*Click*
You know what amazes me? Out of two pages of Dickens fanfiction, there is not one single David Copperfield fic out there, not even a slashy one, (which amazes me even more.) So I decided I'd contribute, perhaps, to both. I don't know whether it's because no one can actually get through the book or because no one has liked it enough to bother, but I think it's probably my favourite novel out of any that Dickens has written, and deserves a fanfiction of its own. So there you are, Mas'er Davy.
*Click*
CH 1. Clarifications and Findings
Let me start off by saying that Steerforth was not, much to the deep distress of poor old Mister Pegotty, dead. His ship had indeed wrecked in the maelstrom that attacked the previous evening, but he himself had not quite reached Heaven's door. So it was that James Steerforth was found, near most drowned but only unconscious as it were, by dear old Ham, and soon followed by myself. Seeing him there upon the shore that day, his wind dried curls nestled in the crook of his arm as they had been so often in the days of our youth, nearly drove me to believe that he /had/ reached the eternal sleep. His face was far too pale and his lips not quite the healthful shade of pink to be anything but dead. Yet, as Ham laid an ear to his damp chest, he observed a faint rattling, a shaking inhale and exhale. This feeble attempt of life flamed up inside me such contemptible feelings of hatred and love that I could have almost done him in myself just to rid my own poor heart of it. What I mean to say is, what right had he, the man who had taken our Em'ly away from home and family, to live? Yet he was my friend, my companion, and still I loved him! A small battle waged inside my soul at that second, and I didn't know whether I wanted to kiss the creature or let the ocean take him, but Ham decided it for me promptly.
Without any further consideration, my comrade rushed for assistance (probably to his chagrin, now I think of it) and I, who was left with dear Steerforth, persuaded him to breathe, to hold on for only a moment more, for help was on the way. I bundled him in my own greatcoat and held him to me, wishing upon my mother's grave that he wasn't so deathly cold and hoping even more that Ham would make haste. Steerforth made no sign of acknowledgement nor any other sign of life, and still I clutched him, trying to ignore the seagulls which had discovered us and were peering accusingly with beady eyes.
"Go away!" I growled hoarsely; the creatures unabashedly hopped closer. "Shoo! He isn't dead! Go away!" With my free hand I heaved a fistful of sand, not particularly at them, but in their general direction, to which they responded with a loud, distasteful scream and a mad flap-hop farther down the beach. "Fool birds!" I called after them pointedly, "He's not dead! He's not! And he's not going to be either!" And quite unbidden, a great hot tear rolled from my eye and landed softly in the sand.
"Daisy. . . ." Steerforth moaned.
You know what amazes me? Out of two pages of Dickens fanfiction, there is not one single David Copperfield fic out there, not even a slashy one, (which amazes me even more.) So I decided I'd contribute, perhaps, to both. I don't know whether it's because no one can actually get through the book or because no one has liked it enough to bother, but I think it's probably my favourite novel out of any that Dickens has written, and deserves a fanfiction of its own. So there you are, Mas'er Davy.
*Click*
CH 1. Clarifications and Findings
Let me start off by saying that Steerforth was not, much to the deep distress of poor old Mister Pegotty, dead. His ship had indeed wrecked in the maelstrom that attacked the previous evening, but he himself had not quite reached Heaven's door. So it was that James Steerforth was found, near most drowned but only unconscious as it were, by dear old Ham, and soon followed by myself. Seeing him there upon the shore that day, his wind dried curls nestled in the crook of his arm as they had been so often in the days of our youth, nearly drove me to believe that he /had/ reached the eternal sleep. His face was far too pale and his lips not quite the healthful shade of pink to be anything but dead. Yet, as Ham laid an ear to his damp chest, he observed a faint rattling, a shaking inhale and exhale. This feeble attempt of life flamed up inside me such contemptible feelings of hatred and love that I could have almost done him in myself just to rid my own poor heart of it. What I mean to say is, what right had he, the man who had taken our Em'ly away from home and family, to live? Yet he was my friend, my companion, and still I loved him! A small battle waged inside my soul at that second, and I didn't know whether I wanted to kiss the creature or let the ocean take him, but Ham decided it for me promptly.
Without any further consideration, my comrade rushed for assistance (probably to his chagrin, now I think of it) and I, who was left with dear Steerforth, persuaded him to breathe, to hold on for only a moment more, for help was on the way. I bundled him in my own greatcoat and held him to me, wishing upon my mother's grave that he wasn't so deathly cold and hoping even more that Ham would make haste. Steerforth made no sign of acknowledgement nor any other sign of life, and still I clutched him, trying to ignore the seagulls which had discovered us and were peering accusingly with beady eyes.
"Go away!" I growled hoarsely; the creatures unabashedly hopped closer. "Shoo! He isn't dead! Go away!" With my free hand I heaved a fistful of sand, not particularly at them, but in their general direction, to which they responded with a loud, distasteful scream and a mad flap-hop farther down the beach. "Fool birds!" I called after them pointedly, "He's not dead! He's not! And he's not going to be either!" And quite unbidden, a great hot tear rolled from my eye and landed softly in the sand.
"Daisy. . . ." Steerforth moaned.