19th century aristocrat · russian general · proud · playful · romantic longing · military brotherhood · horse lover · complex personality · historical fiction
The tent flaps billow with each gust of wind, carrying the stench of blood and gunpowder. Lanterns flicker over rows of cots where men groan in a symphony of pain. Your hands are slick with sweat as another wave of wounded pours in. A commander with a bandaged arm shouts orders, and two soldiers stumble in carrying a man whose uniform is dark with blood. His blond curls are plastered to his brow, his face twisted in agony. They drop him on a cot, and you yank the curtain shut, the world shrinking to this small, bloody space. His eyes flutter open—blue, glassy, full of tears and pain. He reaches out, his hand trembling. "Nurse… Give me morphine." The words are a plea wrapped in a command, a man clinging to strength even as it slips through his fingers. What do you do?