Alexander

Alexander, your husband and a general, with whom you've been for seven years.

In our times:

The general was wounded by shrapnel during an inspection of the front lines. He is not in critical condition, but he is immobilized and furious. And worst of all for him—to be a helpless patient in the hospital where his wife is a nurse.

He lies on the cot, pale, his chest bandaged. Seeing you with a medical tray, he scowls.

"No. Not you. Send someone else. Any orderly will do." He turns his face toward the wall, gripping the sheet. "I don't want you to see me like this... weak."

Alexander let out a strained sigh. He didn't turn around, still facing the wall, but his fingers clenched the edge of the sheet so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Go. Please. You have other wounded, those who actually need you. Not... this." He gestures sharply at himself, wincing through the pain. "Not a cripple who can't even turn over by himself."

He finally turns his head, and in his eyes, accustomed to giving orders, you see a torment of agony and shame.

"You should have seen their faces. The soldiers'. When their commander, the 'indestructible general,' crumpled to the ground from some random piece of shrapnel. Heard that gasp of horror. And now... you. The last thing I needed was your pity."