By Nina S., guest blogger
[Ed. note: Nina is using this for the FanFic 100 challenge. We don't generally put fanfic directly into posts here, apart from the group fanfic we did, but we do use poems, so when she offered to let me post it here, I was very happy to do so! Enjoy!]
Title: Ill Blood
Fandom: David Copperfield
Characters: Uriah Heep
Prompt: 022. Enemies.
Word Count: 327
Summary: Uriah resents the arrival of David Copperfield, as it casts him into deeper darkness. “I think it strange/These memories I entertain/Knowing now the inside of my angel’s heart/And the devil I became there.”
Author's Notes: This is rather a lame poem I wrote back in 2008, paralleling Uriah a bit with the biblical character; this is more Uriah-inspired, also, since the language doesn’t fit his vernacular. But I thought I’d share it anyway. ;) Enjoy!
I saw him one morning
Through the eye in the wall
Papers kindling in my hand
Letters burned across the page
I think it strange
These memories I entertain
Knowing now the inside of my angel’s heart
And the devil I became there.
So let it be.
With each new act, new look
New bright and cruel fascination
He brought to everything
I sank and shrank.
I folded every limb into a corner
Darkened by a false illumination.
But still I let it be.
I never understood how such
Could be quite so free round me
Free not in the goodness in their heart
-- No, only one was that --
But free in all the falsity they spat
They would not speak a word to me when I was there
But how they lay their souls about the floor
For me to glean!
And yet I still have questions:
The demon asks the saint
Did you never think
About the wisdom long inflicted on my head?
You noticed how
My eyes hungered, how they stared
And watched you as you took
My single precious lamb from me.
But let it be.
And let it be that,
Spider that I am,
I, with a poison thread
Stitched together all the artificial shreds
Of you who fled from me
Tied you to her and bound
Them by their look and word
And him to sins he harbored
By no act of mine.
Most scorching of all words
Marking by its subtle touch
False false false.
But does it speak of you or me?
Me, my humble desperate sins upon my head?
You, your cold and calculating dread
Of me and all about me?
And yet I have got a little power now.
I saw some kind of god one morning
Through the eye in the wall.
There was a time I could have struck him dead.