Gimli thought he was prepared. He thought that Glóin and Dwalin's warnings, all the stories he'd been told, were enough that he'd know what to expect. He thought that whatever came at him, he could handle it.

Sweet bloody Mahal, was he wrong.

It wasn't the elves. He hated to admit that, but it was true. It was not the elves, or at least, it wasn't the elves of Rivendell in general.

The majority had been polite and friendly, for treeshaggers. A few had been impatient and distant, but that was to be expected from any group.

And then, there was this one. The Elvenking's spawn. If the elf wasn't — well — an elf, Gimli might think he was being sincere. As it stands, Gimli has mentally filed Thranduil's son as a skilled manipulator who is not to be trusted.

The elf turns at that as if he's reading Gimli's mind, red-blond hair swirling over his shoulders. He smiles, eyes shining, and Gimli hates how bright it is.

Clearly not to be trusted.