I own nothing.
Olwë finally understood what all of the fuss about grandchildren was about, as he held his first grandchild in his arms. Of course, it was far from the first time he had held Findaráto; he'd done that countless times in the months since his grandson was born. Findaráto looked up at him with those gray eyes of his, and Olwë could not help but smile back at him. What a precious child.
Then, Findaráto grabbed one of his fingers with his tiny hands, popped it into his mouth and bit down.
Hard.
Truth be told, it did not hurt; at the very least, Olwë had been bitten harder and more painfully in the past by spectral beasts in starlit lands. Next to that, his grandson's milk teeth were nothing in comparison. All the same…
"Eärwen," he called abstractedly, watching with a furrowed brow as Findaráto continued to fiercely chew upon his finger. "You did not tell me that Findaráto was starting to cut teeth."
Eärwen looked up, and smiled ruefully. "What? Oh, yes. He's cut three, Papa. I noticed it a few days ago; it was quite a shock." She patted her left breast for emphasis, and Olwë winced.
Behind her, Arafinwë held up his hand and silently grimaced. Olwë spotted a few inflamed indentations on his son-in-law's fingers, and laughed.
Findaráto—Finrod
Arafinwë—Finarfin