Six-sentence Sunday

[roselightfairy]

If I want to subject you to more of this ridiculousness, I will.

(Also it's still Sunday here, even if just barely, so I'm allowed to do this.)

Not that Siril knows, herself, how children ought to be – they are a poor couple for this – but Celair has told her Legolas is not unlike she was as a child. He loves to run about, laughs in delight every time a bird flies into view, and loves to bring them small treasures he has found – a tiny, perfect egg; a brightly-colored feather, the shed casing of an insect – singing a cooing wordless song of pleasure when they smile and exclaim. And it is true that he has not yet spoken a word, but he loves to point at things and beam when they tell him their names.

Siril finds him enchanting – almost as enchanting, in fact as the look of tender awe that softens over Laerwen’s face whenever her brother smiles.

“You are right, I am sure,” Laerwen sighs. The worried line between her brows does not disappear, though, so Siril has no other option but to lean forward and kiss it away – and then to kiss the resulting pout from Laerwen’s lips.

I TRIED TO GIVE YOU BABY LEGOLAS. I AM TRYING SO HARD.

Only about a jillion sentences left to go.