He drummed his fingers on the gavel, eyes narrowing to regard the nervous Maia, ”It seems your tongue still very much echoes your Master’s words.” He let the silence stretch taut again as a ray of light illuminated a tapestry of Melkor prostrating himself before the Council.
His gaze met Langon’s eyes, divine power parsing all of the Herald’s memories and organising them for an objective overview. He could see the possibility of Langon the Conqueror, Irmo’s Realm crawling with darkness; and the possibility of Langon the Penitent, serving Irmo and helping at least threefold the amount of souls he had harmed.
"I will give you two choices. One, you can stand this trial with a jury of the Doomed, or two, you can spend a probationary period as one of my Psychopomps."
Langon’s eyes widened as the choice set before him sank in. There was unguarded fear, at first, at the notion of being judged by the Doomed, who would have no reason to look kindly upon him, would more likely condemn him based upon Melkor’s blood-stained precedent than hear him out. Then, though, came the gnawing uncertainty; did they not have every right? He’d had his part in the ending of some of their lives, ought he not face that? Yet how could he, knowing that their vengeance would be his own unmaking?
The Maia shuddered, and fixed his gaze upon the floor. He could make no amends if he no longer existed, he thought; surely the second choice would offer a better chance. He would be serving Námo in that probationary period, after all — it might be that there would be ample chances to face the Doomed and accept whatever it might be that they chose to say to him, and if some among them would rather not even think of him, he could avoid them, a thing that a trial would not permit.
Slowly, he looked up once more. “I would choose, then, a time of probation.” Langon did not elaborate; there was no need, not when his mind lay open for Námo to see.