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[mansuetus]

Dante had said, remember tonight! for it is the beginning of always.

What shall we be doing tonight, Tranquility?

[ it is late but not too late and Lucrezia is keen on avoiding nightmares and so sleep is not a Thing. ]

I shall be spending my own in the garden. I never before slept upon grass.

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[vivelavenir]

[He gives a small, if not unhappy smile and casts his eyes down.]

Is there such a thing as a winner, in a war? I wonder.

[mansuetus]

I wondered if you would ask me this question. I do not know, we read of great victories, do we not, signore? read about them in history books and in songs but I know very little of wars yet to tell if the taste of victory indeed exists.

[vivelavenir]

But where there is victory, also, someone must lose; and where there is brutality, even for the glory of the future, the glory of the soul is lost. It is better that men be brave, and it is better that we fight for right than submit to wrong... but the victory is in the peace of the next generation, and not in the hearts of those who used hands in violence. Heroes are not winners, I think.

[He gave, softly, biting his lip briefly before shaking his head.]

I hope it is not unmanly to say so. Men ought to be the ones to fight, so that women and children may reap the winning soonest. But I fear they often suffer the most.

[mansuetus]

Not unmanly but somewhat mistaken. Men fight with their swords and their politics yet women fight in their own manners as well, and their wars, albeit more secret and quiet, are no less ruthless.

[ and who knows better than Lucrezia Borgia? ]

[vivelavenir]

Oh-! [Softly, startled.] Oh, in such cases, yes. Women are by far the stronger sex, overall. They must fight even during times of peace, no? I meant only in arms and horses, when I talk of battle. Not of the metaphorical, spiritual and mental.

[mansuetus]

[ she laughs because really, you are quite adorable. ]

Women fight at all times, certainly. And some men do as well. What of you? Are you a warrior?

[vivelavenir]

[And he blushes, assuming he must sound quite silly by now.

But his smile flickers just barely at the question, growing calmer.]

A warrior, no. A poet. But sometimes poets, like women, must fight with arms and not words.

I was a revolutionary, Mademoiselle Lucrezia. In France, of 1832. So a soldier for a breath in time, but perhaps no warrior.

[mansuetus]

A poet! then I must read your verse, then.

[ 1832 sounds like ages and ages away but she cranes her head to look at him. ]

Against the French King?

[vivelavenir]

[She is probably used to him going red in the cheeks by now, but just in case not, he does it again.]

Then, I will write one especially for you. But I cannot promise any greatness.

[A slow nod.]

So to speak. A 'democratically elected' Monarch; yes. Against the French King.

[mansuetus]

[ bless you, Jean. She likes you so much. ]

It would be an honor and a greatness in its own right, to have a poem for myself. The first one written for me.

[ she thinks of it. ]

In my days, the French King is known to be very cruel.

[vivelavenir]

The first? I am very surprised by that. Surely not the first, though perhaps you have not seen the others.

[A famous beauty and political symbol? There must be quite a bit, he thinks.

To her kindness, he inclined his head.]

It would seem that French kings have an unnatural and horrible talent for cruelty, ignorance, and imperialism that does not match the hearts nor minds of the French peoples. I hope you have not been a target of such cruelties.

[mansuetus]

Perhaps! Do you know of any others?

[ she hums in thought, looks up at him. ]

Not I but he is certainly a threat on us all if he ever leaves France. He is His Majesty King Charles VIII, signore, whom I am certain you have heard of.

I am the latest, so sorry!

[vivelavenir]

Not-- that I can think of presently, Mademoiselle. Are those poems not usually of a personal nature?

[A soft smile, embarrassed slightly.]

Yes, I know him. Called 'l'Affable', by history. An... interesting story, and an interesting end, for a man who helped engulf Europe in its usual bouts of sorry warfare. The Italian cities suffered especially, I know; I-- apologize.

it's alright! :>

[mansuetus]

At times! but Petrarca's letters to Laura have become quite famous! I thought perhaps one of my own love poems have become well known as well.

-- Do not be sorry. It is not your fault.

[vivelavenir]

You must be more delicate and modest then, surely; you have kept your secrets to yourself and spared your lovers the fame of their precious feelings.

[A slight nod, only, to her graciousness.]