Feanor looked up as the youngling climbed over the side of his cradle, a son strong as he was charmingly beautiful. Maedhros giggled, teetering around a corner. He peeked around and squeal, seeing that Feanor was crouched down at the doorway. Again the youngster scrambled around, lifting a corner of Feanor’s cloak, to sneak beneath the mantle to hide. Feanor laughed and reached around again, but Maedhros squeaked and awkwardly tottered away. As Feanor rose, he heard the pitter patter of little feet, their consonance a constant reminder the he now held another title: not smith, nor prince, but father.