Regrets
As Mithrandir's shout died away, the thought dawned on me that Elrohir and I were both dead. Or as good as. I supposed I would have to admit that it was all my idea, and that Elrohir only helped me set everything up. Maybe Elrohir would simply be maimed for life, not outright killed. My knees felt weak, and I fought the urge to sit down on the floor. 'No, no, no,' my mind whispered. 'This is a mistake. This has to be a trick. That's actually Haldir up there, to be sure.' An audible whimper escaped my lips. Last time I checked, Haldir was not wearing a grey robe – nor is he in the habit of keeping a pipe in the pocket of said robe, I said to myself as the wooden contraption slipped out and clattered to the floor.
My hands clenched tightly in front of me. Why did I do this? I asked myself in desperation. I turned to my brother, an unspoken question in my eyes: Can things get worse than this?
The sound of a throat clearing behind us made turn simultaneously.
Things have gotten worse. There, judgmental and accusing, stand our parents.