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Ch 8: Findekáno's Story, Part 3

Findekáno had been with Makalaurë in the healer's tent all day. More than once during the whole ordeal, Findekáno was sure that Makalaurë had died. His face was ashen and his breathing was so shallow that at times it disappeared. By the time the grim faced healers had done all they could, there was very little of Makalaurë not covered in bandages. The worst injuries had been Makalaurë's back, throat and right arm.

The older healer had taken one look at Makalaurë's neck and shaken his head.

"What?" Findekáno demanded as the healer began stitching the gash.

"He'll most likely never regain his voice," the healer softly admitted, hands never faltering. The weight of what the healer said crashed down onto Findekáno. He looked sadly at his cousin. Singing and music making had been Makalaurë's life, now those things would forever be out of reach for him.

Makalaurë's back also was a cause for concern. The flesh there was all but shredded down to the bone and badly infected. There was little the healers could do besides washing it thoroughly before applying salve and bandages.

They had moved on next to his right arm. Before they could set his shoulder, the healers had been forced to cauterize the stump of his forearm to stop the bleeding. The sizzle and stench of burning flesh had been too much for Findekáno, causing him to stumble out of the tent and into the cold air. He went down hard on his knees behind the healer's tent and retched violently for several long minutes.

By the time Findekáno had finished loosing what little was in his stomach and collected himself enough to re-enter the tent, the healers were almost finished with Makalaurë. The list of injuries they gave him was grim: Severe dehydration and blood loss, left hand crushed, raging fever, ligaments in the right shoulder torn beyond repair, cracked ribs, back whipped to shreds, right ankle broken and healed at the wrong angle, burns from brands on his chest, vocal chords cut, deep abdominal bruising, malnutrition, half healed knife wounds, twisting scar tissue adorning everywhere else. With each additional item, Findekáno felt his rage toward Morgoth grow.

He sat next to his cousin for hours, helping the healers fight to bring Makalaurë's fever down. They minimal headway. It was night again by the time the healers finally convinced Findekáno to go get some food and sleep. Findekáno tiredly stumbled to his tent after procuring some simple bread and meat. Exhausted, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. When he awoke, he still felt tired, but better than he had. The sun was nearing overhead as he left his tent. He had been intending to go check on Makaluarë, but he quickly saw that he would need to put that off for a little bit. Waiting outside his tent were his father and Turukáno.

Turukáno pounced on Findekáno as soon he exited the tent. He grabbed Findekáno's collar and leaned down into the shorter Elf's face. It irked Findekáno to no end when he did that.

"Is it true: you brought a Fëanorion into our camp?" Turukáno accused, glaring at his older brother. It was no secret that Turukáno harbored little love for the sons of Fëanor.

"I didn't have a choice," Findekáno snapped, tugging his tunic free from his brother's grasp. He was worried for Makalaurë and didn't feel like arguing with his brother.

"Didn't have a choice? Their camp is just across the lake!"

"Well, Manwë's eagle carried us here, not to their camp."

"Yonyo, stop squabbling," Nolofinwë sighed, running fingers through his hair before pinning his oldest son with a piercing stare, "Findekáno, you did bring a Fëanorion into camp?"

"Yes," Findekáno sighed resignedly. This was not how he had planned on telling his family about Makalaurë. Turukáno opened his mouth, no doubt to send more cutting remarks at Findekáno, but Nolofinwë spoke first.

"Where is he?"

"This way," Findekáno motioned for them to follow him. He led them to the healer's tent.

The smell of burnt flesh still lingered in the air as they entered. Turukáno and Nolofinwë both stopped in their tracks when they spotted who was lying in the bed.

"Is that…?" Turukáno trailed off, face pale with shock. Whether it was at seeing their cousin again after being told he was dead or the horrific signs of Makalaurë's abuse and torture, Findekáno didn't know.

"Yeah, it's Makalaurë."

"What happened to him? I though he was dead."

"Morgoth happened," Findekáno grimly told them about Makalaurë's injuries.

Quenyan name:

Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo/Russandol = Maedhros

Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor

Turukáno/Turu = Turgon

Findekáno/Finno = Fingon

Finderáto = Finrod

Nolofinwë = Fingolfin