Thrór looked to his left at Thráin and shook his head as the doors of the Great Hall closed behind the entourage. Thráin nodded.

"I have no points of contention against the elvish kind," the king said, "but I do not believe they have much in common with our kind." His son nodded.

"'Tis indeed a pity there is no dwarvish woman for the prince to wife."

Thorin's neck and face grew warm.

Do not speak of me as if I am not here. . .

Gundar, the court herald, came before the royals and bowed low slowly, weary from the long processions that had filled the morning and the greater part of the afternoon.

"My lord, the Lady Hulda of Rhûn."

Thrór nodded permissively, and the doors opened again. Two dwarf guards ushered in a human woman in a floor-length velvet robe of the darkest crimson which she held up slightly as she ascended the stairs. Her hood was pulled back a bit, revealing hair the color of freshly mined bronze. A thin, black scarf was tied around her tanned face, hiding only her eyes. A small diamond pierced her left nostril in the fashion of the East. There were soft, bell-like chimes that sounded whenever her bare feet touched the floor.

She came to a halt, knelt on both knees, and pressed her forehead to the stone.

"My lord Thrór, King of and Under the Mountain."

Her voice was deep and colored by a soft brogue unfamiliar to Thorin. Thrór nodded, pleased.

"Please rise, Lady Hulda. I wish to welco-"

The woman stood, her mouth parted in surprise and no small amount of horror.

"Oh my lord, I . . . I beg your pardon, I . . . I am not Lady Hulda."

Thrór and Thráin exchanged a look.

"Then pray tell us who you are, daughter," Thráin said, his voice deceptively level.

"I am my lady's handmaid. My lady is ill and could not come before you as she was summoned." She faced Thorin – unknowingly, since he had not uttered a word since she had arrived. "We humbly beg your graces' forgiveness."

Thráin shifted his weight and spoke quietly with his father for a moment before turning to the woman.

"Who are we addressing?"

"They call me Marrh, my lord."

Thorin took a step towards her.

"What do you call yourself?"

She gasped, reassessing them and taking a step backwards.

"Myrrh, my lord."

Thráin snorted.

"What's the difference?"

She looked down, her expression darkening. Her answer came softly, painfully.

"The meaning."

Thrór stood, towering over her as she knelt.

"Extend our invitation to your ladyship. She and her caravan may find rest here in our halls."

The woman touched her forehead to the ground again before rising unaided.

"I offer my humblest thanks, my lord."

The king nodded to the guards. One touched her shoulder, and she turned back towards the door. She paused at the steps hesitantly, lifting her skirts a bit.

Thorin found himself running to her side, taking her arm, and gently escorting her down the stairs. The faint scent of her musk made him heady and being nearly eye-level with a human made him feel strong.

She turned to him, seeming to gage his presence with cautious hesitancy. He bowed, kissing her hand softly. She inhaled sharply, her arm tensing. He straightened slowly.

"My lady Myrrh."

Her facial muscles contorted as a tear escaped the folds of her scarf. She ran towards the ornate encampment on the plains just outside of Dale, finding her footing easily, naturally. Thorin watched her, his heart pumping madly. She disappeared into the largest tent, and he caught his breath after what seemed to be an eternity. The nerves in his hand hadn't seemed to register the absence of hers, and he didn't wish them to. Turning, he returned to the throne, oblivious to the consternated stares of his father and grandfather.

As the other princesses and ladies filed through, he looked, but did not see.

What's the difference?

He could not forget her answer.

The meaning.