Questions about war are posed here.
I have a mental image of him standing imperiously upon a high-altitude plateau in some ice-bound hinterland of Fold Mountains. Towering behind him is a siege artillery piece, an engine of destruction, what some called a planting for the display of splendour.
This otherworldly scene is embalmed in gray ambiance; an image that is dying, yet of grandeur.
The personified properties of this film of spellbinding light are dreams, my thirsting for destiny and glory.
It would seem that as my hope in this destiny of mine is deferred, so does the light of this image fade.
Cyrus is tall and handsome. The midnight blue uniform he wears is decorated with service ribbons from campaigns the world over.
The General's large eyes scan the distance thoughtfully. Perpetually sad in his youth, the brown orbs are now a facade of strength. He turns, appraising his old talisman, Martha.
The mythical forty-inch bore cannon weighs seven hundred tons and is more than capable of destroying any fortifications withstanding the U.S. army. She is the progeny of the likes of Schneider Obusiers, superguns that traversed the Great War's battlefields. With a perceived audible sharpness or mayhap power glow dredged from that sliver of Filippo Marinetti within him, her barrel gleams rousingly in the sunshine.
In some ways she's a martial tribute to the love of the machine espoused in that futurism movement of the early 20th century, a symbol of man's triumph over all.
With the mark of a rare intellect, his eyes flash over her framework, rung by a maze of conduits, then at her lengthy barrel; noting the quality of the maglev tracks supporting this behemoth.
At the very least he recognizes what had to be done before his opponent's armies are routed. Powers posing as gods, roam the firmament. Having transmogrified themselves into those diabolical lights carpeting the sky, they mislead so many, perpetuating a doctrine where humanity can achieve deity and fix its brokenness in its own strength.
Spiritual legions are empowering this massive force coming against Cyrus's people. He knows the demons are as good as defeated; this was the first task to be completed.
Now that its foundations are incinerated, a few calculated blows will bring the hierarchy of this Commonwealth of Nations crashing down...
And yet a growing doubt haunts the man, a feeling of futility in this warring enterprise. Why all this death? Can those who live forever die?
He steels himself and with an almost ritualistic intonation declares:
"In the confusion of battle, you kept me alive. With one hand you struck my foes, with your other hand you saved me. You've finished what you started in me. You didn't quit on me."
His face softens, reflecting on what could have been had life gone differently.
Touching a hand to his visor cap in a salute, the General walks off.