They walk together in the darkened garden, the torches scenting it faintly of incense. Lavinia rarely speaks, a true princess, her family's trained her well. He looks at the loosened curls falling down her back and remembers a day when they lit up like the garden's torches, the worst day of his life. Even when he'd realised that the fire didn't burn her, that it wasn't the wrath of some god visited upon her it was the worst moment, because he knew that she'd be taken from him and given to a stranger who wouldn't love her like he did. No one could ever love Lavinia as much as Turnus. If they did it would burn them, like the torches, like her hair. Like he burns.

He will fight for her. He'll die but it won't matter because then he won't have to see her married to a man her father's age, turning out child after child that always come second to the first born infantile Iulus. And maybe, if Turnus is dead, Lavinia will be able to love Aeneas, and maybe her life won't be so bad. Juturna will watch over her and she will be queen.

Her peplos leaves her arms bare, softly rounded and smooth with bangles clattering at slender wrists. Torchlight illuminates her as they walk, light to dark, light to dark. He wants to reach over and stroke her arms more than he's ever wanted anything in his life but he'll never touch her. He loves her too much to let her know.