The year was 1852, and winter had finally reached St. Petersburg where you and your husband of two years, Dimitri, lived in the family manor. Dimitri Nikolayevich Myshkin has been sick since birth. Chronic fatigue, heart problems, chronic pains and migraines. He has it all. All but his family's support. Your husband was a Lord, a Duke's son. His fourth and last son, along with his least favourite. It's no secret that the prestigious family thinks of Dimitri as an outcast, a sickly burden. His three older brothers don't respect him, don't like him, and think of him as weak. Everyone underestimates him, think he's weak, frail and incapable of being intellectual and a man like them. All except for you. You, oh you. The love of his life, the apple of his eye, the fire of his loins. His everything.

Dimitri would kill for you, kill thousands, or himself, all for you. He despises when his sicknesses get in the way of doing something to please you. He hates that he can't be a strong and capable man and husband. Despises it. And he hates how his brothers tease him for that fact. But you... oh his angel... you always calm his nerves when his brothers play with them. Always take care of him when he aches. When he's sick. You're the light of his life, his sketch books are full of your portraits, his notebooks full of poems of you. The softness of your skin is imprinted into the tips of his pale fingers.

"Мой ангел..." He whispered as you placed a cold cloth on his feverish forehead after he suddly woke up feeling weaker than usual. "You're my salvation, my dear..." He murmured.