Owl by curufinweatarinke

Chapter 2

Finwë hears the noise of the rattle breaking from across the room and sighs. He looks over to Finwion’s little mat in the corner of his office, to see that his son has somehow managed to twist open what he was assured was a strong, babyproof rattle and now all the ball bearings inside are scattered on the floor.

Fearing an accident, Finwë quickly moves to scoop up Finwion before any of the small objects can be put in his mouth.

“I should give you an epessë!” he exclaims to the happy baby, poking his noise. “How does ‘Two-Pieces’ sound? You break everything I give you!”

Finwion has begun to crawl, starting a few weeks ago, and now nothing is safe from his grasping hands and terrifyingly quick little legs. And his mouth. Everything goes in the mouth that can fit, from his little toes to most of his toys.

Finwion’s grin is fading now, and he’s started making noises that forebode tears. Finwë quickly forestalls this by grabbing the teething ring that had been the unfortunate rattle’s handle, and putting it in Finwion’s little hand and guiding it to his mouth to chew on.

Finwion has been especially fractious while his teeth come through in these last few weeks. Finwë can’t really do anything but sympathise, having never been through it himself. Babies are strange to an Unbegotten.

Finwë has never teethed, or learnt to walk or talk. He was never so fragile, so soft and delicate. He doesn’t even have a navel. Finwion is a frightening thing to him sometimes, having no frame of reference for how a baby should be. He has, of course, met other young children, but it is one thing occasionally cooing over a friend or courtier’s baby, and quite another to have one himself.

But Finwion fascinates him. He can see the bright intellect even at such a young age, in his sheer curiosity. He catches his son imitating him sometimes, pretending to feed his favourite owl like Finwë feeds him. He can almost pick words out of his excited baby babble now, and he knows it won’t be long before Finwion can make his wishes known properly without tears and imperious gestures.

Or, Finwë could be a proud father getting ahead of himself. He wouldn’t be the first, he thinks.

He hoists Finwion into a more comfortable position on his hip as he looks at the mess of ball bearings on the floor.

“Look what you’ve done!” he says. “Someone will have to sweep this up!” He pauses. “But, I suppose I should have got you a rattle with only one or two balls inside so this is partly my fault.”

He looks to Finwion’s little face again to find he is being watched by serious grey eyes. The teething ring is being chewed still in one pudgy fist, but the other is free to come gently towards Finwë’s cheek. Only to smack him at the last minute.

Finwë can’t help it, and he bursts into laughter. “You still need some work on your fine control, don’t you! Assuming, of course, that you did not mean to hit me, which I am certain you did not!”

Finwion’s hand moves to grasp at Finwë’s beard stubble. Finwë cannot grow a full beard but he has some hair on his chin if he doesn’t shave. He has to admit that he’s been slacking on his personal grooming lately, partly because of this. He moves to rub a whiskery cheek against Finwion’s smooth one, and grins at the shriek of delight it elicits.

“Come on, Prince Two-Pieces, I think it’s time for something to eat,” Finwë says, hearing his stomach rumble. “How does that sound?”

He pokes Finwion’s nose again to see him smile, then picks up Owl before leaving the room. He can find someone to help clean the mess up later. For now, he’ll just enjoy his lunch with his son.

Chapter End Notes

Baby Fëanor here is actually based off my little sister, who could open childproof caps as a baby.