King Astyages wakes in the middle of the night in a feverish sweat, crying out for fear. His man servant rushes in quickly, speaking softly to his master, "Your Highness, what is it?" The older man's glassy eyes stare blankly toward the door. He coughs roughly before rasping out, "Bring me the Magi. I have had another dream."
Still in bed the king grasps Harpagus's hand tightly. "Harpagus, I am trusting you to this task. Do not disappoint me." Harpagus bows and exits the King's chambers, shutting the door behind him. He hangs his head, sighing at the burden his king has so easily placed on him. The moon is just a sliver, barely seen out the large window at the end of the hall. A gentle breeze urges the man to make haste. Harpagus's footsteps are muffled by the soft leather shoes he wears as he strides down the cool hall. Soon he reaches his destination and waves away the guard, quietly entering the royal nursery. The pleasant, distinct smell of babies invades his nostrils, bringing back memories of his own children's early months. A large wooden crib is pushed against the far wall, directly in the moonlight. Harpagus crosses to the crib and gazes down at the sleeping little boy. The child is curled up in his blankets, sighing every once in a while as he stirs. "Hush, child." Harpagus soothes as he scoops the boy into his rough arms. Pulling his cloak to veil the child from sight, he quickly leaves the room, raising the guards eyebrows at his haste. Harpagus silently makes his way through the palace, avoiding any halls that may have people too willing to ask questions. A horse awaits him outside the gate and he rides smoothly for the outside of the city as the baby sleeps on, oblivious to the danger.
Soon all of the buildings are replaced with miles of corn, wheat, and barley. A lonely mountain looms before Haragus and his passenger. Deciding that he has ridden far enough, Harpagus dismounts near a apple orchard and ties his horse's reigns to a tree branch. The child begins to fuss and wakes up when he is placed onto a cool stone. Harpagus stands back and draws his sword as the boy begins crying in earnest. "I must do my duty. I must." The man grunts out through clenched teeth. In the distance, farm dogs begin barking at the child's wails. Raising his sword with shaking hands Harpagus swings down towards the child, each second seeming infinite. The sword strikes the rock beside the baby's head, bouncing off and jarring the man's arms. Panting, he turns and runs to his horse, never looking back. The child's scream for his mother pierces the still air, marking a change in history.
A young woman stands alone in the kitchen of a farmhouse, furiously kneading bread. her strong muscles strain as her loose braid comes undone from the labor. She sighs and wipes her forehead, leaving a streak of flour. "Cyrus," she calls out, "Do you really think that now is the best time to tell them?" Cyrus enters the room, hooking his sword onto his belt without paying attention, obviously practiced with fighting. He places his strong hands on the thick wooden table, leaning across it. He smiles crookedly at her. "Frenay, you worry too much. Why should I not?" Chewing on her bottom lip, Frenay frowns at her little brother. With his strong jaw, dazzling smile, and pale blue eyes there is no denying his royal birth. Even more so, his pride, arrogance, and natural talent for anything under the sun are excellent factors. But, people are fickle and perhaps the king and queen do not wish for their long lost son to return. "You are sure I cannot come?" she asks him quietly. He crosses the room and hugs her tightly then pulls her back to see her face. "I will be fine." He absentmindedly wipes the flour off her face and continues, "And soon we will both be dinning in the palace on the richest foods on the continent, lacking nothing we desire!" Frenay laughs at his whimsical ideas and turns to the neglected bread, shaping it into a loaf. "I will return soon, sister dear." Cyrus calls as he snatches up an apple from a bowl on the table. "Do not worry." Frenay is soon left to the stillness of the house and the worries of her own mind while her brother walks closer and closer to a new beginning.
"Your Majesty, a Miss Frenay is here to see you."
"By all means let her in!" The king calls, rising from his seat at the head of the table. Freyna enters the room glancing nervously around at the guards placed around the doors. "Sister! I am glad you have come! I am in need of your counsel, there are a couple problems with our borders at the moment..." Freyna steps forward, interrupting him, "Cyrus, are there not many here who would give better advice? I do not think that you need me." Cyrus glances up from a map he had spread over the cluttered table, a frown contorting his features. He shrugs. "Perhaps there are some who know more of battle and law, but none who know the people so well as you. Freyna, I need people that I can trust to surround me. I intend to build a new kingdom, one that has respect and freedom. I honestly believe that you can help me to achieve that." Freyna says nothing, thinking over his claims. She clears her throat, the sound echoing through the marble room. "Then what are we waiting for? Fill me in."
The king's tent is filled with men and women pouring over elaborate maps and quietly discussing different methods of attack. Freyna is seated near the head of the table, arguing with an older man over the number of horses they still need for a new cavalry unit. The braziers burn low, giving the room a cozy, if not stuffy, feel. The King enters the tent and all turn to bow. Smiling at his friends, the King bows back, lifting the spirits in the room immediately. Removing his gloves he begins, "I think we should strike just before dawn from the north. Keep the element of surprise on our side." Pointing a jeweled hand towards a far point on the map, the king muses aloud, "Perhaps split our forces here and surround them." A few nod in agreement, but a general toward the front frowns. "Speak, General Janarra. What is on your mind?" Cyrus commands. The older man smooths his gray beard down before beginning, "Your Majesty, I think that we should indeed begin at dawn, but it would be much better to have the ranks remain closer together until we have a more specific knowledge of their numbers. If the entire army has not yet amassed, then General Isvant," he glances to a very scarred young man who stands in a corner alone. "can bring his unit around along with the cavalry and attempt to flank them. They would then be cornered with the rocky terrain to the east." General Janarra glances upward to the faces of his peers. Cyrus frowns thoughtfully. "And what do you say to this Isvant?" The young man nods shortly, not volunteering any more thoughts. "Very well, it seems like a sure enough plan for the little our scouts have been able to gather. Janarra, Isvant, and Uxshenti I place you three in charge of our three main units, you may assign the ranks as you see fit. Freyna, with me if you wish." The two men and women nod respectfully. Freyna rises from her seat to join her brother. "Report to me within an hour." A young woman dressed in armor calls after Cyrus as he leaves, "Where are you going, my King?" He turns halfway out the door and says cheerfully, "The men need their encouragement more so than you and I right now. I intend to address as many as I can, just to ease some fears." The woman smiles, as the brother and sister exit. She knows that her sister Cassandane would never have forgiven her if she let the king wander irresponsibly, for the late Queen Cassandane had been very fond of her dear husband.
The men silently prepare for battle, their faces serious and their muscles taught. A horse rears near the makeshift stables, pulling against its master and whinnying shrilly. The officers confide in one another, going over last-minute plans and double-checking everything that they can. The deep blue sky slowly becomes grayer until a few rays of dawn are seen from the east. Everything is prepared, every possibility accounted for. The king is seated upon a dapple gray steed, looking quite at ease. His highest ranking officers surround him, including his sister. He urges his horse forward at a nod from the grave man next to him. Cyrus smiles as he makes his way to the front, a picture of confidence. "My great men," he begins, yelling to be better heard,"today is a day of conquering. We fight the Massagetae to rid the earth of their corruption." A loud cheer erupts form the soldiers. "We fight to protect our families. Our land. Our honor." He draws his sword and raises it high, the blade gleaming as the sun peaks over the horizon. "Remember your duty!" The army responds as a whole, shaking the ground. "For Persia!"
"Remember!"
"For Persia!"
"We fight!"
"For Persia!"
The adrenaline explodes in each man and woman as they begin their charge, screaming at the top of their lungs. Screaming for a cause. Screaming for Persia and their King.
All of Persia screams for Cyrus the Great.
The fighting is ferocious. Both sides are talented warriors and neither are accustomed to relenting. The plain, once bare, is covered with the bodies of Persians and Massagetae alike. For hours they slaughter one another, new ranks coming and filling the gap where their comrades fell. But, men grow weary and the sheer number of dead overwhelm. The Persians begin to fall back, not because they were ordered, but because they understand that despite every single victory under the name of King Cyrus of Persia there must eventually be a fall. No man can uphold all that he has without a loss. Near the front, the King, surrounded on every side by enemies, fights hard. He was practically born with a sword in his hand. His horse was killed near the beginning of the battle, thus he stands upon a small ridge alone. Man after man wearing a gold helmet and bronze breastplate fall before him. Blood is everywhere, running together with sweat. Cyrus himself is soaked and limps heavily, having been stabbed in the left leg. Time seems to slow. With each swing or parry he becomes slower to react. The enemy becomes stronger, encouraged by his weakness. The king lunges for a man to his right who backs away quickly, swinging his axe and knocking the king's sword from his hand. It falls to the ground, the impact muffled by a dead foot-soldiers cloak. Cyrus's eyes stare at his sword in shock as the enemy descends. He never flinches or screams, just quietly falls. Down, down, down.
Two days later, after a hasty retreat that resulted in the death of thousands, a few Persians return. Four soldiers carry the kings remains on a stretcher, there is little left. The lady Freyna throws herself to the ground wailing in agony. None can console her grief. With the death of Cyrus the Great, all of Persia is plunged into darkness. Each man, woman, and child weeps for their king. They weep for Persia and the hope that died on that battlefield.
The story of Cyrus the Great is extremely fascinating. The story of his birth and attempted murder is all true, though his sister's character is false. He is recognized as one of the best world leaders in history and was looked upon with admiration from men such as Alexander the Great and Aristotle. He defeated the Median empire, the Lydian empire, and the Babylonian empire, making Persia a kingdom to be feared for the first time. One of the reasons that he was so successful was that he allowed a conquered people to continue with their own way of life. Instead of destroying great cities, he enriched them with order, peace, and law. After defeating the Babylonians he was prompted by God to allow the Jews to return to Jerusalem, which he did. Cyrus was loved by his people, and Persia, as well as other countries, mourned his passing greatly.
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