Rassilon reaches the double doors that lead to the Panopticon.
They would have been the reward to a long walk, a while ago.
Now, though, they simply loom, like old friends no longer recognised.
The Council has summoned him to speak today. Or was it to listen? Same thing, really, in the end.
They must know, then, about The Other. They have the Rings from the old woman, after all.
-He- must have known, must have seen it. With a whimper, indeed.
Rassilon places his big hands, hands he used once to write poetry to his wife, against the smooth interlocking wood slabs connected by intricate carvings of claws and winged women. Who would waste beautiful northern wood on such a travesty? He's never noticed it before.
Oh well, he thinks as he pushes the great doors open in acceptance of his fate, at least the Doctor has the endearing little monkey from Boeshane- and that idiot, Koschei. He himself has no one.
A very short time before this, he would have said he needed no one, either.
"These doors... they are no comfort to me now," he murmurs, sliding his hands off the inside edges of the widening vestibule as he steps within.
As he expects, one foot toward the inner sanctum and there are guards at his back and sides, holding his arms behind him.
He is pushed.