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spooniemumoftwo · 4 years

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This is me!

Have you ever heard of ME CFS? Do you know anyone with ME CFS? Have you ever heard the phrase ‘counting spoons’?

Having read a huge number of blog posts on ME CFS over the past few years, this is my own answer to some of these questions. Please bear with me – this has been a work in progress for a while now.

Me – Could I have M.E?

As a teenager, and even recently, I never imagined that I would find myself writing about my experiences of life with a chronic illness, and yet, here I am. I am 33 years of age, a wife and mother to two beautiful children, and I have a diagnosis of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME CFS).

Over the past few years, I have come to realise that ME CFS is something you can’t fully understand or describe to someone unless you have the experience of this debilitating illness yourself.

Where do I start?

Over the last three years, there have been ups and downs; life has been interesting, and the learning curve I have found myself travelling on has been almost vertical at times. I am not there yet.

Back in Summer 2017, I woke one morning to find I had no voice at all. This was unusual for me but not the first time it had happened. Things had been busy and a little fraught with two small children, whilst I was also working almost full time, so I thought nothing of it. I now suspect, as do the consultants I have spoken to since, that this was my body’s way of fighting the Chicken Pox virus, as my youngest came down with Chicken Pox two weeks after I first lost my voice. A week without my voice went by, writing notes for my husband to ignore as he felt appropriate, and giving my children 'the look' instead of telling them what I was thinking, and I spoke to my GP who diagnosed me with Acute Viral Laryngitis, and prescribed me three weeks off work and TOTAL voice rest, much to my husband’s delight and amusement. Three weeks later I returned to work, having slept all day for at least two of the three weeks I’d had off work. I was shattered. I never imagined returning to work after only three weeks off would be that tiring, but I did it. I underwent a further six months of speech and language therapy sessions (ironic considering my own role as a speech and language therapist) to help me work on my returning voice and my worryingly limited breath support, something I had only noticed since losing my voice.

Nearly twelve months on, in April 2018, I found myself signed off work again, this time with suspected Labyrinthitis. I experienced dizziness on and off, and again, I slept for most of the time I was off work. I was finding it hard to put sentences together, and felt like my whole body was being held down by a weighted blanket. Three weeks off work again and then I returned to work and my usual routine, with a promise to myself to take things easier this time. The dizziness continued but not enough for me to be off work, so a referral to a cardiologist followed to check it was nothing cardiology related. A 24 hour ECG followed by a 32 day ECG test demonstrated nothing significant, and therefore this was put down as yet another symptom I had no answers or reasons for.

By August 2018, I realised I had spent the majority of the summer term in schools telling myself ‘if I can make it to the summer holidays, I will be okay’ and yet, there I was, at the start of the summer holidays, and I hadn’t allowed myself to slow down at all. I have always, even as a pre-teen and a teenager, worked towards the school holidays, and continue to do so as an adult. I recall, as a teenager, regularly sleeping for the first one or two days of a school holiday, or suffering with a cold and feeling generally unwell for the first few days after allowing myself to slow down or to relax, and yet, here I was, putting the same pressure on myself as I always had. This time, however, I did not allow myself to rest. I knew what would happen if I did.

August 2018 saw me celebrating my own mini achievements regarding my engagement in a Couch to 5K running programme. I have never been sporty, and running was my least favourite exercise. However, for some reason, in 2018, I decided I was going to make myself enjoy running! I soon found running gave me time to myself with my thoughts, (unless accompanied by one of my chatty little people who often wanted to go with Mummy on a run) and running was my 'me time'. I managed to complete my first ever continuous 20 minute run in the middle of August, a very small achievement for many, however for me this was huge! I was becoming a runner, or so I thought. I only ran once more that month, and haven't managed a run since…

The summer holidays passed by and at the end of August, we celebrated my eldest child’s 5th birthday. I will never forget the call we received first thing that morning, to tell us that my grandfather had sadly passed away in the early hours of the morning. On my daughter’s birthday. I held myself together and threw all of my energy into celebrating my daughter’s special day. I was heart broken, and yet, as always, my children came first, and always will. The day after, we hosted a party for our daughter as we had planned. I could think of any number of places I would rather be, than hosting a children’s party, but for my children, ensuring they were happy, and maintaining the usual normality, especially things they had looked forward to, was essential. After we had cleared up, and the children had been put to bed, revelling in the excitement of the day, I took myself off to the gym, and pushed myself to run as far as I could. I managed a 35 minute continuous run, telling myself “it was just for you, Grandad!'’ I was exhausted, mentally and physically. Running had allowed me time to myself to clear my head and my thoughts on many occasions prior to this, however that night, I was broken. I could do no more. My head hurt, my legs hurt, even my breathing was draining me. I was done.

Two days later, I lost my voice again, and this time, I listened. I listened to what my body was saying, and started to put a few of the pieces together in my story. I have always pushed myself as far as I could push, but I was spent. Emotionally, and physically, I had nothing left. I spoke to my GP in view of my previous significant voice loss, and was instantly told to take some time off work to recharge and rest my voice. I reluctantly agreed to take a week off to recharge before going back to work.

A week later, at the start of September, I saw my GP, accompanied by a very good friend, to make sure I gave the facts and was honest about what was going on. We talked about everything. With the support of my friend, I listed all of the symptoms I had been experiencing, and yet not acknowledged, things I was finding difficult - sensitivities to light and noise, complete physical exhaustion, difficulties concentrating, poor spatial awareness - there can only be so many times a person can walk into the same photocopier in the same position on the same day. (My record was five times one day.) I described the difficulty I had in expressing myself and communicating with others at times, and my concerns about the slightly narcoleptic speed at which I could fall asleep and still feel totally unrested when I woke up, no matter how long I slept for. I raised my concerns and questioned whether I could possibly have some signs of ME CFS, however my GP said that at this stage, she did not feel I had ME, and that there were a huge number of reasons I was feeling as I was at that time. She was right about that, there had been a lot going on. I reluctantly left the doctor’s surgery with a certificate signing me off work for four weeks, and I was under strict instruction to rest completely, and not to return to work within the next four week period. I have never taken time off work willingly, other than for the usual expected absences due to the usual common illnesses, and therefore this went entirely against my work ethic. But this time, I had to - I was spent. I had no idea what was wrong with me, and how long it would last. I was worried and totally exhausted.

A month later, I returned to my GP to try and persuade her I was ready to return to work. We talked about how the last month had gone, how I was feeling, and what my thoughts about work were. I tried to list the positives to show I was feeling better but what were they? I was sleeping all of the time other than when I had to be awake to do a school run, or to look after my children, which I had been doing mainly from the sofa whilst they amused themselves in my sight. I was finding it difficult to carry out simple and regular tasks such as showering, which left me incapacitated and lay on my bed for some time before I could continue with the day. Cooking and preparing meals were a challenge, as this involved me being upright for longer than was comfortable. Having a conversation on the telephone was exhausting, and yet talking to someone in person was strangely slightly easier. I was often disorientated and a slight change in plans left me confused. On really bad days, I frequently could not have a conversation without losing what I was saying, and found it difficult to think of the words I wanted to say. My mind went blank. None of this made sense. I was 31 years old and generally healthy. What was wrong with me? I sounded like I was making this up and began to doubt myself. My GP informed me that she had been thinking about me, and had spoken to a colleague of hers for some advice. She advised that after some thought, she felt a referral to a specialist in Chronic Fatigue may be worthwhile, as it was possible that some of my symptoms could be signs of ME CFS. That made me anxious. I had suspected that this may be the case for me for a while, but to hear a clinical professional confirm my suspicions and want to investigate further sent chills right through me. How and why was this happening? We agreed that I would be referred to the consultant specialist, and I left the appointment with another four weeks off work, and a hope that I would return to work after another month, IF my energy levels had increased sufficiently.

Another month later, I returned to my GP, and despite me still experiencing significant fatigue, I was desperate to return to work and some normality. My GP reluctantly agreed to a phased return to work which would be monitored closely by her. I returned to work, initially for two half days a week, with a view to being back to my normal thirty hours a week by the end of December. I was still exhausted. Each day was a huge challenge, but it felt so good to be back at work! I tried to take things as easy as possible, as I was mindful that I needed to read the signs and listen to what my body was saying. I didn't feel like the person I was before, and yet just being 'me' again, in my usual workplace was a tonic.

In February 2019, I saw a consultant specialist in chronic fatigue, accompanied by another amazing friend. We talked through everything, literally everything! For a whole two hours, we discussed things I was able to do and things I couldn't do. Things I enjoyed and things I didn't. We talked in detail about my childhood, family history and medical history. I was referred for a sleep study to rule out sleep apnoea, and was advised that if the results of this study were unremarkable, then yes, I would be diagnosed with ME CFS. Otherwise, the diagnosis would be sleep apnoea. I felt sick, but with support from my friend, my husband and my family, we talked things through. But there were still no answers.

I am so lucky to have an amazing family and so many loyal and caring friends around me who know me better than I know myself at times. I can't express my thanks to each and every single person who supports us. Those who are there for me, to listen, advise and give the best hugs, and those fabulous friends who just know what to say and do when its needed. Those who try to understand what's going on, and those who know me best! My amazing family and friends regulate me and aren't afraid to tell me what I need to hear, despite this often being the harsh reality that I can't see (or don't want to!). I am often told to rest and that I need to put myself first, but that's not how I work, or it’s not how I've worked in the past anyway. I know I unintentionally frustrate the people I am closest to with my stubbornness and drive, and my reluctance to 'give in or give up', and I am so grateful for the support of so many people.

I finally received my appointment for my sleep study at home at the end of May 2019. I was shown how to fit the oxygen tubes, oxygen monitor and all the gubbins that go with it and was sent on my way. Honestly, the sleep study was not the best night of sleep I've ever had...it turns out I'm a little more claustrophobic than I thought I was. But, by the following morning, the test was done and the equipment was safely returned to the hospital. My pending diagnosis was in their hands now. I received a letter at the start of July 2019, to say that I didn't have sleep apnoea, so there it was. A diagnosis of ME CFS. Mixed emotions flooded me...relief that I wasn't going to have to wear a mask to sleep, and yet dread at reading the words I knew would be in my next letter from the consultant! On 25th July 2019, my letter arrived in the post. It simply said 'I can confirm that this patient has ME CFS. I will refer her to the local ME service for support'. I was numb.

So many questions!

How will this affect my children? What will happen next? Where do I stand with work? Will I need help? What does the future hold? All these questions filled my head. Many questions remain unanswered even twelve months on from receiving this letter. With no cure or successful treatment for this, I felt a mixture of panic, sadness and dread and telling my husband the results we didn't want to hear was hard. How would I be able to be the wife and mother I so wanted to be with this chronic illness? My children are still so young. My husband didn't sign up for this! This all felt so unfair!

Since my diagnosis, I've been supported by the local ME CFS service and their advice has been invaluable. The learning we have done as a family about the illness, the symptoms themselves and life as we know it, has been intense. I am able to recognise some of my triggers and my responses, though these constantly change and have increased in severity lately, but my husband, family and close friends will agree that I'm still pretty rubbish at really listening. I cannot seem to take it all in. I am on overload. I am a giver naturally...I don't come first in my head. I think of everyone else before myself - my children, my family and my friends. That is just me. But it wears me out.

My children

When I was diagnosed with ME CFS, my first thought was not for me, but for my children. This is not how I imagined parenting my own children. I felt a huge sadness that this would mean they had to grow up more quickly, to understand things a young child shouldn't have to, and that we may not be able to do all the lovely things we did when I was a child. I made a promise there and then...ME CFS wasn’t going to stop me doing things with our children. Our promise to our children even then, was that they would come first and that my husband and I would get through this together. This is not my children’s problem, it is mine.

My husband and I agreed very early on, not to give our children the details but just to explain, when needed, that Mummy just needed to rest. This worked for a while and kept questions at bay. I recall one lunchtime when I had prepared a 'picky lunch' at the request of our three-year-old son. I had laid on the sofa while they ate and watched a film. My daughter, aged around five at the time, touched my arm gently and gave me a crisp she had found, saying “Mummy, please have this heart-shaped crisp. It will give you more energy”. Wow!! I'm not sure how I held the tears in...I was completely taken aback! Without telling her anything other than that Mummy was sometimes a bit tired, this little sensitive soul had put two and two together and made her own conclusions. I knew we had to tell her a bit more now, if anything, to make sure she wasn't making her own ‘wrong’ deductions.

We have recently been introduced to a fabulous book which has been integral in our challenge of giving our children the facts they need whilst not giving them too much. This book, 'Supercharged Superhero' by Gemma Everson has been written to help children understand why a parent with ME may not be able to play all the time, and that they can have fun in different ways with their family. We love this book, and my children often ask if we can look at it again. We've spent many hours reading through the story, chatting about the pictures and thinking of our own ways to have fun which I can join in with too. Find out more about ‘Supercharged Superhero’ and get your own copy of this gorgeous book.

The Journey so far – September 2020

My journey through diagnosis and learning to adapt so far has been uphill. There have been some huge changes I've had to make to my lifestyle, specifically our pace of life and my priorities. Having never been able to say 'no' to anyone or anything in my adult life, my major challenge is to start saying ‘No, no, no!’ Such a simple word, and yet I just can't do it! Others always come before me; my family and my friends, and yet I know I need to work on this. I know I unintentionally drive my husband and close friends to distraction...they know me better than I know myself often, and I am always being told to slow down, or to put me first, but I can't. Only when I have no option otherwise.

I spend my life falling asleep without planning to. I rarely see the end of a television programme or film. As a family, we often plan to go out on adventures in the mornings or early afternoon, as my more unpredictable time of day is usually mid afternoon to early evening. With careful planning, we do go out and make memories as a family of four, and we have lots of fun together.

Everyday, I spend huge amounts of energy putting a brave face on to hide what I'm really feeling inside. I can’t do this anymore! I feel like most people only see me in a disguise, only my close friends and family know enough to understand what's really going on, and many of them can read me like a book. Conversely, I am constantly told I look really well, when in reality, I can barely stand up some days! When things are really bad I can't easily hold a conversation, and I often focus all my energy on getting to the end of a day, an hour, a meeting or some other mini target I've set myself. I am wishing time away just to ‘get through’. My illness is an invisible illness, and it is called that for a reason...it IS invisible!

On paper, my symptoms are fairly mild in contrast with others who have the same diagnosed condition. I am able go to work four days a week still, I am able to take my children to the park or on carefully planned day trips, I can still do some of the things I do for me, to allow me to be 'me', although these ‘things’ for me, are usually the ‘things’ I cut out if I need to slow down - leaving no time for Me!

The Present and the Immediate Future

In recent months I have seen a huge flare of my symptoms and have been much more debilitated than previously, but I am hoping this is just a blip in my journey. Working from home and home schooling two young children during the Covid 19 pandemic has not helped. Life has been a bit mad for us all lately, hasn't it?! I can only imagine how people feel, who have much more significant symptoms, and I try to empathise with those whose symptoms are much more severe than mine. ME CFS is so varied and different for each and every person diagnosed with it!

ME CFS is not well understood. As it is ‘invisible’, others do not know I am suffering symptoms that often debilitate me. I cover it well by pretending I am ‘ok’ until I finally crash and burn at home. This is my reason for sharing my story, living with this condition, to promote awareness so that others may benefit from learning about how it affects a person and how people can make allowances. It is not going away!! Maybe I was ‘given’ this condition because I am naturally a strong person who is ‘driven’ to come through everything, no matter what. I do not know. I know that sometimes, I just can’t and I am worn out ‘pretending’. So I have chosen to share this and maybe I can make a difference to someone else. Acknowledging symptoms is just the start. Getting a diagnosis is paramount, and getting the right help is vital for any kind of future.

You've got this far, well done! Look out for how my story unfolds. Until then, we must stay positive!

XxXx

#chronicfatiguesyndrome #chronicfatigue #mecfs #me #myalgicenceohalomyelitis #cfsme

#myalgic encephalomyelitis #chronic fatigue syndrome #spoonie #mecfs #fatigue #low energy #cfswarrior #spoonies #pwme #chronic illness #cfsme #cfs/me

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fiadhaisteach · 4 years

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New York Times: text under cut

What Lockdown 2.0 Looks Like: Harsher Rules, Deeper Confusion

By Damien Cave

_________________________________________________________

Melbourne, Australia’s second-largest city, is becoming a case study in handling a second wave of infections. There are lots of unanswered questions.

Credit...William West/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

Australia’s second-largest city, Melbourne, is grappling with a spiraling coronavirus outbreak that has led to a lockdown with some of the toughest restrictions in the world — offering a preview of what many urban dwellers elsewhere could confront in coming weeks and months.

The new lockdown is the product of early success; the country thought it had the virus beat in June. But there was a breakdown in the quarantine program for hotels. Returning travelers passed the virus to hotel security guards in Melbourne, who carried the contagion home.

Even after masks became mandatory in the city two weeks ago, the spread continued. And now, as officials try to break the chain of infections, Melbourne is being reshaped by sweeping enforcement and fine print. A confounding matrix of hefty fines for disobedience to the lockdown and minor exceptions for everything from romantic partners to home building has led to silenced streets and endless versions of the question: So, wait, can I ____?

Restaurant owners are wondering about food delivery after an 8 p.m. curfew began on Sunday night. Teenagers are asking if their boyfriends and girlfriends count as essential partners. Can animal shelter volunteers walk dogs at night? Are house cleaners essential for those struggling with their mental health? Can people who have been tested exercise outside?

“This is such a weird, scary, bizarro time that we live in,” said Tessethia Von Tessle Roberts, 25, a student in Melbourne who admits to having hit a breaking point a few days ago, when her washing machine broke.

“Our health care workers are hustling around the clock to keep us alive,” she said. “Our politicians are as scared as we are, but they have to pretend like they have a better idea than we do of what’s going to happen next.”

Pandemic lockdowns, never easy, are getting ever more confusing and contentious as they evolve in the face of second and third rounds of outbreaks that have exhausted both officials and residents. With success against the virus as fleeting as the breeze, the new waves of restrictions feel to many like a bombing raid that just won’t end.

For some places, risk calculations can change overnight. In Hong Kong, officials banned daytime dining in restaurants last month, only to reverse themselves a day later after an outcry. Schools in some cities are opening and closing like screen doors in summer.

In many areas where the virus has retreated and then resurged, the future looks like a long, complicated haul. Leaders are reaching for their own metaphors to try to explain it.

Image

Credit...William West/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

In California, Gov. Gavin Newsom has compared his opening and shutting of businesses to a

“dimmer switch.”

Dan Andrews, the premier in Victoria, the state of which Melbourne is the capital, has repeatedly referred to “pilot light mode” for industries like construction and meatpacking, which have been ordered to temporarily reduce their work forces.

Whatever the metaphor, the situation is bleak.

In Melbourne, a city of five million that is considered a capital of food and culture, the pandemic has come raging back even after a so-called Stage 3 lockdown began in early July — until recently the highest level of restrictions.

Officials have been flummoxed at every turn by the persistent complacency of just enough people to let the virus thrive and multiply.

Traffic data showed people driving more in July than they had during the first Stage 3 lockdown, in March and April. Even worse, almost nine out of 10 people with Covid-19 had not been tested or isolated when they first felt sick, Mr. Andrews, the state’s top leader, said in late July. And 53 percent had not quarantined while waiting for their test results.

“That means people have felt unwell and just gone about their business,” Mr. Andrews said.

Sounding the alarm, he made face masks mandatory the next day, on July 22.

Still, infections have continued to rise. They peaked at 753 new cases on July 30, and have hovered around 500 a day ever since, with the death toll in Victoria now standing at 147, after 11 deaths were recorded on Monday.

Those figures, while far less troublesome than those in the United States, have paved the way for a Stage 4 lockdown — what officials are calling a “shock and awe” attack on the virus — that will last at least six weeks.

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Credit...Daniel Pockett/Getty Images

Overwhelming force, with precision, seems to be the goal. The chief modelers of the pandemic response in Australia have found that the virus can be suppressed only if more than 70 percent of the population abides by social distancing guidelines and other public health rules.

Mr. Andrews said the new restrictions would take 250,000 more people out of their routines, in the hopes of reaching the necessary threshold.

So retail stores will be closed. Schools will return to at-home instruction. Restaurants will be takeout or delivery only. Child-care centers will be available only for permitted workers.

Those restrictions are already well understood. The rules requiring more explanation are tied to the curfew and industries that have to cut back.

Large-scale construction projects of more than three stories, for example, will have to reduce their on-site work force by 75 percent, and workers will not be able to work at more than one location. Small-scale construction cannot have more than five workers.

All of which sounds clear. But does a bathroom renovation, for example, amount to home building in an apartment with one bathroom? And what about fixing things that break, like Ms. Von Tessle Roberts’s washing machine?

Some businesses, like cleaning services, are already emailing customers to say they think they can do some work, for people who pay through welfare or who need help for mental health reasons. But, like many others, they are still seeking official clarification.

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Credit...David Crosling/EPA, via Shutterstock

Mr. Andrews, a Labor politician sometimes described as awkward and paternal, has become the dad everyone needs answers from. He now oversees, under the lockdown rules, what may be the country’s most intrusive bureaucracy since its days as a penal colony.

The Coronavirus Outbreak ›

Frequently Asked Questions

Updated August 4, 2020

I have antibodies. Am I now immune?

I’m a small-business owner. Can I get relief?

What are my rights if I am worried about going back to work?

Should I refinance my mortgage?

What is school going to look like in September?

As of right now, that seems likely, for at least several months. There have been frightening accounts of people suffering what seems to be a second bout of Covid-19. But experts say these patients may have a drawn-out course of infection, with the virus taking a slow toll weeks to months after initial exposure. People infected with the coronavirus typically produce immune molecules called antibodies, which are protective proteins made in response to an infection. These antibodies may last in the body only two to three months, which may seem worrisome, but that’s perfectly normal after an acute infection subsides, said Dr. Michael Mina, an immunologist at Harvard University. It may be possible to get the coronavirus again, but it’s highly unlikely that it would be possible in a short window of time from initial infection or make people sicker the second time.

The stimulus bills enacted in March offer help for the millions of American small businesses. Those eligible for aid are businesses and nonprofit organizations with fewer than 500 workers, including sole proprietorships, independent contractors and freelancers. Some larger companies in some industries are also eligible. The help being offered, which is being managed by the Small Business Administration, includes the Paycheck Protection Program and the Economic Injury Disaster Loan program. But lots of folks have not yet seen payouts. Even those who have received help are confused: The rules are draconian, and some are stuck sitting on money they don’t know how to use. Many small-business owners are getting less than they expected or not hearing anything at all.

Employers have to provide a safe workplace with policies that protect everyone equally. And if one of your co-workers tests positive for the coronavirus, the C.D.C. has said that employers should tell their employees -- without giving you the sick employee’s name -- that they may have been exposed to the virus.

It could be a good idea, because mortgage rates have never been lower. Refinancing requests have pushed mortgage applications to some of the highest levels since 2008, so be prepared to get in line. But defaults are also up, so if you’re thinking about buying a home, be aware that some lenders have tightened their standards.

It is unlikely that many schools will return to a normal schedule this fall, requiring the grind of online learning, makeshift child care and stunted workdays to continue. California’s two largest public school districts — Los Angeles and San Diego — said on July 13, that instruction will be remote-only in the fall, citing concerns that surging coronavirus infections in their areas pose too dire a risk for students and teachers. Together, the two districts enroll some 825,000 students. They are the largest in the country so far to abandon plans for even a partial physical return to classrooms when they reopen in August. For other districts, the solution won’t be an all-or-nothing approach. Many systems, including the nation’s largest, New York City, are devising hybrid plans that involve spending some days in classrooms and other days online. There’s no national policy on this yet, so check with your municipal school system regularly to see what is happening in your community.

On Tuesday, he answered questions from reporters about dog-walking (allowed after curfew, sort of, only near home) and other subjects of great confusion at a news conference in Melbourne.

Thanking those who complied with the new rules and scolding those who did not, he announced that no one in self-isolation would now be allowed to exercise outdoors. A door-knocking campaign to check in on 3,000 people who had Covid-19 found that 800 of them were not at home.

All 800 have been referred to the Victoria police for investigation. The fine for violators going forward, he said, will be 4,957 Australian dollars, $3,532.

Working, even legally, will also become trickier. Other than, say, hospital workers with formal identification, everyone traveling for a job deemed essential during the lockdown must carry a formal document — a work permit signed by the employer and employee.

For Cara Devine, who works at a wine store that closes at 8 p.m., that means carrying a government form with her everywhere, and hoping that the police recognize her task as essential when she heads home after the curfew. But she also worried about the Uber drivers who take her back and forth.

Image

Credit...William West/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

“Even before the newest restrictions, I’ve had two Uber drivers being really late picking up from the shop because they got stopped by the police, taking about an hour out of their work time,” she said.

The police are already confronting opposition. On at least four occasions in the last week, they reported having to smash the windows of cars and pull people out after they refused to provide a name and address at a police checkpoint. The Victoria police commissioner, Shane Patton, said a 38-year-old woman had also been charged with assault after attacking a police officer who had stopped her for not wearing a face mask.

Some criminologists are questioning whether the harsher enforcement will help. Mostly, though, Melburnians are just trying to endure.

Walking to get groceries, Peter Barnes, 56, said he welcomed the stricter rules, though he admitted his city was starting to feel like George Orwell’s “1984,” with the heavy hand of the state around every corner.

Those focused solely on the economics, he said, should remember the obvious: “You can’t hire a corpse. Very bad employment prospects for people who are dead.”

By Monday night, the city seemed to be in listening mode. The streets were emptying out, silent in hibernation.

“It’s like a Sunday in the 1950s,” said Mark Rubbo, the owner of Readings, Melbourne’s largest independent bookstore. He also noted that people were stocking up again on books through online orders, with a memoir called “The Happiest Man on Earth,” about a Holocaust survivor, becoming a runaway hit.

Ms. Von Tessle Roberts has found another solution, perhaps just as likely to grow in popularity: Stand on your front porch and scream. That’s the name she has given to an event she posted on Facebook, set for Friday at 7 p.m. By Tuesday afternoon, 70,000 people had expressed an interest in joining her collective shout in anguish.

“Yelling is great,” she said. “It’s less dehydrating than crying.”

Image

Credit...Erik Anderson/EPA, via Shutterstock

_________________________________________________________

Besha Rodell and Yan Zhuang contributed reporting from Melbourne, and Livia Albeck-Ripka from Cairns, Australia.

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aliceslantern · 5 years

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Beyond this Existence: Counterpoint, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 2

Summary: After being recompleted, Ienzo vows to do everything in his power to atone for the atrocities he committed in the past. But this life hasn't been easy, and he's plagued with memories and nightmares. When Demyx suddenly reappears, the two discover that they have more in common than they thought, though the secrets in their past might tear them apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Ienzo), post kh3

Read it on FF.net/ on AO3

It kept raining.

Ienzo choked down some food. His stomach was still sour, but he had to stay nourished. And then after that he went back into his room, in search for the copies of the old reports he had written and printed out meticulously. Nothing seemed to be in the right place. How had he been so disorganized?

Ienzo heard muffled conversation in the hallway; Ansem’s familiar deep timbre mixed with Demyx’s slightly higher, younger one. Ienzo gathered what he had and steeled himself.

“I’m all set, Master. I seem to have misplaced some of my papers.” He was so incredibly exhausted. He tried to smile, but it slipped a little when he saw Demyx. It was bizarre to see him in civilian clothing. I am so tired of this life feeling strange. “Shall we get started?”

Demyx looked a little pained, embarrassed, even. “What are you guys up to?”

Ansem looked towards him. “Tying up some loose ends.”

His lip twitched. “Well. Have fun I guess.”

Fun. Ienzo shook his head.

“So you would like to look into the metaphysical behind Sora’s disappearance?” Ansem asked. They started walking towards the lab.

“Yes. I believe I read that, even when Roxas was in simulation, away from this world, his heart was still very much in connection to others’, right?”

Ansem sighed. “That was all discovery in retrospect,” he said. “It… was incredibly callous of me, but for the longest time I did not believe Roxas hada heart. But I know better now.”

“Sora’s heart is special. I know Riku said he no longer feels connected to Sora’s heart, but if I could somehow explore those connections, or at least approximate them in data, then maybe we can trace his presence so far.” He bit his lip. “It’s all very nebulous. But I feel I owe it to them to at least try.”

“That’s my boy,” Ansem said. “Yes. I think that’s a good jumping off point. And luckily we have plenty of data of those connected to Sora.”

“The replicas?” Ienzo asked.

“Quite.”

“Yes. I see.”

It was slow, painstaking work. They had to wait for the data to download from Twilight Town’s terminal to receive Roxas’s, which naturally took time between worlds. Then there was gathering the old Castle Oblivion and World That Never Was research all into one place, unpacking it from tiny .zip files from a thumb drive Even had always carried with him and lent to Ansem. While all this copied, Ienzo pored through what he had on paper. He truly did not know where to begin. Was this all in vain? Was this at all possible?

“You look unwell,” Ansem commented. “It would do you some good to try and banish these anxious thoughts.”

“Thank you, you’ve cured me,” Ienzo muttered without meaning to. His hand shot to his mouth. “I… I apologize for such impudence.”

To his surprise, Ansem was smiling. “You no longer need to be so formal,” he said. “After all we’ve gone through, there is no reason why we can’t talk and joke like equals.”

“I have not earned that privilege,” Ienzo said. He watched the progress bar roll ever so slowly across the screen. The approximate time for completion was hours from now, and the computer’s fans were whirring wildly.

“Then treat it as a favor to me,” Ansem said.

Ienzo’s face burned. He could hardly believe what Ansem was implying. The words were meant to be kind, but they twisted a sort of pain within him. Everything, every little thing, sparked some bizarre emotional reaction.

“You’re doing enough,” Ansem said kindly.

“Maybe that time will come someday,” Ienzo said. “But for now I am not ready.”

“You’ve become quite wise. Yet I hope that you will not forget that you still have the right to grow, and learn, and seek happiness of your own accord. I would not blame you if you chose another path in life. Goodness knows I’ve tried.”

Ienzo floundered. Happiness? A change in profession? Both seemed equally unlikely, and that sat oddly within him. “This is what I know. This is what I love.”

“I’m merely advising that you don’t let any doors close behind you.”

He sighed. “Yes. I suppose.” He glanced back to the clock, feeling antsy. “Well. I did not figure I would have the time, but I may cook dinner for us. It would be good to have everyone in the same room. We’ve been so scattered.”

“I rather like the sound of that. You go on. I’ll make sure things are running smoothly.”

In Ansem’s quarters, he shed his lab coat. Even in the chill, it felt overwarm, and constricting. He tried to lose himself in the ease of cooking. Ienzo allowed himself to make a cake. Thankfully he’d thought ahead to buy the dry ingredients, the vanilla and almond extract. This took skill, and finesse, and the result made people happy. He found the tension within him infinitesimally easing, but all too soon the prep work was over, and all there was left for him to do was watch the roast cook.

He set the broad mahogany table for five and stood at the china cabinet for a moment. To not include Demyx would be rude, and inconspicuous. Ienzo sighed and set a sixth place at the table.

Once he had set out all the food, he set about rounding up everyone. It felt good to see their faces when he asked them all to join together. It lifted the weight a little, made the anxiety bearable.

Demyx was farthest away in the castle. He didn’t answer when Ienzo knocked at the door, and at first he wasn’t even sure Demyx was there. But when he opened the door he was curled in the small old bed, fast asleep. Ienzo considered letting him sleep. After all, it would be even ruder to wake him up, wouldn’t it? But then he caught the sharpness of his cheekbones reflected in the light, and could not bring himself to leave. He approached him warily and gave him a gentle shake. “Demyx?”

He stirred, flinching a little.

“I’m sorry to wake you. We’re all having dinner and Ansem was wondering if you might like to join us.”

He rubbed his eyes and sat up. He looked almost as exhausted as Ienzo felt; Ienzo could see the veins through his pale skin. “Yeah. Thanks.” Demyx paused, and then said all in a rush, “I’m sorry if what I said bothered you.”

That caught him off guard. “That’s alright. You meant what you said. You just don’t understand.” How could he? He hadn’t had the same life as Ienzo, the same perspective. He could not be as acutely aware of every little mistake he made. This was Demyx . He was barely aware of his own presence most of the time.

Demyx blinked, looking stung. “No, I guess I don’t,” he said.

They headed up towards Ansem’s quarters. The silence between them was pulling Ienzo taut. He could reach for small talk--but what was there to say?

They passed through the raggedly breezeway. A smoky-smelling wind blew through the curtains, ruffling the old lace.

“Swanky place,” Demyx said cautiously.

Right, he wouldn’t know. “Master Ansem’s quarters. He likes the northernmost light.”

“Why do you call him “Master”?”

This puzzled him. “Because I am his apprentice, and he deserves respect.”

“Are you, though? I mean, you’ve been doing this all on your own. Feels kinda like he just slipped back into place and took all the credit for the work you did getting Roxas and Naminé new bodies.”

A finger of anger welled in his throat, and he regretted waking Demyx. Against his will, he recalled the day they’d woken Naminé, after hours of preparing and reprogramming the replica. Ienzo had prepared himself to say something to soothe her, knowing very well that to her perspective she was surrounded by three people who had always treated her poorly. But Ansem had spoken to her first. “Not to be rude, Demyx, but if I sought your opinion on the matter, I would ask for it.”

He flinched. “Sorry.”

Ienzo relented. This brassiness was just par for the course for Demyx’s personality, and there wasn’t any offense meant in it. “That’s quite all right.” He pushed open the heavy doors and crossed over to the table, to his seat by Ansem’s side. He could see Demyx looking at the space and for a moment saw it anew, the simple opulence of it, and yet its state of disrepair. He seemed shy, unsure of himself, and finally settled down at the last empty space.

“Sorry. I didn’t know I was holding you all up,” Demyx said.

“No harm, no foul,” Ansem said. “Please, everyone. Help yourselves.”

With their recent conversation in mind, Ienzo couldn’t help but feel a slight ping of frustration. Ansem had not spent the day cooking. But these were his quarters; by default, he was the host.

They all ate. The awkwardness in the air was obvious. They hadn’t all gathered like this in a long while, nearly since they’d reunited. Nobody seemed to know quite what to say. At least the meal had come out okay. Between bites, Ansem advised him of the progress of the downloads; some of the files were corrupted, so he was going in by hand to see what he could recover.

“Who made this?” Demyx asked. “Everything’s really good.”

Ienzo turned away, trying to remind himself to be patient. It was a compliment, after all. “That would be me. Thank you, Demyx.” He did look like he truly appreciated it.

Even recommended a certain file conversion which might recover some of the corrupted data. They talked about the efficacy of this for a little while. The unexpected familiarity of the conversation eased the knot inside Ienzo’s breast. Maybe they just needed time to readjust to each other. It wasn’t completely hopeless. But there was so much bitterness, so much regret and guilt, that it seemed to choke the air.

Plates empty, he started to clear the table for the cake. But to his surprise, Demyx offered to do it for him. Ienzo nearly refused, but there was a strange, unreadable glint in Demyx’s eye. “The kitchen is through that door there.”

Even raised his eyebrow. “Would you look at that.”

“He does seem a touch uncomfortable,” Dilan said. He sipped at the sweet wine that was a favorite of Ansem’s. “It is odd. We can’t pretend it isn’t.”

“This is his home now, as much it is any of ours,” Ansem said. “We must all be patient with one another, and welcoming to our guest. Even if this situation is… unorthodox.”

“Yes,” Ienzo agreed. His voice sounded more affable than he felt. “Are we feeling ready for dessert?” Seeing the affirming nods, he crossed back to the kitchen for the cake.

Demyx’s left hand was covered in blood.

“What on earth--” he started.

Demyx spoke carefully, though his teeth. He gripped his elbow tightly. “Knife in the sink. There’s no towel or anything--”

Right--he’d brought all the linen down to be washed earlier. “That must’ve been my mistake. I am so sorry.” He glanced around quickly to find anything to staunch the blood, but there wasn’t a scrap of fabric or paper. He untied his ascot. He had several more, and could very easily make some from his younger self’s clothing. But Demyx didn’t take it.

For the first time Ienzo fully recognized the wild, desperate look in his eye from earlier. He’d never seen it on a person other than himself. The kitchen, well insulated, made it easy to hear Demyx’s shallow, heightened breathing. His hands trembled. He feels it too, Ienzo thought. An odd, but not unpleasant, feeling seeped into his bones. He turned on the tap and guided Demyx’s bleeding hand under it. Thankfully the cut wasn’t as bad as it looked. He bound it tightly. “I think you’re having a panic attack. Try and take a deep breath for me, okay? It’ll be over soon.”

He struggled to do so. Ienzo tried to hold his gaze, knowing all too well how terrifying it was to be in that moment, utterly alone. But doing so was difficult, and he very nearly felt anxious himself. Ienzo took his uninjured elbow and helped him sit.

It took time. He shut his eyes, focusing hard on something. Ienzo hoped whatever it was grounded him. Once his breathing became less audible and forced, Ienzo tried to speak gently. “Was that the first time it happened?”

Demyx couldn’t make eye contact. Ienzo knew that embarrassment well, the shame of losing control. “I had one yesterday.”

And he was also having them often. Again, he felt his resentment and frustration at Demyx unraveling. Things were just as uncontrollable for him. And he didn’t have the same awareness of his own mind that Ienzo did. “Do you have a history of this happening?”

He shook his head a second time. “I don’t think so. But a lot of that time is hard to remember.”

“What time? When you were human?” That was unusual. Was it a coping mechanism gone awry? Was it something to do with the fact that he’d been a vessel?

He nodded.

Ienzo would have to puzzle this out another time. Speaking of missing memory would only destroy Demyx’s tenuous control. “Do you know what it is that triggered you?” Maybe if he could help him gain an awareness of it, it would help in the future if this happened again.

He was silent for a long moment. “No,” he said at last.

It wasn’t always possible to tell. “That’s alright. None of this readjustment is easy. It’s most likely stress you’re not used to feeling. I don’t think this sort of thing is permanent.” Even as he said the words, he doubted the truth in them.

Demyx’s eyes were glassy. “I’m sorry.”

Ienzo softened a little. “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he said.

He was withdrawing into himself; Ienzo could see it. He didn’t know if he should stop it, or if Demyx needed it to recover. He stood, cradling his injured hand. “I’m going to go lay down,” he whispered.

He nodded. “You must be exhausted.”

Dazedly, Demyx left. Ienzo watched him go. Part of him wondered if he should follow, but he himself wanted nothing more than solitude after his own attacks, so he let Demyx go. He stretched, picked up the cake, and went back to the table.

“Everything alright?” Dilan asked.

“Demyx was feeling faint. He’s gone to rest.” He took the cover off the simple cake. He would try and save a piece for him.

“I thought he was looking a little peaked myself,” Even said. “He was in hiding an awful long time. It was difficult enough for me to cope when I hid too. I can only imagine.”

“Well, your sacrifices are not in vain,” Ansem said. “Here’s to a full recovery.”

When Ienzo ate, the sweet cake tasted like paste.

#beyond this existence: counterpoint #ienzo #demyx #zexion #zemyx #demyx/ienzo #beyond this existence

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andmynewlymeltedheart · 7 years

Text

They Say We Are Asleep

The evening passed rapidly-- too rapidly in Natasha’s opinion. She was entranced-- her attentions were wrapped up entirely in Pierre. She was drawn in by every word, every expression, every glance in her direction, all of it took her in and offered her warmth, and the more time that she was in his presence, the happier she became. Something in Pierre was quite different indeed-- and all at once she realized that a certain liveliness had entered his being, a liveliness that she had not seen in him before. It was as though he had awoken from a long nap, refreshed and ready to seize the day laid before him.

A fic from Natasha’s point of view during Pierre’s first visit to Marya Bolkonskaya’s after his imprisonment. Tell me what you think!

She stirred slightly, and then all at once, gasping for air, and she clutched at the bedsheets for relief, though she knew well enough by now that it wouldn’t come.

This happened most nights. Natasha had always been prone to night terrors. They infected her slumbers since her youth, and caused her to lie in agony for many, many hours in a purgatory of ticking clocks and echoing snores from the surrounding chambers. She had often hoped that sheer exhaustion might whisk her consciousness away, carrying her calmly to a comforting nothing for a few hours of rest. It was rare that it should.

On this particular night, Natasha had retired to her chambers early, in the hopes that some light reading would tire her enough to soothe her to a dreamless sleep, and though the half open book that pressed against her chest told her that there was some success, her current state of aching ribs and heavy breathing proved to her that it was not, as she hoped it would be, a cure-all.

Andrei’s death had taken a terrible toll on Natasha. Her frame, which once stood very tall over her peers, now fell shorter and more hunched. Her thin arms and tapering waist had betrayed plainly the loss of both weight and appetite, and her pale and ashen skin was evidence that she had taken more of her recent days indoors rather than out of them.

Her dreams were often of him, sometimes gruesome, his last moments playing out over and over again, filling in each crevice of her mind, finding places of permanent residence among her thoughts. She would never forget him as he was in those last days, and though those dreams frightened her to her very core, it was the ones in which he was healthy and alive that drew the greatest amount of panic, for in them she was somehow always acutely aware of reality.

Her chest still ached, though not to the degree that it had when she had first awoken. The air was icier than she had expected-- the embers, all but diminished from her fireplace told her that the last useful bit of heat had left long ago. She did not mind terribly-- the thought of leaving fires while sleeping was something that caused her a great amount of uneasiness, and she was glad to have it extinguished.

She thought of her dream on this night. Her dreams of Andrei had always distressed her, but this one had an unexpected and frightening addition; a gaunt and frail Pierre Bezukhov, lying with Andrei, sharing in his final moments, the two of them passing away together in a quiet manner. As they perished, their souls lifted slowly from their bodies and they came together, smiling, dancing a beautiful, clumsy waltz. As a bright, warm light came over them, they turned to Natasha, smiling and offering their hands, inviting her to join their dance-- at which point Natasha was startled out of her slumber.

Her first thought in her consciousness was quite simple:

Not Pierre, too.

She had long worried about his whereabouts. While she cared for Andrei and prayed for his wellness, she prayed also for Pierre’s safe return. She had seen him last on the charred remainders of the streets of central Moscow, and had begged him to flee with her, to come away to safety where she knew he was protected.

But Pierre was all too determined and very much not-himself.

He looked severely into Natasha’s eyes and muttered something about killing Napoleon, to which she could only gasp. He pressed a firm and desperate kiss into Natasha’s hand, and allowed himself to be swept away by the looting mob. She cried out his name to no avail, and was stricken by a cold sense of dread-- that this exchange with Pierre would be her last.

Natasha shuddered at the memory. She had recently learned of his rescue during a visit from Vaska Denisov, and though in the moment a burst of joy had ripped through her chest, agony washed over her as Denisov told her of his condition. He had suffered terribly in his imprisonment, his broad midsection greatly reduced and bones protruding somewhat from his ribcage, an indication of terrible starvation, his eyes sullen and bloodshot, covered in bruises and gashes, and so on.

He told Natasha that Pierre was in a deep slumber, and he was unsure of when he would awaken, or even if he would.

Her stomach dropped as she remembered Denisov’s words, and began to toss her covers away, allowing the cold air to soothe her body.

After reaching a reasonable state of recovery, she wrapped herself tightly in a large shawl that had been placed at her bedside at some point by her mother, lit a candle, and slowly descended the steps into the main drawing room.

Sitting in a small armchair by the fireplace was Princess Marya Bolkonskaya, stitching up a small hole in a favorite old dress. Stitching had become something of a hobby for Marya, particularly in the time since Andrei’s death. It allowed her a mindless activity that kept her occupied, but also allowed her to reflect on recent events, if she should choose to do so. Marya glanced toward the sound of creaking floorboards and smiled at Natasha, her face caught in the glow of the dying fire.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” she stated, folding her work neatly on her lap, “It was no use for me, tossing about. I thought I might as well do something productive.” Natasha laughed lightly, and Marya continued, concern woven carefully through her next words.

“I’ve asked Cook to make a few things to eat. I was feeling peckish and I was sure that you would be awake not long after myself. You skipped your supper this evening, so I knew the food would not go to waste.”

Her last words felt like a command.

A low growl began to build in her stomach. Natasha had not eaten since dinner the previous night, and thought to herself that a little food would likely do her some good.

“What time is it?” Natasha asked as she took her place on the loveseat behind the coffee table. She took note of the wax dripping down the small candelabra, which was casting a gentle warmth upon her face. Natasha took a deep breath, still working to calm her last few nerves.

Marya glanced at tarnished pocket watch-- a relic of her late father’s youth-- and shrugged.

“It’s not much after ten o’clock.”

“It feels like the middle of the night!”

Marya laughed lightly.

“The two of us have been behaving like old women as of late, it’s no wonder,” she smiled slyly, enjoying the somewhat displeased look that spread across Natasha’s face. Marya thought a moment, gently scratching the back of her hand, trying to decide how to continue.

“I think it would be best if… I think that we should start receiving company. It will do us good to have a late night now and again.”

Natasha frowned and creased her brow, unsure.

“I’m not sure, Marya. I haven’t been such good company myself, I couldn’t be sure that I should be entertaining to anyone else.”

“You’ve been unwell, dear. Physically to be sure, but I think it is your emotional state that is the cause of it all. I know that… and with all that’s happened…” she paused, and Natasha could see tears brimming in Marya’s eyes, causing a stinging to begin in her own.

“Marya...”

“Yes, my dear?” she asked, though it was clear that her thoughts were somewhere other than this room.

Natasha paused, unsure of the propriety of the topic. She took a deep, somewhat shuddering breath.

“Do you...do you ever dream...of Andrei?”

Marya chuckled softly, wiping a tear off of her cheek.

“Not as often as I had. I’ve been trying to tire myself during the day in order to keep them away. The terrors are subsiding,” she said, inhaling sharply. She cleared her throat and apologized, though Natasha was not at all upset by it-- Marya had been handling everything so well, and Natasha was glad to see that she still had these moments, too.

“However, he does, on occasion, visit me. I sound frighteningly unbalanced, I’m sure, but...I feel as though in these dreams he is truly with me, that we are talking face to face. He feels so...alive.”

Natasha was enamored at the thought that Marya was having such dreams. She was deserving of peaceful, pleasant conversation with her dear brother, especially after all she had been through.

“What does he say?” Natasha asked, curiosity bubbling inside of her.

“He asks about Nikolushka, about me and Nikolai, about you...”

“About me?”

“Mm.”

“....What does he ask?”

“Well,” Marya said, a smile, stealing lightly across her face, “He tells me that he misses you. That he loves you, that he always will. And...he often tells me that he wants you to find love again.”

Natasha felt a warmth spread through her body. It was comforting to think that, even now, Andrei wanted good things for her. She smiled softly to herself, lightly brushing her thumbnail between her other thumb and forefinger.

At that moment, a servant entered, followed by a set of heavy footsteps that Natasha knew immediately. Her head shot up immediately, and her breath came to a stop. It’s not possible...she thought, and she blinked rapidly to rid herself of the delusion-- to no avail. How could it be...

He paused a moment in the doorway, looking at Marya, and walked directly to her.

“I thought I should call... to congratulate you on your betrothal.”

Marya took Pierre into a tight embrace, two dear friends reunited in happiness in spite of so many terrible things. Natasha remained at her seat, scarcely coping with the reality that her dear Pierre Bezukhov was, in fact, alive and standing in her view. He was weak; his usual strength and vigor still very much diminished from his time as a captive. His eyes were somewhat sunken, and he looked far too thin in comparison to the portly fellow she had known her whole life. But somehow... his cheeks, though more defined than they had been, held a rosy redness that indicated his returning health. His posture was different, his shoulders pushed backwards and head higher above Marya’s than Natasha would have expected, even though she had always remembered him carrying himself with a slight slouch.

After a moment, Natasha’s breathing resumed, though it was rapid and shallow. She worked to keep it quiet.

Pierre pulled away from his and Marya’s embrace.

“He is the dearest fellow, as I’m sure you know, and very lucky to have found you,” Pierre declared, and he grinned, noticing a lovely gleam in Marya’s eye.

“Oh please, don’t embarrass me,” she begged, looking at Pierre, disbelief still showing in her delicate features, “We were so glad to know that you’d been saved. It was the only good news we’d had in such a long time.”

Pierre’s head tipped forward, as though he had been hit low in his gut. A wounded look crossed his face, a mix of sorrow and remorse, and his voice became softer, more contemplative. Natasha felt a great aching begin in her chest-- it was always agonizing for her to see Pierre in pain.

“Yes. Andrei.... That's a great blow. Can you imagine, I knew nothing about him surviving the battle... So, you were able to see him before he died?”

“Yes, and he often spoke of you, and always very fondly, didn’t he?” Marya asked, looking for reassurance from Natasha. Pierre glanced over at her quickly and gave a cordial smile, and though she was unsure as to why, Natasha felt somewhat dejected by his lack of notice. He had surely seen her... but then, this visit was not for her anyway; it was for Marya, as it should be. She shook the feeling away.

“So, you found him with the Rostovs? What an odd coincidence,” he chuckled, and Marya joined him, “Was she with him...at the end?” he asked, lowering his voice as though asking for a secret. Natasha’s breath caught again.

“Pierre...don’t you see who’s here?”

Pierre looked at Marya, confused, and she guided his gaze over towards the loveseat. He squinted, the flickering of the candlelight creating a glare in his spectacles, and an incredulous look washed over him.

“Natasha?”

“Have I changed so very much?” she managed, her voice low and shaky, a nervousness pulsing through her for reasons she could not explain.

Tears began to form in his eyes. His voice was faint, and he strained as he spoke.

“No...no... no, I didn’t see you. I didn’t expect to see you. I never thought...”

“I’m very happy to see you, Pierre,” she interjected, noticing that he was as shocked to see her as she was to see him, and she kissed his cheek gently, overcome with a feeling of joy that, though it had been a staple of her youth, she had not felt in some time.

“Yes… no, of course… I… likewise...” was all he could muster. They looked at each other for a long moment.

Marya cleared her throat, and grinning, she ushered them to the family dining room for supper.

Natasha could feel her heart beating rapidly in her chest as Marya mentioned that he was eligible again, and she let out a nervous laugh.

“Yes,” he laughed breathlessly, “I suppose I am.”

Natasha did not dare to think that he had actually looked at her as he said it.

As they sat by the fire after supper, he told them stories of his imprisonment. He told them of how he suffered, but he was not self-pitying. He talked of others he had known, how they had suffered with him, what he saw and how he had learned to persevere. Something about the experience had completely renewed him.

Natasha found as well that she was constantly having to peel her eyes away from him. Though others often called him ungainly, stout, odd, and the like, Natasha had always found something quite attractive about Pierre’s person, and his lightened spirit made this attractiveness all the more pleasant in her eyes. She noticed how sweet and inviting his smile was, how passionately he moved his hands when he talked of things he knew a lot about, how gentle his features were in the candlelight-- she thought that one might feel as though he were an old friend upon meeting him for the first time.

She took note of how truly handsome he was. Though he had lost a significant amount of weight, his frame was still large, and his stomach still pushed outwards-- he was sturdy, his shoulders broad and muscular, and his arms thick. Natasha thought briefly that Pierre’s arms looked as though they were quite a lovely place to be. She blushed at herself, pushing the thought away. His face was still plump, though his cheekbones were more prominent than before, and his eyes were beguiling without meaning to be, their sincerity pulling her gaze more often than was appropriate for a young woman like herself. She was so enraptured by him that she was shocked when he told her that he should leave. She looked over at the clock, which indicated that it was well past two in the morning, though she felt as energized as though it were the afternoon.

As his carriage rode away, Natasha couldn’t help but gush about him to Marya.

“He's such a dear friend. But, now, it's as if... I don't know what it is. It's... It's as if he's fresh from the bathhouse, all pure and clean. Not just on the outside, but on the inside, too…” she told Marya, scarcely able to contain herself.

“I knew he had a true heart the first time I met him,” Marya smirked and gave a knowing look to Natasha. She blushed scarlett as she looked after Pierre, who was still turning back and waving, his warm, lovely smile never once leaving his face. Marya gave Natasha’s arm a light squeeze and returned indoors, and Natasha looked on a moment longer.

She felt warmth trickle through her veins once more, and began to think of Pierre Bezukhov in a way that she hadn’t before...or rather, in a way that she hadn’t realized before. She smiled gently to herself, and thought of what Andrei had told Marya in her dream. Natasha returned inside, clutching her shawl close to her chest, and reentered her bedchambers, the jovial feeling from Pierre’s presences still lingering. Unable to sleep, she watched the sunrise, radiating brilliant pinks and oranges, the beams dancing on the mist.

As the light peaked through the leaves of the towering trees, she thought of how much more lovely this all might be with Pierre here.

#Pierretasha #Natasha Rostova #Pierre Bezukhov #Natasha x Pierre #Pierre x Natasha #natasha pierre and the great comet of 1812 #the great comet of 1812 #great comet #comet #war and peace #fic #my writing #mine #tw: weight loss #tw: weight mention #tw: weight #tw: injury #tw: dead people #i've been writing this since friday but finally got around to editing lol

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whitewolfofwinterfell · 7 years

Text

Title: Just For Tonight

Fandom: Game of Thrones

Pairing: Jon/Sansa

Summary: With Jon having just announced his plans to sail for Dragonstone and leave Winterfell in Sansa's hands, the two try to come to terms with the changes that are about to happen and the emotions they feel at separating for the first time since they reunited at Castle Black. One-shot based on 7x02. An alternate take on Jon and Sansa's goodbye before he leaves for Dragonstone.

Rating: T (small amount of strong language).

Words: 8.8k

Read on: FF.net

Sansa enters her chambers, slamming the door closed behind her. Since winter has finally arrived, there's already a roaring fire in the hearth, which is Sansa is grateful for. Though the walk from the Great Hall back to her chambers is only a few minutes, she can feel the cold in her bones. Removing her cloak and shaking the stray half-melted snowflakes from her hair, she kneels down in front of the flames, extending her hands out so as to return the heat to her body quicker.

Her mind is frantic and unsettled, causing a ball of nausea to form at the pit of her stomach as Jon's words echo in her ears.

"Until I return the North is yours."

She shudders.

Since the day she and Jon reclaimed Winterfell he insisted that she take her place as Lady of Winterfell, but she would hear nothing of it. It doesn't matter to her that Jon is not a Stark by name, he is by blood - and more importantly, he is in her heart - which means there was no doubt in her mind that he should take their father's place as Lord of Winterfell. When Sansa heard the voices of the the lords and ladies of Winterfell chanting, "King in the North! King in the North!", she felt she was going to burst with pride and was completely assured in her decision.

Sansa has never expected nor craved leadership. Since she was a child she only wanted that which was promised to her by her mother and father - marriage to a prince who was brave, gentle and strong. She didn't care to have her own status or power, she only wanted love. A naive and childish desire that died the day her father's head was removed from his shoulders before her very eyes by the one she believed to be her prince.

Her experiences have perhaps also changed her opinion on being in a position of power herself. After all she has endured as a woman - the men she has been enslaved to and abused by - she can't deny the appeal in being a queen in her own right, of having power and agency and being answerable to no one. Her victory at the Battle of Bastards is just one instance that proves Sansa would also be worthy and capable of fulfilling her role as queen or Lady of Winterfell.

Had Jon not been by her side that day, she probably would have assumed her place as Lady of Winterfell because she was unwilling to be her faith or trust in anyone ever again. But it was Jon, the one person left in the world with whom she could trust with her life. She didn't want or need to be in a position of power, because she knew that unlike Joffrey or Ramsay, Jon would not abuse his power so as to exploit her or exert dominance over her. He would treat her as an equal, as a human being.

He proved that today when he offered her Winterfell. It's an offer she accepted without hesitation because of the conviction with which Jon spoke and belief he seems to have in her, but now she feels conflicted. The chance to show her worth, to step up and help her people in their time of need and help rebuild her home is one that means everything to her, but at the same time she is uncertain, afraid and filled with self-doubt.

Jon is his father's son - honourable and strong, an experienced military man who has led armies into battle - he was also Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. But Sansa, well...she's just Sansa.

More of Jon's words replay in her head.

"I'm leaving both in good hands."

Does he really believe that?

Having faith in herself has been key to Sansa's survival and is why even through all of the suffering she has only grown stronger and more resilient, but in this instance she cannot seem to summon even an ounce of self-belief or confidence. The only thoughts that are swimming around in her head are ones of anguish and dread.

Jon can't leave.

How will the Winterfell survive without him? How will Sansa survive without him?

She feels overwhelmed with regret at agreeing to Jon going to Dragonstone. It's a risk of unparalleled proportions which is why she protested so fiercely against it to begin with. Though Tyrion has proved himself to be trustworthy and kind in the past, that is not enough of a reason for Jon to risk his life. They know nothing of Daenerys Targaryen and there is not even a shred of proof that Dragonstone is home to the Dragonglass that Jon seeks. All they have is the word of a maester in training whom used to be a Brother of the Night's Watch, and although Jon swears that he is trustworthy, Sansa still doesn't feel very assured. Even if Sam's word is true, what if his sources are misinformed or incorrect?

Sansa left Jon in the Great Hall with his closest advisers, overwhelmed and unable to talk about the planned visit for Dragonstone. She wants to march back down there and demand that Jon stop this lunacy immediately and to remind him once again that his only place is here, but she knows that would be unwise.

Of the many similarities Jon shares with their father, his stubbornness is one and Sansa knows that any effort she makes to sway him will be in vain. She also doesn't have the energy for it. In fact, she swears she can feel a fever coming over her. There's a lingering coldness at the core of her bones, her stomach feels hollow and her head is heavy and foggy.

A knock comes at the door and on Sansa's cue, Brienne enters.

"My Lady, I just came to see if you were well and if there's anything I could get you."

"Actually, I am feeling a little unwell."

"My Lady?" Concern comes across Brienne's face in an instant as she steps forward.

"I'm sure it's nothing, but I think it's best if I get some rest."

"Of course," Brienne nods.

"I will fetch you some bed clothes, extra blankets and water. Is there anything else you need? I believe there is freshly made soup on the stove in the kitchens."

Sansa nods. "Soup would be nice, thank you, Brienne."

"My Lady."

With that Brienne bows her head and exits.

It's only minutes until she returns with what she promised. Though Brienne's strengths lie in combat, she is completely devoted to Sansa in every which way and is completely invaluable to Sansa who has grown very fond of her and finds her presence such a comfort.

The soup soothes Sansa's belly some and helps warm her insides, but still Sansa decides to rest knowing that it is the wisest course of action should she be coming down with a fever. Brienne assists her into changing into her nightdress and once she is in bed, covers her with extra blankets.

"Would you like me to stay until you fall asleep?" Brienne asks.

"No, thank you, Brienne. You may leave."

Brienne nods. "Sleep well, my Lady. I hope you wake feeling better. I will be in my chambers should you need anything."

"Thank you."

Sansa is so exhausted that she is asleep before Brienne has even left the room and with a small smile, Brienne exits, the only sounds in the room coming from the cackling fire and Sansa's steady breathing.

"So we set sail tomorrow at first light," Jon announces his voice projecting and bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall.

His advisers nod and mutter their concurrence.

"We need to prepare and ensure the ship is loaded with the necessary provisions for the journey. That means food, water and weapons enough for a crew of ten men. Now, you all have your orders and I'm enlisting Ser Davos here to oversee the preparations."

Jon gestures to Ser Davos stood beside him and Davos nods.

"Make sure you all get plenty of rest. It's going to be a long journey and we will need all of our strength."

With that Jon acknowledges his men with a nod and they all disperse.

"You're sure about this?" Davos asks once the men have cleared the hall.

"What do you think?"

"I think you know as well as I the risks involved in this but that that won't stop you from going."

Jon meets Davos' eyes. "You said it yourself. If the army of the dead get past the wall, we don't have enough men to fight."

"Aye."

"Then you have the answer to your question."

Jon gets up from his seat and walks with Davos for the exit.

"Where's the Lady Sansa?" Davos asks, causing Jon's heart to leap in his chest. "I expected she'd want to be present for the meeting."

Jon shrugs and dismisses Davos with, "Why should she be concerned with what we're discussing? She's not coming along to Dragonstone. She's staying here in Winterfell."

Jon's tone is sharp and cold, and Davos immediately senses that he has spoken out of turn.

"Of course, my Lord," Davos says. After a few moments pause he adds, "Or is it Your Grace now?"

Jon shrugs less concerned with titles and more concerned with Sansa. Davos is right, she would usually want to be present for a meeting such as this, so where is she? She left the Hall hastily after Jon announced his plans to go to Dragonstone and leave Winterfell in her hands, and he hasn't had chance to check on her because he was propelled straight into planning for the voyage.

If truth be told, he thought of nothing but Sansa during the two hours of the meeting. He was acutely aware of her absence and longed for her to be there. Though it is tradition for men to be involved in political and military affairs and for kings and lords to surround themselves with male advisers, Jon has come to rely on Sansa as being his most trusted adviser.

Even though he knows she would've no doubt protested against most of what was said during the meeting, he still wishes she had have been there. When he departs from Davos, he wastes no time in heading straight for her chambers, knowing he will be unable to rest until he has seen her.

When he arrives outside he lightly raps on her door three times before entering. He's immediately greeted with the warmth from the fire that hits him in the face and for a moment he thinks she isn't there, until his eyes drift to the bed.

He sees a flurry of red hair peering out from beneath a hoard of blankets and though he knows he should simply turn and leave, he can't help but creep closer. When he gets sight of her face, warmth radiates throughout his chest and the corners of his mouth immediately go up in the curve of a small smile. Her face is rosy, her expression peaceful and her breathing heavy but steady.

He finds himself enchanted by her as he grows ever closer. He bends down and plants a feather light, tender kiss at the center of her head. In such a deep slumber, Sansa doesn't even stir and although Jon feels compelled to stay with her, he turns to leave with the intention of returning later.

As he reaches the door he can't help but steal a glance backwards and he wonders how he will possibly find the strength to leave her tomorrow.

Sansa awakes and even as she's still returning to consciousness her thoughts are already of Jon. Stretching her arms above her head and kicking the blankets off her, she yawns and gulps down the cup of water beside her bed that Brienne left for her. She immediately notices how much better she feels and dismisses her earlier feelings as being nothing more than exhaustion.

Sleep is hardly something that has come easy to Sansa over the passing months. She's kept awake each night trembling with fear at every footstep she hears outside her door, expecting to see Ramsay's soulless black eyes grinning back at her taking pleasure in her suffering. And if it's not that that keeps her awake, it's the nightmares which are so vivid that it makes Sansa feel she is reliving it all over again.

She thought knowing Ramsay was dead would be enough for her to sleep peacefully at night, but she was wrong. Ramsay might be dead in reality, but he lives on within Sansa through the scars he inflicted on her.

In truth, Jon is the only one that helps keep the nightmares at bay and provides her with enough comfort that she can sleep. The first few nights she reunited with him at Castle Black were the first nights she slept for more than three hours straight in months, maybe even since she had left Winterfell. Uncertainty about what her nights will look like without Jon is just one of the many concerns she has about him leaving for Dragonstone.

Climbing out of bed, Sansa wastes no time in grabbing her cloak and heading outside. She may have been too cold earlier, but now she is too hot. Her skin is sweaty causing her night dress to stick to her and the under layers of her hair feel damp, particularly at the base of her neck.

She's greeted with the sight of a picturesque Winterfell, snowflakes fluttering from the grey canvas sky, flags bearing the Stark sigil waving in the wind and she inhales deeply, a smile coming across her face. It's a sight she never gets tired of. No place on earth can ever compete with home.

As though sensing her presence, Brienne emerges from her chambers and greets Sansa.

"My Lady, you're awake. How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Much better, thank you."

"I'm glad. But you really shouldn't be out here in the cold. It could bring the fever back on."

"I'll go back inside in a moment. Have you seen Jon?"

"I saw him a while ago heading towards the crypts."

Sansa nods, knowing exactly why Jon has gone there. Whenever he has something weighing heavily on his mind he pays a visit for their father. She assumes imagining what father would do or say in his situation helps him make decisions. Though Sansa understands it, she doesn't necessarily approve. She meant what she said to Jon the other day. Ned made stupid mistakes that lost him his head and Sansa couldn't bear for Jon to do the same.

"Come on now, let's get you back inside," Brienne says gesturing for Sansa's chambers.

Just as Sansa is about to turn to head inside she sees a flustered Jon come blustering out of the crypts, his cloak flapping behind him as he storms through the snow. Immediately Sansa steps forward and peers down at the courtyard to see Littlefinger exit the crypts moments later, his hand around his neck. Intuition tells her that whatever happened in the crypt between Jon and Littlefinger can't be good and she sighs deeply. As though he can feel her eyes on him, Littlefinger lifts his head and instantly meets Sansa's eyes. A complacent smirk comes across his face causing Sansa to shiver with revulsion and he bows his head in her direction, before taking off.

"I don't like him being around," Brienne comments.

"No one does," Sansa replies.

She decides to put Littlefinger from her mind and returns to her chambers with Brienne on her heels.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

"I'd like a bath."

Brienne nods.

"And could you also send for Jon? Invite him to my chambers to eat dinner in private. I'd like to have the chance to speak with him."

"Of course, my Lady," Brienne says.

"Thank you."

Sansa smiles gratefully at Brienne and she leaves to see to Sansa's requests.

The rest has provided Sansa with the lease of energy she hoped it would. Now all she wants is to speak with Jon.

A million thoughts are floating around in her head and though she's not quite sure which ones to share with him or how she'll even articulate them, she knows she has to try.

Jon can feel his heart pounding in his chest and his blood feels like red hot lava racing through his veins. His fists are clenched so hard that his knuckles are white and his body shakes uncontrollably beneath him. He has never quite felt rage like this before.

That fucking cunt Littlefinger.

Gods, he knows exactly how to push Jon to his extremes. How Jon retrained himself from strangling the life out of him right there and then is a mystery to him. Had it not been for the fact that the Battle of the Bastards would've been lost without him, he's sure he would have.

"I love Sansa as I loved her mother."

How dare he speak of Sansa that way. How dare he speak of her at all.

He;s the one that sold her to the Boltons as though she were an object, one he had the audacity to believe he had ownership of. The very thought of it sickens Jon to his stomach. Accepting the dreadful abuse and exploitation Sansa has suffered is something he still cannot do. He wishes he could change it every second of every day, that he could turn back time and save her from having to endure such horrors, but he can't. All he could do is deliver Ramsay to her and he did.

Now Ramsay's dead, but Littlefinger isn't and Jon is filled with rage and hatred at that fact. Littlefinger is to blame for what happened to Sansa and that is something he can never forget nor forgive. And he had the nerve to stand there and claim to love her? What the fuck does that cretin know about love?

Though it was never spoke of in Jon's presence, he's perceptive enough to know about Littlefinger's obsessive unrequited love for Catelyn. It was inappropriate and unwanted by both Catelyn and his father (which is of no surprise) and the transference of his feelings from Catelyn to her young daughter is certainly unwanted by Sansa and Jon.

Gods, he'd give anything to kill him. But he's a king now and kings must be able to set their personal emotions aside for the sake of their kingdom.

Jon storms past the guards stood outside his chambers and slams the door shut with incredible force, unable to contain his anger. A sleeping Ghost jerks awake and instantly comes over to greet Jon, sensing his distress.

Ghost licks his hand and Jon scratches his head. "Hello, boy," he greets him with quietly.

Jon inhales and exhales deeply, attempting to gain control of his emotions.

Since the day he first saw Sansa at Castle Black he knew with absolute certainty that he would do anything to keep her safe, but he didn't quite realise just how strongly he would grow to feel about it. At first, his vow to protect Sansa was more as a result of Jon wanting to fulfill his brotherly duties and honour what Ned and Robb would wish for him to do, but now it was so much more than that.

He doesn't just keep Sansa safe out of obligation, loyalty or duty to his family, it's for her - and for him too. Protecting her is no longer a conscious choice, it's an instinct - something inexpiable that he feels deep at his core that explodes out of him whenever the need arises. He didn't choose to grab Littlefinger around the throat and pin him against the wall, he did it without even a second thought. Just as he lost control the day of the Battle of the Bastards when he beat Ramsay until his face was a mess of red and purple. He never would've stopped either, if it hadn't been for the sound of Sansa's voice calling his name.

Jon's thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Enter."

A moment later Brienne's face appears. "Your Grace."

Jon was still getting used to that. "My Lord." "Your Grace." "My King". All titles feel so alien and wrong to him, particularly after a lifetime of being called "the bastard."

"My Lady. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Lady Stark has asked me to invite you to her chambers to dine with her this evening."

Jon's heart skips a beat and he eagerly accepts. "I would like that. I'll inform the lords and ladies that Sansa and I shan't be eating with them this evening."

Brienne nods. "I will let Lady Stark know."

"Is she alright? Sansa? Only I came by her chambers earlier this afternoon and she was sleeping."

"She was unwell and believed she was coming down with a fever, so thought it was best she got some rest," Brienne informs him.

"But she's feeling better?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Jon nods and smiles. "Thank you."

With a small bow, Brienne leaves and in a fraction of a second Jon's mood has completely transformed. All ill feeling has disappeared from his body and mind and the darkness that consumed him only moments ago has now been replaced with light.

He wastes no time in heading for the Great Hall to inform his people that he and Sansa will be absent from dinner tonight and armed with some treats from the kitchen, he practically skips to Sansa's chambers with Ghost close on his heel. He doesn't even think about the grueling topics of conversation about Dragonstone that are inevitably going to be brought up, because all he cares about is that he is going to be spending the evening with Sansa. Though he spends many hours of the day in her presence, it is so rare for the two of them to spend time alone together and it is something he so very much enjoys.

With three knocks at her door, Jon stands outside only ten minutes after Brienne has informed him of Sansa's invite to eat dinner with him. So eager to see her, Jon doesn't bother to wait for her to respond and enters.

He is greeted with the sight of naked flesh that turns his blood to ice and paralyses him. Though he doesn't want to, Jon can't help but stare at the stunning figure before him with porcelain skin and perfect curves.

Sansa has her back to him and when she realises Jon is in the room she hastily pulls her dress over her head to cover herself.

"S-S-Sansa, I'm sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry." Jon stumbles over his apologies as he rushes to exit the room, mortified at himself for violating her in this way. "I should've waited for your permission to enter."

Sansa is flushed and extremely embarrassed, but beckons Jon to stay understanding that it was nothing more than an accident.

"I should've locked the door. It's my fault."

"No, I shouldn't have- I really think I should just go," Jon insists not knowing how to recover from this most embarrassing encounter.

"Truly, Jon, it's okay," Sansa reassures him.

Jon doubts her and wonders if she is merely pretending she is fine when she's not. Silence extends between them and the air is thick with tension. Jon can scarcely breathe because of it and it is Sansa who makes an effort to break it.

"Something smells good," she says.

"Um...yeah, I had the cook make you some soup like the one you enjoyed at Castle Black. Do you remember?"

"Oh, yes," Sansa replies. "But I can smell something else, too. Something sweet."

"Lemon cakes."

Sansa's eyes widen as she practically squeaks, "Lemon cakes?"

Jon laughs lightly at her reaction. "I wasn't sure you'd be up to eating them. Brienne said you were feeling unwell."

Sansa nods. "I was, but I think I was just tired. A little rest and I feel fine."

"That's good."

"I'm certainly well enough to eat lemon cakes."

Jon meets Sansa's eyes and she raises her eyebrows at him playfully, then they both break out into laughter.

"I told the lords and ladies we wouldn't be in the hall for dinner this evening," Jon tells her. "I also asked for no interruptions-"

"Jon, you're King now. The people are looking to you to lead them, you can't just switch off from your duties."

"If you'd let me finish, I was going to say I asked for no interruptions unless it's urgent."

"Oh."

"Yes. 'Oh'," Jon says, unable to stop the amused smile from coming across his face.

"What is all of this for?" Sansa asks. "The soup, the lemon cakes, the no interruptions?"

"Weren't you the one that invited me to your chambers for dinner?"

"Yes, but-"

"I wanted us to have the chance to speak privately."

Sansa swallowed, not liking the sound of that. She decides not to question him further on it, not wanting to know what it is he has to say to her yet. She wants at least a short amount of time to just be with him.

Sansa pulls two chairs in front of the fire and gestures for Jon to sit. He hands her some soup and she cups it in her hand and sips it. Though she had soup only hours ago, she enjoys it every bit as much as she did then, if not even more so. The flavours are entirely different and she closes her eyes and sighs, the memories of Castle Black flooding her mind. Since the day she left Winterfell, there are not many memories Sansa can look back on as being fond ones, but that day is one she knows she will treasure forever. Believing she would never again see a member of her family alive was a reality she came to accept, though it broke her heart and quite frankly, made her want to turn to ash just to be with them once more. So to see Jon's face looking back at her, to feel his arms around her holding her tight, warmth and flesh and beating heart against hers...it's an emotion she can't even begin to put into words. An elation and joy unparalleled by anything else she's ever felt.

Jon once again can't help but stare, unable to break his eyes away from Sansa. Her red hair glows from the flames of the fire and she looks every bit as peaceful and contented as she did that night at Castle Black. So strange that although she was the sibling he was most estranged from and knew least when they were children, once he was reunited with her he felt closer to her than he had to any other person - except perhaps Ygritte. For all their differences as children, their shared love for their family and ties to home were enough to unite them against all foes and though they butt heads on a regular basis Jon would have it no other way. Sansa is part of him.

Feeling his gaze on her, Sansa lowers the bowl of soup onto her lap and her eyes flit over to Jon. If any other man had walked in on her half naked only minutes ago, she would not allow nor feel comfortable to have that man sitting so near to her, his eyes boring into her so intently, but this is Jon. Not only does she trust him with her entire being, she takes comfort in his dark eyes which speak so much even when his mouth is silent. Their eyes remain on each other for a beat, both lost in the moment.

"No Ghost this evening?" Sansa asks.

"I left him outside."

"Aw!" Sansa exclaims. "But it's so cold out. Go fetch him inside," Sansa insists gesturing towards the door. Though Ghost is not her own direwolf and could never replace lady whom Sansa still misses often, having Ghost around comforts her.

Jon goes to the door and calls Ghost's name. The large, direwolf enters and shakes his fur, droplets of water flying off in all directions.

"Oh, Ghost!" Jon exclaims the water having covered him.

Sansa chuckles lightly.

"Now, get over there and dry off," Jon tells him pointing to towards the fireplace.

Ghost obediently wanders over to the foot of the hearth and curls up near Jon's seat. Jon brushes himself down and wipes the water from his face with the back of his hand, then sits back down and pats Ghost on the head.

"I saw you leaving the crypts earlier," Sansa says, unable to refrain from asking Jon about it a moment longer.

Jon gulps a mouthful of soup down loudly and his eyes and mood change in an instant.

"And Littlefinger too," she adds.

Sansa pauses for a moment, her eyes fixated on Jon as she studies his reaction.

"Dare I ask what happened?"

Jon tenses his jaw and feels his heart rate spike, the mere mention of Littlefinger causing his fury to resurface.

"Don't talk to me about him," Jon spits through gritted teeth.

"Whatever he said, ignore him. Everything Littlefinger does and says is calculated. He's a manipulator who preys on a person's vulnerability and exploits it for his own gain or pleasure. He just wants a reaction from you. Be smarter than him, don't give it to him."

Jon knows Sansa is right, but he can't suppress or control the rage that Littlefinger evokes in him no matter how hard he tries. He does prey on a person's vulnerability and clearly he knows that Jon's is Sansa and if he didn't before he certainly does now.

"What did he say to you?"

Jon looks to her and shakes his head.

"What? What is it? What did he say?" Sansa questions more firmly.

"He said... He said he loves you." Just repeating the words makes Jon want to gag. "That he loves you the way he loved your mother."

The moment he's said it, Sansa takes a sharp breath in and her heart ceases to beat for what feels like an eternity. Though Littlefinger has made no effort to conceal his true feelings from Sansa, she still finds herself surprised to learn this. Not because he's admitted to his feelings, but because he chose to share them with Jon. Why would he do that?

Jon keeps his gaze on the floor and Sansa asks, "And what did you do?"

"What do you think I did?"

"Jon," Sansa says firmly, her intense eyes on him.

"I threatened him. Told him that if he touched you I'd kill him... And I meant it."

Sansa's heart resumes beating at a increased rate, the conviction of Jon's words and intensity of his gaze causing her insides to react in a way she's never experienced before. She doesn't understand what it means or why it's happening, and all she can do is just feel it.

Completly unbeknownst to her, a whirlwind of emotion is present within Jon too, a feeling he has become accustomed to recently whenever he is in Sansa's presence. Naturally it is something he dismisses, overlooks or diminishes, unable to face the reality of having to analyse and decipher the reason why he's feeling this way.

Again, Sansa is the one to change the subject and asks how the meeting went this afternoon. Jon goes on to inform Sansa of what was discussed and his plans for the impending visit to Dragonstone whilst she listens intently.

"So the success of this plan lies solely on the shoulders of Daenerys Targaryen? The daughter of the Mad King?" Sansa scoffs. "I'm beginning to wonder if you're the mad one around here."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon asks.

"It means that this is a suicide mission!" Sansa exclaims. "You know nothing about this woman and everything you do know makes her an immediate threat. An army of Unsullied and Dothraki, three grown dragons! What if she perceives you to be a threat? An enemy? She could have you burnt to ash in a second."

"I said I would leave Winterfell in your hands and you agreed," Jon reminds her. "I thought that meant I had your support."

"Yes, well I-I-I wasn't thinking clearly. I was surprised. But I stand by what I said before. Jon, this is too dangerous and you're needed here at Winterfell. Your people need you." I need you, she thinks.

"Like I said, I'm leaving them in good hands."

Sansa sighs and shakes her head.

"I've told you about the Army of the Dead, the Night King, the things I've seen..." Jon inhales deeply and puts his hand to his head. "If you'd seen them you'd understand why I have to do this."

Sansa doesn't have to see the Army of the Dead with her own eyes to know they are a very real and terrifying threat. And not just because she trusts Jon's word, but because she sees how haunted Jon is by the things he's seen, hears his screams from the nightmares that keep him awake at night and is witness to the burning desire to defeat them no matter the cost which consumes him every moment of every day.

"I know we have to defeat them," Sansa says her voice soft. "But what if Sam is mistaken? How does he know there's Dragonglass below Dragonstone?"

"Sam was one of my closest friends when I was with the Night's Watch. I consider him to be my own brother as much as Robb, Bran or Rickon, and I trust him with my life. And even if it turns out not to be true and there is no Dragonglass, Daenerys Targaryen still has men that can fight in our war. Men that we need if we have even a chance of winning."

Sansa opens her mouth to argue, but before she has the chance Jon continues with, "Everything we went through to reclaim Winterfell and anything we do now to rebuild it...it will all mean nothing if the dead aren't stopped."

At once Sansa is completely silenced, because how can she argue with that?

With a sigh Sansa asks, "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow at dawn."

Her eyes go wide and her heart sinks. "T-Tomorrow?"

"Aye."

"So that's what this was all about. The soup, the lemon cakes. You're just trying to placate me before you go sailing off for Dragonstone."

Jon hangs his head and smiles, then looks back up at her and says, "Now, would I do that to you?"

Sansa frowns at him, her face serious, but can't help but break out into a laugh.

"I suppose there's no changing your mind then?"

"Nope."

"I should have known to argue with you would be a waste of breath. You are every bit as stubborn as father was."

Jon chuckles. "Yeah, and so are you."

"I am n-" Sansa goes to argue but stops herself mid-sentence, realising that to engage would only prove Jon's point.

Jon chuckles harder with amusement and Sansa shakes her head at him. "Oh, shut up," she snipes playfully.

Jon realises how much he'll miss this. Laughter, smiling, joy, are all things that only Sansa seems to bring out in him these days and he realises how grey his world will become without her around. Even if the separation is only be temporary, the mere thought of it still causes his chest to tighten.

As though she is feeling the exact same emotions and thinking the exact same thoughts as he is, Sansa asks, "How long will you be gone?"

"Could be weeks, could be months." Jon doesn't add the possibility of "never" to the list, not wanting to accept that it's a very real and daunting possibility. He may be dead before the year is over or worse a prisoner forced to kneel to a ruler he neither chose nor wanted. "The voyage should last a week if the seas are kind, but how long we will be at Dragonstone is impossible to say."

"How many men are you taking with you?"

"Ten."

"Just ten?" Sansa asks, horrified.

"Any more than that will look like a threat."

"But ten? Jon, it's not enough."

"It's plenty."

This time Sansa relents more easily and doesn't even attempt to argue back. "And you have everything you need?"

Jon nods. "I left Davos to oversee that everything is ready for morning."

Sansa nods unsure of what else to say that other than, "Please, don't go. Stay, for me." But she knows she can't say either of those things because they are irrational, unjustified and selfish.

Silence fills the room for a few moments, the only sounds being the cackling fire and Ghost's light snoring.

"Are you sure about your decision to leave Winterfell in my hands? Do you really think it best?" Sansa asks, much to Jon's surprise.

He shifts in his seat so that his body is pointed towards her and says, "Would I have said it if I didn't mean it? You're a true Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. You won the Battle of the Bastards, you reclaimed our home yourself, earned the love of your people and now it is your turn to rule."

Sansa can't help but bow her head modestly and blush at the compliment. Jon's belief in her is enough to restore at least some of self-belief she has been lacking in today.

"Thank you, Jon."

"You're welcome. Now we should finish our soup before it gets cold."

"I am finished," Sansa says holding out her empty bowl for him.

"Seven hells, you eat fast," he exclaims with a light laugh.

Sansa smiles. Jon lifts his tankard from beneath his chair and takes a swig.

"May I?" Sansa asks extending her hand out.

Jon pulls the tankard in closer to his chest and narrows his eyes at her. "Remember what happened last time at Castle Black."

Jon smiles fondly at the memory of Sansa coughing and spluttering from the repugnant taste of Castle Black's ale.

"Yes, but Winterfell's ales are much sweeter."

Jon relents and hands Sansa the tankard as she requests. She takes only a small sip and pulls a face of disgust just as she did that night at Castle Black. Jon finds it every bit as funny as he did then and responds with, "Told you."

Sansa hands Jon back his tankard and announces, "I'll have Brienne fetch some wine."

"Since when do you drink wine?"

"Since now."

Jon raises his eyebrows at her.

"What?"

Jon simply shakes his head.

"What?" Sansa questions again more insistently.

Jon holds his hands up. "Nothing, nothing. Just thinking how I don't want to be the one cleaning up your sick because you can't hold your wine."

Sansa scoffs. "And who says I can't hold my wine?"

Jon laughs. "I know you can't."

"Is that so?"

Sansa gets up from her seat, disappears outside and returns a few minutes later.

"Brienne's on her way to fetch us some wine from the kitchens, so we'll see who can hold their alcohol best."

"I'm supposed to be your responsible big brother. Not sure if I should let you get blind drunk," Jon says with a shake of his head.

"I won't be getting blind drunk and besides, I'm not a little girl anymore," Sansa says standing in front of him.

Jon looks up at her and smiles. "I know you're not a little girl anymore."

"And seeing as you're leaving tomorrow, it's just for tonight. Right?"

Jon nods. "Aye, just for tonight."

Brienne comes to the door then, jug of wine in hand and Sansa goes to retrieve it from her. Jon sits with a genuine smile of unadulterated joy on his face and ponders on how this is the best possible way for him to spend his final hours in Winterfell. Though the feelings of dread and melancholy are already niggling at him as the thoughts of leaving tomorrow play on his mind, he is determined to push them aside to fully enjoy and appreciate this evening. After all, it will be weeks before he sees Sansa again. It may even be the last time.

No, Jon can't even bear to think it. The thought of taking leave of this world and of her, of leaving her a lone wolf, unprotected and without love makes him feel his soul is being torn in two. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to not climb aboard that ship tomorrow morning, but he is duty bound and his honour compels him to do the right thing. Whether it is his responsibility or not, he will do everything in his power to save his people and the world from the dead. If that means being apart from Sansa for a long while, risking his life and his freedom, well, it's just a price he will have to pay.

Hours pass and Jon and Sansa's negative thoughts and emotions are completely erased from their minds as they engage in playing cards, chess and drinking wine. Sansa's flair for cards took Jon by surprise and brought their competitive sides out.

"I have many hidden talents that you are yet to see," Sansa bragged.

"Well, we'll see how well you fair against me," Jon rebutted.

Much to Jon's dismay he failed to win even a single game of cards and eventually decided that they should switch to chess causing Sansa to accuse him of being a sore loser.

Any tension that may have been between them is obliterated and there is not even a moment silence as they chat and chuckle together. Their laughter bounces off the walls and fills the room, and even if it's just for tonight, they're happy. Truly happy.

Although she's only had two glasses of wine, Sansa is feeling the effects proving Jon's point that she cannot hold her alcohol, though she's determined not to let him know that. She's never been drunk before and the new sensations are intriguing and pleasant. She feels lighter and more carefree. Though conversation and laughter always comes easier with Jon than with anyone else, it is even more so now and Sansa revels in the feeling of it. No wonder so many adults spend their days and nights getting drunk, she thinks, this is amazing!

"Checkmate!" Jon calls out.

"What?" Sansa frowns in confusion looking down at the chess board. "No, that can't be right. You cheated!"

"The proof is right there in front of you, I won. I guess you're hidden talents don't extend to chess," Jon teases.

"No, you must've cheated. Ghost, did he cheat?" Sansa asks looking over to the direwolf sat beside Jon. His red eyes shift from the chessboard to her and he tilts his head to the side as though he understands her question.

"See? Even Ghost agrees."

Jon titters lightly. "Ignore her, boy. She's just a sore loser," Jon says to Ghost.

"Hey!" Sansa protests, slapping Jon playfully on the arm. "I'm not the sore loser around here, you are."

Sansa cannot recall feeling so free since she was a child and she never wants this feeling to end. Right now nothing matters. Not the dead, Cersei, Daenerys, the Iron Throne, Baelish - none of it. All there is is here and now.

Nothing pleases Jon so much as being able to see Sansa this way. For the first time she actually seems her years and he even feels his too. He feels youthful and it is the only time he can recall feeling the weight of the Army of the Dead being off his shoulders.

The door knocks and Jon and Sansa's hearts sink, knowing their evening is likely about to be ruined. Sansa answers the door to reveal Ser Davos.

"Lady Sansa."

"Ser Davos."

Jon gets up from his seat and walks over to the door.

"Your Grace."

"What is it, Ser Davos?" Jon asks impatiently.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, I just wanted to inform you that the ship has been loaded and we have everything necessary for the voyage South."

Though Jon instructed Davos he should not be interrupted unless it was urgent, he simply thanks him for letting him know and Davos bids him goodbye, wishing him a night of well rest.

The moment the door is closed Jon turns to Sansa, her mood having been completely transformed. Her body is limper, the light in her eyes has dimmed and her face is somber. All Jon wants is to continue with their evening, but he can see that there is no salvaging it now. Davos has brought with him the dark cloud of reality and there is no escaping from underneath it.

"Shall we have another game?" Jon says walking over to the table and taking his seat across from Sansa, attempting to hide the blue mood that has suddenly overtaken him.

Sansa shakes her head, places her hands on the table and pushes her chair back, getting to her feet. The wine that was responsible for amplifying her feelings of contentment seems to have suddenly turned to poison in her blood stream and she is overwhelmed with sorrow. Usually she would have the resolve to hide her emotions and soothe herself, but in this instance she's unable to and cannot stop her thoughts from pouring out of her head unfiltered.

"Jon must you go?" she turns and asks.

Jon sighs deeply. "We've spoke of this. I have no choice. I won't be gone any longer than a month. The time will pass by quickly."

"Not quickly enough."

"I have every faith in you, Sansa. You're the queen the people need."

"It's not me I'm worried about," she admits.

"Tyrion wouldn't have invited me if their intentions were to kill me. I believe that."

"And what if you're wrong?"

"Like I keep saying, it's a risk I have to take."

Sansa is not comforted by Jon's words and paces the room anxiously, her hand to her head. Jon cannot stand to see her so unsettled and continues to say whatever he can to soothe her.

"We have both survived so much, sacrificed and endured so much to be standing here right now. We will do so again. I believe that too. Winterfell will remain standing with me gone and-"

"But I won't."

The words have left Sansa's mouth before she has chance to stop them and when she realises what she's just said she nervously meets Jon's eyes.

He parts his lips and hesitates to speak, as though terrified to say the wrong thing. "You've survived worse."

Though she knows it's true that she's survived so much worse, in this moment it doesn't feel that anything could be worse than this. The thought of parting from Jon is breaking her.

Sansa hangs her head in her hands, overcome with emotion and embarrassed at her weakness. Jon steps towards her wanting to desperately close the distance between them and comfort her.

He stops a few feet from her and after a minute or so she looks back up at him, tears reflected in her eyes.

"I'm afraid, Jon."

Something inside Jon breaks to hear her say that. He doesn't want her to feel afraid, not ever. But though he can protect her physically, not even he can protect her from herself, from her own demons, thoughts and emotions.

"There's no need to be afraid. Why are you afraid?"

"Because you may never come back."

Jon is afraid of the very same thing. No, scrap that, he's terrified, but he refuses to let Sansa see that.

"I told you, I'll be alright and I will come back. If I believed my life was in danger I wouldn't go."

She rolls her eyes and scoffs. "Yes, you would. I know you, Jon. You're honourable, loyal and kind. You don't care about any of this," she gestures around her. "Ruling Winterfell and being king is just something that was offered to you because you earned it because of your bravery, but you never really wanted it. You'd risk yourself and give your life in a heartbeat if it meant securing a way to defeat the Night King and Army of the Dead. That matters to you more anything else in the world."

Jon hangs his head and inhales deeply. "That's not true."

When he looks up to Sansa, her blue eyes are wide in wonderment and without a moments hesitation he steps forward and reaches his hand out to her. She steels herself, her spine going rigid as Jon's hand lands on her hair and sweeps it behind her ear, his hand resting on her cheek.

"I'll find a way to defeat the dead and then I will come back to you. I promise."

There is such truth and conviction in his words that it makes her tremble. Jon keeps his intense gaze on her and they remain stood this way - just inches apart, so close they can feel each other's body warmth and the thud of the other's heart - for countless minutes.

Jon knows he should let his hand drop down by his side and back away from her, but an inexplicable force keeps him rooted to the spot. He's paralysed, unwilling and unable to rip himself away from her. What is happening to him?

Sansa isn't sure if it's the wine, but she feels dizzy, as though her head is spinning off into infinity and the only thing that is keeping her grounded is the sight of Jon's dark eyes on hers, which are reflected with such devotion and the feel of his flesh against hers. Her eyes unwillingly flit down to his lips just at the very moment his go to hers and he begins to lean into her.

All breath leaves Sansa's body and she wonders if this is real or merely a dream. She knows she should step away and put an end to whatever is about to happen, but she can't.

"It's just tonight. Just for tonight", she thinks.

As Jon's face grows ever closer to her, he begins to lift upwards until his lips make contact with the center of her head. Sansa's entire body sinks and she feels as though she's taken a forceful blow to her stomach which makes it difficult to breathe.

Jon's lips linger on her hot skin and it takes every ounce of strength in his body to pull away from her. As he does ever so slowly, his eyes remain on her lips, and he feels a yearning so incredibly fierce that it makes him quiver.

When he finally meets her gaze it's just in time to see the tears that are falling from her eyes. Jon shakes his head and it physically pains him to see Sansa's anguish. He knew it would be difficult to leave her, but he had no idea it would be this heartbreaking.

He tenderly wipes the tears from her hot cheeks with his hands and she lets her eyelids flutter closed, his touch making her ache.

"Jon?" Her voice is thick with emotion, suppressed sobs fighting their way through her throat. "Will you stay with me please? Just for tonight?"

Although in his heart Jon wants to say, "Yes, I will stay with you forever," he doesn't.

Instead he says, "Yes, I'll stay with you. Just for tonight".

Because despite what is in their hearts, tonight is all they have.

#actuallyjonsa #jonsa #jonxsansaff #jonsa fanfiction #jonsa fic #jon x sansa #mine #my writing

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tomellingham · 4 years

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Coronavirus and Glandular Fever

It requires confirmation, but it appears Covid19 was around in Europe along time before it was officially discovered and named last year.

I believe it may have been around for a long time before then.

It's credible to me that a reaction between Covid19 and Epstein Barr virus, and / or Glandular Fever (Mono) may be key to the damage the virus can cause.

Here's what I'm thinking, and why I'm thinking it:

In August 2018, I was on the A1 with a mate, in his van. We were returning to Edinburgh from a job in Herfordshire. Until around an hour before we crossed the border, the journey was uneventful.

Then I started to feel a bit off colour. A gradual feeling of malaise that steadily got worse.

At the Dunbar roundabout, about thirty miles outside Edinburgh, we pulled off the road and into an empty supermarket car park so my mate could take over the driving. As we pulled in, I clipped a rear tyre over the curb. It caught me by surprise, but no damage was done. The day before I'd managed to slam the van door on my thumb. Both were stupid mistakes any tired person could make – or both were signs co-ordination was going wonky.

A few minutes after we'd switched over and on the final A1 stretch back ot the capital, I suddenly became very, unwell. I usually vomit so rarely I can count the number of times I remember doing so on one hand. The feeling of being sick is luckily something I rarely have to deal with. In that van, I felt like I needed to puke my guts up, but couldn't.

I was getting so hot I wanted to remove my shirt, then immediately felt shivering cold a minute later.

I felt so bad I considered asking my mate to drive me straight to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, but I couldn't speak. My limbs were tingling and felt like jelly.

When we got back I could barely make it up the one flight of tenement stairs to the house. I remember being absolutely knackered, still feeling sick, and at one point considering I could lie on the stone staircase with my mate, wife, and kids until an ambulance arrived, but was still unable to speak. Somehow I made it up, remember nodding to the kids, into the bedroom, and flopped onto the bed, where I pretty-much stayed for weeks.

I don't remember an awful lot about what happened during that time. I remember being exhausted, although clearly I had enough energy to talk, get up out and about to use the loo and shower. I had enough energy to send comprehensive text messages to friends. I must have been out to the shops several times, although I don't remember doing so. I must have done something.

There were also many times when consciousness and dreaming were impossible to separate, there were pains in my arms and tingling in my fingers and toes. My muscles and arms would, very occasionally, twitch or jump for no reason when I was tired, something they'd never done before. I didn't see a doctor – or at least I don't recall doing so. It was just 'one of those bugs' that in retrospect went on for a while longer than it possibly could have if it was the flu. I do remember contemplating that if whatever I had was terminal, so be it.

I also began to feel dumb. Simple calculations with numbers I often play in my head I could no longer make sense of. For example - what's seven times seven? I pondered for several minutes on what the answer could be, before entering it into my phone's calculator to get the answer, and trying to work out how the answer was arrived at. I do recall wondering if I'd had a stroke. Certain words on my phone's screen wouldn't make sense, or the letters would appear back to front.

I remember my eyes tinged pink throughout the late summer and winter 2018. They cleared up gradually, and were more a curiosity than a concern. I was concerned, though, about my vision. It started with a haze surrounding lights in twilight. In November, my friend and I hired a car and travelled to Wales. Driving during the day was fine, but when it got dark, I was convinced a smeared windshield was diffusing the headlamps from approaching vehicles and making it difficult to see out. I called the hire company, and they sent out an auto technician who washed the screen and gave the wipers a good clean with a cloth, but it made no difference.

Words on screens, pages and signs became more blurred. By December I struggled to make out words on my phone screen, even with the biggest font setting. Blobs of what I thought might be cataracts were appearing in front of my vision making it difficult to see.

I could barely see more than a few metres in front,and had accepted I would probably no longer be able to drive.

I was convinced I was going blind, but to be sure, asked if a local optician could scan my eyes, which they kindly did – and told me they couldn't see anything wrong. A few people suggested it could be stress, which seemed plausible. There were a few things going on around that time.

A few weeks before Christmas 2018, my dad became quite ill. A few days after it started, he was picked up and taken to the infectious diseases unit at the Western General Hospital, Edinburgh. They ran all kinds of tests over the couple of months he spent there in a bid to find out what was wrong, and concluded it was Epstein Barr syndrome – a bug that sits dormant inside the bodies of many of us, but sometimes decides to rear up and cause what we call commonly call Glandular Fever, or Mononucleosis - 'Mono'. Usually Mono decides to strike only once, and usually when we're teenagers. I had it back when I was one of them. But my dad was 71 years old.

The medical conclusion for my dad's sudden illness and rapid cognitive decline was that because he carried the EBV virus, for some reason, Mono had flared up, and the resulting immune response had burnt out neural wiring: a process called Encephalitis.

As I'd had glandular fever when I was 19, I concluded although it's said to be uncommon to be struck twice, something had caused me to flare up in Mono earlier in the year and, sadly, I'd transferred it on to him.

My dad went from being a regular, able-bodied man in his early seventies to unable to walk or comprehend much around him in a few short weeks. During this early stages of his hospital stay, when he was lucid enough, we would walk slowly together with the aide of a frame to a Christmas tree at the far end of the ward, and back again. It became more and more difficult for him over days. Before the end of January, he couldn't walk at all.

He was usually on the bed asleep. His arms would jerk and face twitch involuntarily.

He was physically and cognitively exhausted. When awake, which wasn't for long, he would often appear quite lucid then ask, for examples: what time the train was leaving, where was the hotel we were presently staying in located, or when the bus we were travelling on would arrive at the destination.

A few months later, he was transferred to a brain injury recovery ward at a specialist hospital. He was discharged late summer 2019 and is back home, which is currently being converted to accommodate his wheelchair.

I never thought a great deal about how all this could be linked to coronavirus until I heard about wastewater samples from various different parts of Europe containing covid19 before the virus was first identified in China.

I was already pondering the similarities and possible links between Covid19, Mono, and EBV.

Alot of the general reports I'd heard from Covid sufferers on the telly described very similar symptoms to both Mono and Encephalitis. The more I heard – in one case, first hand - from Covid survivors, the more it seemed cognitive and neurological symptoms were described just as often as respiratory problems.

A quick Internet search suggests I wasn't alone: Thailand Medical News had wondered the same about the links between the conditions, two months before I had. I've put the link below.

The scientific evidence on which they based their question is extremely interesting:

In a Chinese study, over 50 % of hospitalised covid19 patients also had Acute Epstein Barr infection.

The key word here is acute – the 'Acute Epstein Barr infection appeared suddenly. Unless I'm mistaken, that's another word for Mono.

If Covid19 was around previously, then why didn't we see a pandemic before 2020? Surely it wasn't because people weren't connecting the dots?

It could be because there's different strains - mutations – of the virus. By far the most infectious is the one, known as D614G, that adapted to attack the respiratory system. It's likely the virus discovered in Wuhan was simply the first identification of infections by this more potent mutation.

It's more than plausible the virus was around and creating havoc before 2019 - it just wasn't identified – nobody can identify something if they don't know it exists,

It was the encephalitis inflammation that caused the likely permanent damage to my dad. But we don't actually know what caused it. The doctors hazarded a guess it was Mono because he held the EBV gene. But so do most other people. It didn't explain what had caused it to roar up and cause immune havoc in his more senior years.

I didn't receive any diagnosis for any virus in 2018 because I didn't seek one, nor see

a doctor. I assumed I had acquired a nasty bug that would run its course. I could have explained away my loss of vision with other explanations. It crossed my mind it was likely caused by some kind of immune response, but as I couldn't explain it, best let it be. Quite frankly, I had other stuff to worry about at that time, and explaining it away as stress is also plausible. Nonetheless, it is interesting to hear lots of anecdotal evidence as to how Coronavirus affects vision.

It was only after I read a news report in The Guardian today (link below) I became aware that during the pandemic, there has been a spike in cases of Acute Disseminated Encephalomyelitis or, to give it a more general name, Encephalitis.

I'm not saying with any absolute certainty Covid19 was around and causing mischief before 2019.

It is highly possible a bat bit a pangolin and shat on a market floor, causing a four mutation flavoured virus and subsequent global pandemic within three months. I'm not being sarcastic, we were always told it could happen.

Just as plausible is that mutations of an existing, less infectious coronavirus could have been slowly bubbling around the globe, causing relatively low r-rated misidentified viral mischief until the more infectious D614G allowed an intelligent Chinese doctor to spot a pattern – a brave career move that ultimately cost him his life.

If Li Wenliang hadn't spotted the patterns and acted in the best interests of health, the virus may well have bumbled on unidentified as anything uniquely different for a few more weeks or months until it was identified elsewhere.

And I certainly can't say with any certainty even if this current Covidmalarkey had been knocking about a year or so before, it's what caused an immune response in me or anyone else. It's one possible cause out of many guesses.

And anyway, after all that, does it matter? What's done is done.

Well, it does. It matters because if the virus known as Covid19 was around before it was identified in 2019 in Wuhan, then the history and understanding of this epidemic, and what scholars will subsequently base their understanding on in the future is flawed.

And it's also unfair on China. And I'm not pro China. You have to be a pretty paranoid regime to confuse saving humanity with whistleblowing, for a start. But blaming one of their pangolins on a virus they didn't necessarily create is a little unfair.

What would be useful, and logistically very expensive, would be a huge repository of samples taken from Encephalitis sufferers while they are being treated, with a matching database. That way, virus spread could potentially be better mapped out.

Let's hope for the best, but be prepared the consequences of the Covid19 pandemic may be long and profound.

Some links for you:

Warning of serious brain disorders in people with mild coronavirus symptoms

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/jul/08/warning-of-serious-brain-disorders-in-people-with-mild-covid-symptoms

This is the research the Guardian news article, above, refers to:

The emerging spectrum of COVID-19 neurology: clinical, radiological and laboratory findings

https://academic.oup.com/brain/article/doi/10.1093/brain/awaa240/5868408

Positive Epstein Barr virus detection in corona virus disease 2019 patients

https://www.researchsquare.com/article/rs-21580/v1

Newer variant of COVID-19-causing virus dominates global infections

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2020/07/200702144054.htm

Coronavirus traces found in March 2019 sewage sample, Spanish study shows

https://uk.reuters.com/article/us-health-coronavirus-spain-science/coronavirus-traces-found-in-march-2019-sewage-sample-spanish-study-shows-idUKKBN23X2HQ

Coronavirus was already in Italy by December, waste water study finds

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-53106444

Coronavirus And Your Eyes: What You Need To Know

Contains anecdotal evidence in the commentary about how Covid19 may have affected vision,

https://emcfresno.com/coronavirus-affect-on-the-eyes/

Could Epstein Barr virus explain why certain Covid-19 Patients manifest certain symtoms while others are asymptomatic?

https://www.thailandmedical.news/news/interesting-read-could-epstein-barr-virus-explain-why-certain-covid-19-patients-manifest-certain-symptoms-while-others-are-asymptomatic

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