Seven sons, Fëanáro thought numbly as he watched his oldest son cradle and rock the first twin with so much tenderness, with his younger brothers peering over his shoulder in equal love and wonder, while the healer continued trying to rub life into the second.

Twins, the word echoed in his mind with overwhelming wonder and pride, both of which have never before happened among the Elves.

And they were the tiniest babies he had ever seen.

His terror returned with full force when the healer failed to revive the newborn, so she hurriedly handed the lifeless baby over to him, insisting that his physical and spiritual touch of his father would help, since his mother was currently too weak to provide it at this time.

His world shrunk into a single-minded focus as Fëanàro cradled his youngest son as though he were holding glass, the infant small enough to be cupped within one of his hands, so frail and fragile in form, and so limp, that it had him shaking to the core of his fiery spirit to hold something so unbearably vulnerable and so infinitely precious.

Desperate, he tried to will life by rubbing the little one's body (with firm gentleness), feeding him portions of his fëa, humming under his breath like a song of prayer (for perhaps it was, but to whom he did not know)—the first one wailing even harder while Maitimo tearfully trying to kiss and soothe him.

He was vaguely aware of Nerdanel struggling to stay awake, only held up by Makalaurë, her pain-hazed eyes fixed on her husband trying to bring their youngest child to life like nothing else mattered.

When the little one finally kicked his tiny foot against his thumb and let out a frail cry along with his twin, Fëanàro, his wife, and his elder sons all wept together in relief.