Author's Note: This is the seventh and final entry in my series Alternating Universes. As always, new readers are strongly encouraged to begin at the beginning, with Sea Change. I promise, this finale will be much better than the one to JMRD: longer, happier, and more fulfilling and uplifting.

I'm still not comfortable writing Matt Smith's Eleventh Doctor, so in this one, my "future" Doctor is still some number after that; I'm calling him the Twelfth. (And if the "real" Twelve, when he finally appears – or any subsequent BBC Doctor – is anything like my vision, I will simply smile mysteriously.) I am continuing with the descriptions I began in Looking Glass Redux (although that story is not properly part of this mini-canon), as well as the glimpses of him seen previously in other stories. (Don't worry, all will be clear in a chapter or two.)

== UPDATE, December 2013: Well, well, well. I may not have been too far off in my descriptions, after all - Peter Capaldi has been announced as the 12th Doctor, and from what I've seen... short curly hair (although I made it dark), shocking blue eyes, vaguely Gallic complexion and features... I think I'll just take my bows here. ;) ==

I would like to thank my loyal readers for going the distance with me; your comments and reviews have often made my day (week, month) and kept me going on many occasions. Especially, I'd like to thank my good friend Rodney Dobson, who (among other things) inadvertently gave me the key to this fic in an off-hand question. I've long known where I wanted to take Ten and RoseB, but couldn't quite figure out how to get them there until he asked. (Rodney, I think you've just been elevated to a lower-level muse, just beneath Ten and Rose themselves.) My ultimate solution may not surprise many of you, after all the hints I've given, but I hope how I get there is still entertaining.

Final introductory note: my title this time is in Latin. I'll save you the trouble of putting it through Google Translate: it means Time Lord, Unconquered.

Disclaimer: as much as I might wish otherwise, Doctor Who still belongs to the BBC.


Intro

There were hearts beating...
..one in four parts, brave and true, strong and kind...
...one in two parts, filled with love for only him...
...and one single susurrating sigh, pumping them across the universe...

There was music...
..the tiny melody of a child's music box, chiming out a mother's love...
...a timeless paean of endless love, sung over a hero's empty grave...
...and the mournful tolling of cloister bells, a warning of catastrophe...

There were keys...
..one to a box, bigger on the inside...
...one to his love, in a tiny gold locket that never left his neck...
...and one to a mystery that threatened them all...

There were echoes...
..of a past and future self...
...of reverberating Time...
...and a single, supreme act of sacrifice...

And there was a name...
..and a word...
...and a promise...
...and the three were one...


Prologue

He was in Hell.

Time had frozen solid, a single solitary instant stretched to infinity. Even the ordinary photons of light streaking through the air were immobilized, standing utterly still at the precise point in space they had been when Time simply stopped. Nothing moved.

Except his mind.

The Doctor was trapped inside his own skull. Somehow, by some miracle, the innermost portion of his Time Lord brain continued to work, desperately holding on to the last visual image of the world outside his head and chewing frantically, futilely over it. Even that image was beginning to fade around the edges, his field of remembered vision narrowing to only the TARDIS console before him, slightly below his line of sight, as he had been grinning maniacally over the display screen at Rose standing opposite and holding on to her side of the console with practiced ease as they began a routine jump through time.

The instant the Time Rotor had engaged, the world had simply stopped.

For what felt like hours, no movement whatsoever, no sensation, no sight or sound reached his mind through any of his billions of neural connections. Then, finally, a synapse in his visual cortex, leading from his own eyeballs, fired – and then, after another eternity, another, and another, and another, each one coming slightly faster, until - after almost a day - they were firing fast enough for him to begin putting together the outside picture again. Nothing had changed, nothing had moved a single micrometer – except the slight shifting position of those photons.

At last, he realized Time was no longer frozen completely, but moving at such a cosmic snail's pace that it would take hours, subjectively, for a photon to reach his eyes from hers, still seeming to smile at him from across the console.

And at last, he put it all together.

He was mentally living through their jump in real time, as the TARDIS fled through its wormhole in the Void. As soon as they reached their destination, all would return to normal. No problem.

Wait, what was he thinking? How long was their programmed jump?

The answer finally floated up from the somewhat-affected synapses in his short-term memory.

Two thousand years.

He started screaming.