She sees him first and she thinks: another child of fate you are, born of the gods to great deeds, tales to be chanted over campfires until they're worn thin, you and I, not souls or sorrows but stories and she draws closer, ever closer, though she should know better.

She sees him next and she thinks: how it must pain you to be one of the handful of honorable men within our walls, to keep your vows when even Cassandra does not; to bow to the gods, though you know how they bite; to come so close to temptation and never so much as reach out your hand and she knows she will never understand him.

She sees him last and she thinks the only thing that matters: my Aeneas, my own, I love you.