Disclaimer: I think this one’s more PJ’s than Tolkien’s... still not Kortirion’s
The dwarf regained his senses. He lay where he had fallen some hours before. His head throbbed, but he’d not succumbed without a noble fight. He would rise and continue – ‘just, give me a moment,’ he thought.
He stretched cramped arms, somebody must have felled him with a mighty blow, his head ached so... and his mouth was... vile, even his tongue felt furry. He gazed blearily around. The Elf, serene in repose, eyes half-lidded, lay on one of Meduseld’s tables.
‘Damn it, not even a hair out of place!’ Gimli groaned; he’d never live down being out-drunk by an elf.