This is a plot bunny, inspired by David Tennant's video diary of the last specials he filmed. In this video diary, he mentioned the scene where the Doctor tells Wilfred, "I could have been so much more" and described the Doctor "raging against the dying of the light" - a reference to the amazing, fantastic, brilliant poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas (this poem is also referenced in "The Shakespeare Code").

So I wrote a drabble. Five hundred words exactly, including the poem.

Disclaimer: the following fanfiction contains a copyrighted poem. At least - I think it's copyrighted. And if it's not, I still don't own it.

Happy reading! Thanks!

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Something so beautiful in that. So gorgeous, so amazing. The Doctor sits, staring into space, savouring the words and rolling them around on his tongue.
He's in a burnt-out house. It used to be inhabited. There - another family, another set of people he couldn't save. Books lie around him, pages scattered and words ashy. A chance in a million, that he saw this scrap, lying white on black, and picked it up.

And now he's crying over it, and the ink that escaped the flames has succumbed to salty water. Tears. But it's okay, because he's memorized the verse anew.
He's met the author and he knew this poem so many times before. Recited it to Shakespeare. Admired its beauty.

But now it means something.

Because he's been told and he knows.

"Your song is ending. It is returning, it is returning through the dark. And then Doctor... oh, but then...he will knock four times."

One, two, three, four. Inevitable.

Coming for him.

And what use is it to fight?

Who would have thought. But, then, if comfort and motivation was ever going to come, it had to be from humanity. Those long-sufferers that he had saved and nurtured, and were now giving him something in return. A weapon, of sorts. Don't go alone, Doctor. Bring the fear and anger.

Rage, rage...


Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

"I could have been so much more!"

He's screaming now. Rage has come. And oh, how he wants that light. Rage, rage... because he knows what he could be, and he knows what he won't be. Oh, he could have seen and done and been and made so many more things. His feeble deeds seem to fade in the face of looming death and he doesn't need prompting to rail and rant and scream and sob.

Is he a good man, for doing it, or is he falling and twisting and holding too hard?


Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

"It's not fair!" Tears and blood. Fire and ice and rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

What is going gentle? What is going strong? What's fighting? What's living?

It's all winding down for him. His song is ending.

But the story never ends.

"Oh." He stands up, looks at the man he knows he must save, whose place he must take. "Oh. I've lived too long."

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I don't think it's very good. :/ The drabble, I mean. The poem is, like I said, molto bene. Please review and let me know what you thought! Thanks :D