"I hate you!"

The words are sharp, dramatic—far too intense for a dispute this ridiculous.

Fíldis stomps her foot, cheeks flushed, before whirling and sprinting toward you, arms outstretched, desperate for comfort and vindication.

"Oh, come now—!" Kíli groans, dragging a hand down his face, half exasperated, half amused.

Fíldis crashes against you, burying her face in your lap, tiny sobs escaping—overplayed, deliberate, meant entirely to ensure her father suffers.

"This is unfair," Kíli mutters, arms crossed, watching her attempt at villainizing him.

Then—inspiration strikes.

With far too much dramatic flair, he drops to his knees, crawls forward, and presses his own face against your thigh, letting out the most pathetic wail imaginable.

"My own daughter has forsaken me!"

He clings, gripping onto you, forcing out overly shaky breaths.

"She calls me Adad, yet she has thrown me aside for another’s comfort!"

Fíldis peeks up, eyes narrowed, before sniffing loudly and pressing herself further against you—unwilling to lose.

"You are so mean to me, Fíldis," Kíli whines, clinging tighter, shaking his head in devastation.

"I deserve better! A kinder child!"

"Adad!" Fíldis cries louder, doubling down.

"Fíldis!" Kíli mimics, clinging tighter, refusing to be outdone.

This is ridiculous.

This is dramatic.

This is exactly how their petty fights unfold—chaos, theatrics, and feigned heartbreak.