins too?”

Theon looks like he’s fighting the urge to stick his tongue out at her.

“Nearly seven years ago, three of the younger Stark children...transformed. They began to speak of things that had not happened yet, including the coming of these creatures. I watched this happen, and I watched as Wildlings began to flee south of the wall in increasing numbers...and began to speak of the exact same things the Starks were.”

Tyrion’s mind begins to prickle when Theon’s story continues. It was strange enough, having the story dropped on him in the form of a rambling letter and a single personal secret, but for someone who saw the Starks everyday, it must have been so much worse.

Danaerys interrupts him for a moment,

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what your story is getting at...rather than bending the knee, the Starks are requesting my aid. If this is true, I would ask why this is a more pressing concern than retaking the throne that is my birthright.”

Theon nods, ever so slightly. He speaks a bit about the other things the younger Starks had warned them of, of the treacherous state of the politics of King’s Landing. But he ends the discussion with,

“Because if the Others get past the north, then the whole realm is in danger.”

This is completely true. Tyrion never paid the most attention to old nurse stories, but he remembered the tale of the Long Night.

Danaerys seems to be thinking about it, when Varys interrupts.

“If I may, your grace? The seven kingdoms may not be the most welcoming to a Targaryen seeking to regain her throne. But one who swooped in with three dragons during an unexpected war against beings who are- remind me Greyjoy? Vulnerable to fire-”

Theon nods.

“It may become easy to spin you as a war hero. One who returns home to Westeros after becoming known for ending slavery. These are the sorts of things the smallfolk could get behind.”

Danaerys seems to be considering this proposal. While the discussion continues, Tyrion excuses himself and finds Theon does as well.

When they are out of earshot, he hands Tyrion a thick letter.

“This was given to me under pain of death if I so much as glanced at it.”

Tyrion turns it over, finding Sansa’s neat hand on the envelope.

“To be frank,” Theon starts, “If Sansa has any goodwill towards you after her...last life, I say take it. Those years ago I watched her transform from a silly, empty headed little girl into possibly the most cynical woman I have ever met. Sometimes I-”

Theon rubs the back of his neck self-consciously.

“Sometimes I catch her, or one of the others looking at me. Sometimes they look frightened, but sometimes they look...like they’re expecting me to act a certain way, and when I don’t they’re...disappointed, but not surprised. If she still holds in any esteem, I’d count yourself lucky.”

Tyrion mulls over his words for the rest of the night, and doesn’t pull out the letter until it’s late and he’s sure he’s alone.

The handwriting is neat, and the salutation formal. After that, the tone degrades quickly.

I’m sorry for leaving you the way we did. It was cruel to do so. Soemtimes I feel I’ve forgotten how not to be cruel.

I suppose you’ve surmised the truth from my blathering before we parted. When I was fourteen, the two of us were forced to marry, your father’s work, in an attempt to keep hold of the north. Despite the situation, you tried so hard to never upset me, to never hurt me. You will probably insist that that’s not much, but at the time, it felt like everything. During that period of my first life, I didn’t get kindness from many people, and every little bit of it is precious to me. You would shake me off, I know. Sometimes it hurts to know how little you think of yourself.

In the past few years, I feel like the two of us could at least call ourselves friends. Some might say that’s a poor basis for a relationship, but given the disasters I’ve seen, I think it’s better than most. I’m saying this, mostly because I think there’s a very good chance one or both of us could perish in the coming war, and I had to at least try.

I’m not sure if I would even know what love is anymore. I’m not sure I would recognize it. But if we manage to both survive all of this, the dragons and the others and the fire and blood...then I’d like to see if we could find it. The both of us.

Tyrion stares at the paper, and then tucks it away.

The next day, Danaerys decides that she should fly north with one of her dragons, to at least see what’s happening in the north.

The Wall

Stannis had sent for aid. He sent it to every fucking house in Westeros.

The northern houses had responded, even if in such meager numbers.

But at least they had responded.

“More are attacking the gate,” a greenboy tells him,

“Then hold it. Don’t let it fall. If it falls, this will all be for naught.”

Many at the wall have fled. Those who remain are the most devoted, or the most desperate. Those with the least hope for their lives.

Stannis can’t stop to think that they are fighting dead men. They are merely the enemy, attacking the wall that must stand. They will fight until they cannot. He spares a thought to Shireen, hoping that she is still safe in Winterfell. He does not spare one for Selyse, though he assumes the other Baratheon men must have helped her flee when he ordered them away. Perhaps that god that she's begun to speak of little more than will give her some comfort.

The sky is dark gray, carrying with it the blizzard that should slow down the impending army, but instead is just making it worse.

There’s an explosion somewhere. There is only one cache of wildfire left. As many as they seem to burn, there are always more.

“Take the last, run for the Last Hearth. Come back with anyone you can find,” Stannis orders, “The wall cannot fall.”

The sound of the flames cackling among the snow reaches his ears. The sound of screams too, human and beast both. He tightens his hand around his sword.

Stannis has spent his whole life thinking of his duty. Perhaps, in this moment, he can call upon his house’s words. Ours is the fury.

There’s thumping sounds, and metal scraping, and screaming. Stannis readies himself. He will lead his men, he will be among the first in the fray.

The nightswatchmen he sent to the Last Hearth does not desert. He gathers everyone he can find, and they race back to the Shadow Tower.

They find it fallen, the gate broken through, litrered with blood and bits of bodies, burned. And the man finds Stannis Baratheon, dutiful to his last breath. They find him at the mouth of the gate, completely still, his limbs twisted and broken. They say a blessing. And then he screams.

The fire of nightswatchman’s torch is enough this time.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #gendrya #sanrion #time travel fix it #fic

13 notes · View notes