They walk him roughly to the little phallus of order hovering over the brink, the Eye, the false birth canal in mimicry of life which he fashioned with two other men, so long before this quiet day.
His unquiet dead lie rustling now, in the tiger-stripe forests of his night-brain, waiting to see him. To see what he'll already have said.
The speeches begin as an old man in purple, that wrinkled archetype, Pasmodius, holds up a page from another old book.
"You, Once-Lord Rassilon of no remembered House, have been found guilty of attempting to extinguish life..."
Rassilon drowns out their droning, for the moment. They are like bees, all of them. Buzzing with the certainty of their conviction, so easily come to, so hard to obtain.
Once in a while, he hears them murmur about it, or about the Rings. He feels movement at his back again; he laughs once, twice, three times like a chortling bird, full-throatedly, making sure to keep his teeth far apart, just like he's seen a certain bohemian scoundrel fond of scarves and little candies and the color blue do once...
"What sort of answer is that? Has he finally lost his mind?"
"I think so, Raskalin- I think he's been driven mad from it all."
"On the contrary, my friends, I have gone there quite of my own accord," Rassilon murmurs as they read out more of the charges against him.
"...also find him guilty of treason, trespass, secretive dealings, political tampering, societal neglect, unlawfulness, social engineering... cruel and unusual punishment, domination of office, abuse of power, attempted assassination without the proper filing of intent, unjust legislation, unfair usage of public monies, underhanded tactics, and an overinflated fashion sense."