And you were returning the favor: you called to him, of Gallifrey, that perished in flame. "Don't you see, Donna? Can't you understand? If I could go back and save them then I would, but I can't. I can never go back." And if you cannot save the world, you said: "Just save someone." And so he did. And your name was written in the stars, and in the household crèche. The first monument, to the Doctor and Donna, was born of that choice. Your memory is spread across the universe, Donna. That's how special you are. I am only telling stories.
The Ood Sphere. A planet of beings so calm, so united, so peaceful and weak that they're born with their brains in their hands. They sing unendingly, in brilliant harmony. Holding nothing back. The libraries in which you and I spend our time, our selfish little stories: they'd never comprehend that. Not until the Second Great and Bountiful came, and took away their songs.
He knew you didn't want to hear the songs that were left them, but you insisted. And he put his hands against your head, like a father to a blessed daughter, like a husband to his holy bride, and showed you the truth of the world. The broken songs of their hearts broke yours, and you begged to retreat. Back into the library, back into the selfishness, away from their pain. You weren't built for this; for the pain inside of everything. For the everything inside of everything. But he was. That's his story, and yours. "I spent all that time looking for you, Doctor, because I thought it would be so wonderful out here," you said. "I want to go home." You already were.
"I don't understand," you said. "The door was open, why don't you just run away?" For what reason? "You could be free." I do not understand the concept.
You were horrified. How could someone stand there, door wide open, and not accept her freedom? It broke your heart. You were always sympathetic to a man or woman caged. You were always the one screaming when the doors were getting closed: as long as it was someone else whose weakness was exposed. Their spirit was locked in a circle, a jail, and it drove them mad. They served up horror, in a cup. Like huon particles, they changed their captor into something like themselves. But their captor, he was somebody's son too. "The circle must be broken," they said, "So we can sing." And you and your little Doctor, Spartacus and Spartacus, the Doctor and Donna Noble, set them free. They still sing about you, too: the Doctor, Donna, who heard a song on the wind, and followed. You will never be forgotten.