A/N: The basic concept for this story was borne from the amazing video by di0br "Tenth Doctor: The Musical", and has been a constant bug in my head ever since. If you haven't seen the video, I suggest you make your way over to youtube! ( watch?v=4dHkbdMYpSA, for those playing at home!) If this story continues down the path I intend, it'll end up being quite long, and encompass Nine, Ten and Eleven, The Master, The Meta-Crisis, River, Donna, Martha, Amy & Rory, Rose, Mickey, Jackie and Pete, as well as the Torchwood crew (Jack, Ianto and Gwen), as well as characters from Stargate: SG-1.
After the Fall. Prologue.
There was a time, so long ago and yet never-ending, when the mythical process was safeguarded by the Lords of Old, a mere legend to the lesser species, a tale now relegated to the pages of parables and fables of all existence.
The Lords of Old, the protectors of the fallen, accompanied the departed regenerations on the unknown path into the next realm, a continuation beyond mortality. Even the Time Lords tangible accepted the story as nothing more than their own form control, sub-diversion implemented in an attempt to reign in the actions of their kind. Having refuted all forms of religion across the stars, disproving unequivocally an absence of any higher power, they still found their own people speculating and hypothesising their own fate by means of an unseen force.
Yet, while a higher power may not control the destiny of the entire Universe, the ancient lore's of Gallifrey remained a constant, the Ageless Gods of the most ancient and mighty race in all of time, stood as guardians for the lost children of their home world. Recognised as Deities, although never declaring to be more than the Oldest of their Kind, the shepherds of their misplaced sons and daughters.
And then the War erupted, an endless battle for all creation.
And they lost. They all lost.
Trapped within the quantum lock, of a never-ending inferno, the Lords of Olds burn for eternity with their descendants, unable to escape the timeless destruction of their reality. With their destruction, Gallifrey too, lost the shelter provided to the Time Lords lost.
A prospect not granted much weight, given all of their kind found themselves trapped in the same inescapable hell. Salvation of the fallen was not a high priority when their very existence came under threat, when their entire history stood to crumble and collapse in an instant; lay in ruins in the ashes of Gallifrey.
And yet he remained. His life force erupting throughout the galaxies, leaving in his wake destruction and prosperity with every step. Hope and desolation, fear and bravery.
Not to mention two descended regenerations.
His Ninth, and his Tenth, floating the cosmos with no reprieve, whilst his Eleventh Regeneration travelled all of space and time, guided by the souls that kept him in check, his Amelia and Rory Pond.
His Ninth form had never been one for fairy-tales; still haunted by the vivid memories of The Last Great Time War, a solid mask holding in place the fractured soul beneath, a mythical afterlife was something he had never even contemplated.
Even the concept of something as insane as 'life after death' was one so outlandish and, in his opinion – just wrong – that his mind had not even strayed to such a possibility.
Even his Tenth had disregarded such tales of eternity. Sure, he had enjoyed the safety such concept held, reviled in the beauty of such a myth. But not once had he believed it to be true.
Once his form had reached expiration, he had maintained the same conviction as his predecessor. His body would fail, atoms would mix, his being transformed to dust. He would cease to be, a new man would claim his soul.
He did not want to depart this mortal realm, and yet when faced with the imminent death of man he so deeply respected, he found the decision easy.
Regeneration or the death of Wilfred Mott.
There wasn't even a debate to be had, in spite of his own outburst.
He had expect the pain, the anguish at loosing yet another part of him. He had not anticipated the fear and the confusion.
Above all, he had not expected to find his known form chained to a metal table, his Ninth form just to his left, screaming words of anger and hatred, imploring an unseen force.
"Leave him! You have me!"
The words barely resonating his mind, as though they were spoken through such distant, his apprehension and mystification clouding any conceivable thought.
"There was a time, Doctor, when the Timelords lost would be protected. Their passage safeguarded"
It was an unknown voice that spoke the words within the Tenth's mind, yet the meaning remained lost.
"However, with Gallifrey lost, so too, are the so-called 'Lords of Old'"
He ceased struggling against the bonds which held him down, instead searching for the hidden meaning behind the alien words. He noticed, his former vessel fell silent, and yet the anger tangible remained within.
"Your previous self, he refused to talk. Refused to aid me."
His eyes scanned around him, searching once again for his earlier form – the only recognisable and positive aspect of his current predicament.
"LEAVE HIM!" The voice turned from one of anger to desperation, "I lived with everything from the war. I made sure his regeneration lost my rage. Lost the emotions that connected the memories." His voice softened, "He cannot help you…"
The world around him stilled, the wrath tangible from both sides of the debate.
"Oh, I think he can", he could sense the heinous smirk in his words, "I will master the laws of time and bend them to my will", the invisible being grasped the Tenth's jaw, savouring the way he flinched away, "Or perhaps, YOU will, just to stop this hell…"