Gathered together at the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, located outside the gates of Valimar, where were set the thrones of the Valar when they sat at council, was a vast assemblage. Not only the mighty Valar, but numerous Maiar, and a host of Elves of every kindred were present for this unique event; the pronouncing of the doom of an Oath-Cursed Exile from the Elder Days.

Such a thing had never occurred before, since long ago all others had passed into the Halls of Mandos or else had been allowed to return and dwell on the lovely isle, Tol Eressëa. A few, the daughter of King Finarfin among them, took up abode on the extensive land mass especially designed for those elves who loved to wander amidst tree and glade rather than dwell in the more elegantly settled lands of the Noldor.

This particular elf, however, was none other than the last surviving son of the beautiful and gifted Fëanor, unintentional tool of the malevolent Vala, formerly known as Melkor. Once again the ancient tales were retold and the horror of those dreadful events recounted, stirring in hearts long buried memories. The elf in question appeared outwardly calm, though inside he felt a mixture of fiery soul-piercing fear and well-nigh extinguished coals of hope. Surely his fate would be cause enough for turmoil and controversy at the very least, and the pronouncement which was at hand was awaited by all with varying degrees of sentiment ranging from curiosity to hostility. Some were openly aggrieved that Makalaurë had even been permitted to entreat for pardon, so proud and disdainful he seemed to them now.

Murmuring voices echoed the protests; ‘trouble attends those of the Doom’, ‘will next Fëanor himself seek re-admittance?’, ‘too long he has dwelt in the Dark of Arda Marred’; and much more besides. One group, some twenty-odd cloaked and hooded despite the warmth of the day, were positioned directly behind the topic of dispute, and though they gave no sign of their opinion, their tense stances and grim faces were thought to express strong personal grievances against Makalaurë.

Inside the Ring on the elevated dais sat Manwë enthroned, the embodiment of a mighty King, tall and proud, with eyes like the evening sky filled with stars. About him the others, Valar and Maiar, sat still and solemn. The last to arrive caused no small stir among those assembled. With a rumbling like the upwelling of a surging flood, Ulmo strode to take his normally unoccupied seat.

The elf, standing to one side, yet facing the court of the Valar, eyed him with no little trepidation, but refused to indicate his discomfort outwardly. On the opposite side, staring in wonder at the entire array of divine beings, sat a family of elves, a father, a mother and their very young son, about whom there was much speculation. How could this obviously youthful trio have had any meaningful dealings with this ancient Kinslayer?

Manwë raised his hand to signal the start of the proceedings. An immediate hush fell over all present as they waited intently for his pronouncement. The prior lengthy and private deliberations, that had been the focus of the attention of the Powers for many six-days, were about to culminate in the speaking of the ultimate fate of Makalaurë, last son of Oath-mad Fëanor, in the presence of the assembled host.

Through a gap in the throng passed a tall, powerfully built being, causing a ripple of excited questions among the spectators. Many knew of this singular person, but few had dealings with him, his appointed task keeping him from the blessed realm for much of the time and his reluctance to mingle freely adding to his irregular companionship. But all knew of the intercessor of Elves and Men, the one in whose veins ran the combined blood of Maia, Elf and Man; Eärendil, the Bright Star.

He approached the high seat of Manwë.

Eärendil: At your summoning, I have come, yet unwillingly. Manwë acknowledged his protest with a slight inclination of his head, but did not speak. Eärendil stood to the right of Manwë near to the elven family, Maglor to the left. Eärendil watched Maglor closely, but the elf did not once raise his head or eyes. The low murmur of voices hushed as Manwë rose, resplendent in his robes of deep changeful shades of blue, and a marvelously crafted circlet of silver and sparkling blue gems, the chief among them carved into the likeness of a great eagle, mantled and wary. He was arrayed in the formal attire of judgment and all present knew the gravity of the matter before him.

Would Manwë pardon this Exile to whom return to the Blessed Realm had been long ago denied? Would this Fëanorion be permitted to dwell once again in their midst? In their unease they reminded one another that even the Lord Manwë had once been deceived, and the resulting consequences had been absolutely catastrophic, ultimately changing their lives forever.

Manwë: Light-bearer, reveal that with which you are entrusted.

Altogether grudgingly Eärendil flung open his cloak. Resting upon his breast there shone the single brilliant Silmaril still housed in the refashioned Nauglamir; an incomparable burning star of golden-silver luminosity set among an array of lesser jewels. For most this was their first close glimpse of the last of the three fabled Jewels. Except for a collective indrawn breath, all fell silent.

Maglor came to instant watchfulness, his eyes reflecting the dazzling brightness. So intent was he on drinking in the sight of the Jewel, that he missed the concerned look on the face of the King. Eärendil, refusing to even acknowledge Maglor, loosed the fabulous necklace and placed it lovingly into a small wooden chest padded with a silky, grey cloth, slowly closing the lid with a soft click.

Manwë: Veryandil.

The child gazed wide-eyed at the Vala who beckoned him forward.

Manwë: Come, child, there is a deed I would ask thee to perform. Veryandil stood and approached the throne, clearly uncertain, but willing to comply. A low murmur of bewilderment from the onlookers accompanied him.

Veryandil bowed: How may I serve, Lord Manwë?

Manwë: Thou shall receive from the hands of the Light-keeper the small coffer he holds and bear it to the one you claim as Oath-friend.

Veryandil nodded and followed precisely the directions he received. Halting before Maglor he waited for the next instructions. The fiery eyes of Maglor never left the ornate box clasped carefully by two small hands, but he remained motionless.

Manwë: Open the lid, child.

Veryandil carefully raised the top to expose the profusion of light within. Maglor stood immovable, though he trembled with longing. Unable to bear the painful awareness of the close proximity of the Silmaril, Maglor closed both eyes and clenched his hands into tight fists.

Manwë: Makalaurë!

Maglor flinched at the stern voice calling his name, but refused to yield to the unavoidable temptation.

Manwë somberly: Fear you even now the touch of the Jewel?

Maglor agonized: It will not suffer my hand. It is hallowed and I am…fouled, unworthy, rejected.

Manwë sternly: Look upon the Silmaril.

Maglor shuddered violently, but obeyed. His yearning gaze locked on the bright nemesis of his fate. Unnoticed, Veryandil wept for his friend as he watched the legendary elf in the throes of uttermost torment and want.

Manwë: Take up the Silmaril, Makalaurë.

Shaking as with a terrible weakness of limb, Maglor stretched out his left arm and with a ragged moan closed his hand around the Jewel. The look of astonished joy that wreathed his face in a blissful smile was reflected on the face of the child. Lifting it from the coffer he raised it aloft laughing with the sheer pleasure of holding once more one of the fabled Jewels, remembering with elation the rare times his atto had permitted the handling of the Three.

His delight was short-lived. Turning his full attention to Manwë he sent a questioning look to the Vala. Manwë sat impassively and offered no insight as to the subsequent actions.

Veryandil watched with concern the rapid play of emotions across the visage of his friend; the last of them all was resignation.

Maglor regretfully: Though my hand it will accept, yet the right of possession has passed from me. For Oath-madness, pitiless murders of the innocent and their defenders, willful disobedience, betrayals; all these have ruled me and are ever upon me.

Manwë: Veryandil, close the coffer.

Veryandil obeyed instantly. Maglor cast a puzzled look at Manwë as he had been about to replace the Jewel and its peripheral adornments within the box. Once more no hint or action was forthcoming, so he simply stood and waited.

Manwë: Veryandil, return to your parents.

Glancing up at Nyello, he turned and walked quickly to stand beside his atto.

Maglor scanned the faces of the Valar seated about the Ring and found Yavanna, a wistful expression on her face. Slowly he walked to her, and then falling to his knees, head bowed, he extended the necklace to her.

The Earth-Queen smiled down on the proud elf now humbled at her feet, and reaching out one slender hand she stroked the dark head.

Yavanna: By the will of your mind have the thoughts of your heart turned from dark, but not only in the Blessed Lands shall the Light henceforth dwell. It has passed beyond to a higher purpose.

Looking up Maglor studied her face, but she was unreadable except for her compassionate eyes. Rising to his feet he paused, as yet disinclined to offer it to another.

Opening his hand he fixed his gaze on the flawless living Light, then tearing his eyes free of the Jewel he turned slowly to face Eärendil. Each step seemed a weighty ordeal, not made any easier by the frown of wariness marring the fine features of the strange being he approached. Halting within arms reach of each other, Maglor again hesitated. Without willing it so, his hand closed protectively about the last of the Silmarili, masterwork and best-loved of all the numerous creations of Fëanor.

To return it to the hand of her who had woven the Light and sang into being the Two Trees felt right, but to relinquish it to one not Vala nor Maia nor even true elf checked him. Eärendil gave no sign of friendship or understanding, but Maglor expected none.

Appearing to be under severe duress, Maglor extended his arm forth, but Eärendil made no move to accept the prize. Confused and frustrated by the lack of response, Maglor drew back a pace and coldly eyed him. Glancing over his shoulder he glimpsed the now seated Manwë, dispassionately witnessing the proceedings.

Maglor bewildered: What would you have me do?

Only silence and a pair of emotionless blue eyes answered his plea for help.

Standing tall and straight Maglor moved closer to Eärendil, searching his face for the solving of this dilemma. Maglor grasped each end of the necklace and gently held it up, wordlessly inviting Eärendil to receive it. He might as well have proffered it to a statue.

Realization came as he thought back to the moment of Eärendil surrendering the Jewel. Carefully he fastened the clasp around the neck of Eärendil, letting his arms fall to his sides at the completion of the transfer. His left hand moved of its own accord to cup the brilliant Light one last time, then released it to rest in the care of another. He faced Manwë hoping that the testing had been completed.

Manwë: Released now from the Oath is Makalaurë, by his own hands and his own free will. All here stand witness to the deed.

Maglor exhaled sharply upon hearing the long sought words. Veryandil nearly danced in place with excitement.

Veryandil whispered loudly: Atto, can Nyello stay with us?

Linwë: Patience, my son. Manwë smiled at the quiet outburst, but shook his head with regret.

Manwë: Tol Eressëa will be his home, Veryandil.

Veryandil: But, Lord Manwë, is he not pardoned?

Manwë: The Oath and Doom bind him no longer, but the fate of the Exiles is still upon him.

Veryandil desperately: Could you just give him a new name and take the bad ones away?

Manwë: There is always a cost for wrong deeds, even after the forgiving of them.

Veryandil ran to Maglor, who stooped down to catch him in his arms and snuggled the child close in comfort.

Veryandil sobbing: Ai, Nyello. You will go away anyway. Even your new name did not help. Please remember me.

Maglor: Perhaps your atto will bring you to stay with me for a time, Veryandil.

Veryandil: Are you not upset that you must go away again?

Maglor: Little one, I am allowed to remain housed and to dwell in a land of my people. You have accomplished much good for me with your friendship and loyalty. No longer must I wander lonely shores in solitary grief. You have secured my welcome home.

Veryandil hugged his friend around the neck, then signaling his desire to get down grabbed Maglor by the hand, and led him to stand with Linwë and Oloriel.

The assembled host began to disperse as the judgment had been rendered, to the satisfaction of some and displeasure of others. The cloaked and hooded group remained, their coverings cast back to reveal them clad in the fashion of House Fëanor, a slender figure to their fore.

Manwë beckoned them forward. The foremost elf pushed back her hood to reveal a fall of russet-colored hair. Maglor gasped in astonishment.

Maglor: Nana?

Nerdanel weeping: Makalaurë, I also welcome you. Come, we will lead you home.

Maglor squatted down in front of Veryandil to speak to him.

Maglor solemnly: This day I am reunited with all that is left of my family. Will you release me for now?

Veryandil tearfully: Will you no longer be my Oath-friend?

Maglor: Only if you will it so, my young friend. For my part I hold you a true and trusted friend. I wish also to keep the name you gave to me.

Veryandil bravely: Nyello, I will miss you.

Maglor smiled at the little elf, then rose and then went swiftly to the waiting arms of his mother.