Summary: Songfic. The Jellicle tribe is dying. Etcetera watches as each one of her friends, and finally her father, leave her on her own.
Song: 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' by Dylan Thomas (poem)
Chapter Notes: This has been posted on various accounts quite a few times, but it appears my CATS account has been deleted and, as this is my favourite, I felt it deserved to be posted here.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day
The Jellicle tribe was dying. No kittens were being born, the adults were long gone, and the kittens were growing old. Only I could save them for a little longer. Only I would make them see sense.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightening they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Electra was the first to lay there dying. The smart one; the wise one. She always had an answer to everything. When I asked her about death, she replied: "Death is inevitable. We cannot beat death, so we may as well not try." But at her deathbed, I sat there, and I heard her talk. I heard her say that her life had been wasted. She had been good, yes, but not great. She wished she had time to do more. She did not give up to death, but in the end it overtook her. My dearest friend, the first to go.
Good men, the last waves by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Jemima was next. She was always the good one. She never though of death, but when her last day came, she knew much. I was with her when she died. She told me that in all her life she had been good, innocent even, but her deeds could have shone like water shines if she tried. She fought and fought death, but it took her too. Her last words were: "Rage against death. Do not give in gently."
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.
Pouncival. The one who always made me laugh. He knew what he wanted in life and got it. But in his last few hours, he told me his deepest secret: his life had slipped away too quickly. He had lived his life to the full, and now it was over, he wanted it back again. He wanted to regain his youth. What could I tell him? Rage against death? Do not give in gently? Nothing would comfort him. So he gave in, against that pull of death, and died.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Tumblebrutus, the last 'kitten' to go. He has always been solemn, and silent, but I always had a soft spot for him. I lay by his side on his last day, and he looked at me through eyes that never seemed brighter. I fell on my stomach and cried. Tumblebrutus had not seen the world for what it was. He should have been joyful, he could have stood out from the rest of the cats, but he chose the easy path. And death overcame him.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray
Munkustrap, my father, was the last one to go. He took my on his knee and coughed his wheezy cough, tears spilling over his eyes. And I told him:
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
He died that afternoon. The Jellicle tribe had vanished.
And I, Etcetera was the only one left.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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Xbakiyalo