#canon-divergence

When Carole King sings that she feels the Earth move under her feet, that’s what you feel when you set foot onto a crime scene. It’s hard to put into words, but there’s something in the air, in the earth, in the water. And that something always tells a story – one only meant for you. It’s like having a sixth sense. And no, luckily you don’t see dead people. 

Well, usually, you don’t…

You mostly try to stay away from ghosts and ghouls and everything that goes bump in the night. What you do have is a natural gift, however, passed down by your ancestors for generations.

You call Salem your home. 

Some might find that slightly ironic or odd or even reckless for a witch to settle here, considering the town’s well-documented and long, rich history of witch hunts. They do have a lot of museums and tourist attractions here to commemorate the joyous event…

Living here may get you hanged or burned at the stake, yes – or it may be the smartest cover of all time. Who, in their right mind, would ever expect a witch to choose this as her home and come looking for her here, after all? 

Exactly. 

You perfectly blend in with all the other pointed hats they sell at souvenir shops around here. Aside from that, the choice was never truly yours. 

John Winchester had once picked this place for you many moons ago. 

You exhale a sigh and glance up at the small family home in front of you, the white siding dulled by cloud coverage. It looks pleasantly innocent, but the earth underneath it knows what happened here. It’s restless beneath your feet, the roots threading through the moist soil pulled tight like they braced for an enormous impact. 

The trees around the property crowd close and whisper, feelings caught in bark and giving their secrets away to the wind. The woods always remember everything, but they’re downright awful storytellers. It’s usually up to you to translate.

Anger. Fear. Pain. 

You can feel it in the air all around you. Each emotion has a different aura and comes in different shades. But your grandmother once taught you how to read them before you’d even learned how to tie your shoes. 

Sometimes, gathering evidence isn’t just about what you can see with your own eyes. It’s not just about fingerprints and blood spatter and bodily fluids lighting up under UV light. Emotions, especially strong ones, leave imprints behind, too. 

Magic and a cosmic bond with the universe certainly doesn’t replace forensics, but it is its own kind of science. When people think of magic, they tend to assume it’s something supernatural that science can’t touch – an invisible, surreal force. But it’s very much tangible and real to you. Just because the average human can’t see it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Magic is part of this world like everything else – like gravity, space, time, motion, and light.

What? Because some fancy scientists at CERN haven’t found the atom for magic yet automatically means it doesn’t exist at all? Two millennia ago, humans also thought the Earth was flat until Aristotle proved them wrong. 

You’re Aristotle in this scenario. 

So, when you investigate a crime scene, you let the official science tell you the how, when, where, and, if you’re lucky, even the who. But magic provides the why.

Try telling that to the cops, though. 

The house itself is tucked just far enough from the main road that the gravel path leading up to it disappears into mud after the last summer storm, surrounded by scrub brush and scattered oaks. Even the grass seems uneasy, slick and bent under the weight of water, each blade vibrating faintly in the unsettled air. Summers in Salem are sticky, heavy with heat and humidity as the wind carries a richness from the land and sea alike. But even on the sunniest day, this town doesn’t feel harmless. 

Neither does this house.

You duck under the yellow tape, nodding at the uniform stationed by the front door. He gives you the usual look – half curiosity and half skepticism. Everyone at the station has a look they specifically reserve just for you.

The frown. The raised brow. An eye roll here or there. A challenging scoff. A glare. 

You’ve learned to ignore them, though, and even started to collect them over the years like trading cards.

Inside the house, the place still tries its damn hardest to look normal. And normal is usually the fucking problem. 

A few things are immediately obvious upon entry: the coffee table is pushed back an inch too far, a picture frame hangs crookedly on the wall – the glass not broken but spiderwebbed – and the couch cushions don’t line up like they should. The living room is already bustling with cops, techs, and a photographer trying to take pictures from an angle that will never tell the whole truth. 

Then there are the things only you can see. 

The threshold is smeared with the tiniest trace of something that doesn’t belong there – panic. It clings to the doorway like humidity, thick enough that you hesitate before stepping inside. Your aura brushes the frame, and the house responds like a startled animal. 

Fear leaves residue. Pain sinks deep. Violence doesn’t vanish just because someone cleaned the floor. 

You close your eyes for half a second and breathe it in. The ground exhales with you, relieved to be noticed. Then you pull gloves from your pocket and slip them on, mostly because it makes everyone else feel better, your mind already scanning and sorting.

Blood doesn’t shout, but it pulls at your attention like the tide, clinging to fibers and cracks and the places people forget to scrub. You crouch near the edge of the rug, your fingers hovering just above the fabric, and feel resistance there – the ghost of something wiped away but not erased.

“You gonna tell us what you’re seeing, kid?” a detective asks, his tone suggesting he already regrets the question. It’s Murphy, one of the older and more seasoned ones at the station. 

The other cops at the precinct never take you seriously, no matter how many times you prove them wrong. You’re always too young. You’re always too weird. Brilliant, thorough, impossible to fluster – but weird. 

You talk to yourself. You notice things no one else does. You correct people mid-sentence and don’t always apologize. The fact that you graduated early with a forensic science degree and solve cases faster than anyone else tends to buy you forgiveness, however. 

Most times, at least.

You rise smoothly to your feet and humor the man with a smile. “There’s trace under the sink. He washed up there. And check the stair railing. Skin cells should be under the varnish.”

Another detective, this one younger and nameless to you, squints at you from across the room. “You get all that from vibes or what?” 

“From paying attention,” you quip without bothering to turn around. “Highly recommend it.”

“She does this every time,” another one mutters under his breath. That’s Kaminski. He smokes a pack a day in the parking lot, which is why you recognize him by the rasp in his voice. 

“And I’m right every time,” you retort. “It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.”

“Educated guess,” Murphy scoffs, skeptical as ever. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks, you suppose. Especially the Irish ones. 

You ignore the comments and laughter that follow till the chatter suddenly dies down when Sergeant Mia Owens sets foot onto the crime scene. Years on the force have given her a presence that rearranges rooms without raising her voice. She’s been doing this too long to waste energy on theatrics.

“She’s not guessing,” Mia says, calm and firm all at once. “So if you’d like this wrapped up before next week, let her work, hm?” 

Mia meets your eyes, her expression sharp but warm, the way it’s always been ever since a hunter dropped you on her doorstep at eleven, feral with grief and too much truth in your blood. She never asked for explanations you weren’t ready to give. She just decided you were worth the trouble, opened her door for you, and told you to take your shoes off. 

Somewhere along the way, she became your anchor – your advocate, your shield, and the person who showed you how to exist in places that didn’t quite want you. She taught you how to stand your ground in a world that doesn’t like things it can’t categorize. 

She’s been defending you ever since.

Mia steps closer to you, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “Victim’s alive. Kid wasn’t hurt.”

“Good.”

“But his lawyer is already pushing an accident. Claims she fell,” she adds quietly and then studies you for a moment. “She doesn’t have anywhere to go. If this falls apart…”

She doesn’t need to finish. You understand without words.

“She still in the hospital?”

Mia nods. 

“I’ll finish up here and then stop by to talk to her,” you say softly. “Can you make sure no one goes into the bedroom? I wanna do a reading.”

Mia doesn’t hesitate, putting two fingers into her mouth, whistling loud enough for the entire room to turn their heads in her direction. “Alright, gentlemen, how about we clear out and let forensics do their job before you’re dragging mud all over the evidence, huh?”

The room clears quickly after that as you hurry into the main bedroom of the house. The air is more chill here, no warmth or love left inside these four walls. You carefully close the door behind you and settle down on the bed, pulling a deck of tarot cards from your shoulder bag. 

God, you can already imagine the raised eyebrows if one of those heathens outside could see you right now. 

You then shuffle the cards once before cutting the deck. The first question you always ask is: 

What happened here?

The Five of Wands is the first card you pull. It tells a story of conflict, chaos, and escalation. Violence was born out of anger here and not strategy. It wasn’t an accident. It was an argument that boiled over. 

The King of Cups shows up next, but it’s reversed. It’s meant for the perpetrator – the husband. It’s the usual card that comes up for an abusive drunk. It’s emotional manipulation and rage behind closed doors. It’s a man who knows how to cry alligator tears on cue and tells everyone how much he loves his wife while his emotions rot under the surface and ferment there. 

The Nine of Pentacles is reversed, too. It’s the wife. Her independence has been stripped away. She can’t leave easily. It’s a cage that disguises itself as a home, but this house isn’t safe anymore. 

But what happens next? That’s the most important question and decides her fate. 

Ten of Wands.

You swallow thickly. The card is a warning. Next time, it won’t be an ambulance. She’ll leave this house in a body bag. 

You gather the cards together again, your fingers steady even when your heart feels hollow and aches with sympathy. One card, however, slips free and lands right in front of you. 

Uh-oh. 

You hate when they do that because you know this one’s solely meant for you. You flip it around and place it down on the mattress in front of you. 

Knight of Swords.

Your whole body goes still, your brow furrowing. Ugh, not this guy…

Look at this dude, riding into battle on his high horse. It’s a man on a mission. He wants to succeed in his quest no matter what, blind to everything else around him. Once he charges forth, he can’t be stopped. It’s action before thought, justified by righteous certainty. 

After all, the world is simple if you hit it hard enough, right?

But what does that mean for you? 

Well, you suppose someone is coming, and they’re not riding gently into the night, either. On the contrary, they’re bringing an agenda with them. The knight won’t ask if he’s right because he has already decided that he is. 

Your skin creeps with goosebumps all the way up your arms, your eyes flicking to the closed door, the murmurs of cops barely audible outside. Did someone out there finally discover you’re a witch and is coming to burn you at the stake?

Your gaze lands back on the deck of cards. Why are you coming for me?

You pick up another card and flip it around. Your heart stops. Shit, it’s a big one, which means this isn’t good. 

The Judgment.

Oh, someone definitely caught your scent, seeing you for who you truly are. It doesn’t automatically mean death, though. It just announces a reckoning in some shape or form. There’s an outstanding score to be settled. 

God, who did you piss off this time?

As you gather the cards carefully again, tucking them back into your bag, you hear the deep rumble of a car outside. It surely doesn’t sound like any cop car you’ve ever heard, and it can’t be the owners of this home, either. 

Slowly, you rise from the bed and peek past the yellowed curtains out the window, spotting an old but classic, sleek-black Impala pulling up the muddy drive. 

Your skin tingles. The blood prickles in your veins. 

It’s not exactly a white horse, but you have a feeling your knight has just arrived. You curse the damn cards for warning you so late. Couldn’t they have already told you that last night when you still had time to pack a stupid bag?

A minute later, the car doors rattle open, two young men stepping out almost simultaneously like they practiced their exit. They don’t look like cops. They’re too clean for local law enforcement and too sharp for state boys. Their worn suits are ironed enough to pass but look more like costumes. 

One of them is obnoxiously tall and broad-shouldered with a mop of hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in a while. The other is shorter with a solid build that suggests he knows exactly how to throw a punch. The tall one tilts his head and mumbles something, brows pinched tightly. The shorter one then smirks and says something that makes the other huff a breath in response. 

Frustration. 

You don’t need to read auras or tarot to understand that. 

As they start their march toward the house, you peel away from the window and force yourself into motion. You hurry back into the living room, where Mia is speaking to some of the remaining techs. You grab your kit, crouch near the rug again, photograph fibers, bag samples, and jot down notes you won’t ever submit. You let your hands stay busy so your ears can do the real work.

“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”

It’s the short one. His voice is raspy and smooth like a bourbon, an undercurrent of authority lacing his tone. 

Mia’s voice rings out immediately. “Right here. Sergeant Owens.”

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, already irritated and suspicious enough to make the two young men shake in their boots. 

“FBI, ma’am,” the shorter one says and flashes his badge quickly. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

You frown a little at the names. Is it really a coincidence that one of them carries the same name as Metallica’s lead singer while the other shares one with a band member of Bon Jovi?

Your gut instinct says no. Again, you don’t even need magic to spot a liar.

“And what exactly does the FBI want with me?” Mia asks and raises an eyebrow, hands on her hips. It’s the same look and tone she’s used on you when you were a teen and tried to sneak out through the first-floor window of your bedroom. 

And where exactly do you think you’re going, young lady?

There’s a brief pause before the taller one, Bon Jovi, speaks this time, his tone lower and more careful. “We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”

“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Metallica asks more gruffly. 

“My adoptive daughter, yes.” Mia crosses her arms, nodding. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Metallica’s mouth opens for a second, swallowing heavily before Bon Jovi steps in for the rescue. “We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. You were the first responder on scene?”

Your breath catches in your throat. So that’s what they’re here for. You haven’t expected that. It’s been a while since you thought about the worst night of your life. 

“I was,” Mia replies sternly, not budging as her protective instincts take over. “It was ruled an accident.”

“Three fatalities. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Metallica notes.

Mia gives him a nod. “That’s right.”

Metallica cocks his head slightly. “Except here’s the thing,” he says cleverly, a false sense of confidence oozing from every pore. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”

Mia’s glare could probably burn those boys to dust at this point. “What are you implying, agent?”

To your surprise, Metallica doesn’t budge. But he doesn’t know Mia as well as you do, which is why he doesn’t know that he really, really, really should back off when she’s got that look in her eyes. Again, you know that one all too well from your teenage years, and you definitely wouldn’t want to be in Metallica’s big boots right now. 

“I think you know,” he says with a stern little crease in his brow, just right above his freckle-dusted nose. 

You think those two are about to jump each other’s throats when Bon Jovi luckily steps in. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”

Unfortunately, they don’t know that placating doesn’t work with Mia either. That woman is an excellent hostage negotiator. 

“Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”

“Mia, it’s okay,” you cut in gently and step up beside her. Someone has to save those boys, although you don’t know exactly why you’re the one who's volunteering for that particular job. The cards already warned you, so you’re pretty sure those two aren’t coming in peace and mean you harm. 

“You don’t have to–” Mia starts, but you stop her with a wave of your hand. 

“It’s fine,” you assure her.

Mia shoots you a look, searching your face for doubt or fear, but you give her a steady nod instead. She doesn’t like it, but she trusts you. She exhales slowly, retreating just enough to signal that this is your call now, though her sharp eyes never fully leave the men.

The shorter agent’s attention, meanwhile, has fully latched onto you. His posture loosens, shoulders rolling back like he’s settling into a role he enjoys way too much. His eyes, greener than the lush, wet moss in the woods outside, drag over your face, your stance, the CSI jacket, and the badge clipped to your belt. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” you prompt, forcing Metallica to clear his throat and refocus. 

“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” He nods and reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a badge and showing it to you. “Special Agent Hetfield,” he says and motions to his partner. “This is Special Agent Sambora.”

You step closer and glance at the ID for longer than necessary – so much so their auras grow nervous. But you don’t need to read them to know they’re lying. You already know they’re not FBI or any other kind of official law enforcement. 

Hunters. 

You exhale a breath and school your expression into something professional and harmless. If they’re really here for you, the worst thing you can do is panic. 

You offer them a bright and easy smile, tilting your head just enough to look curious instead of threatened. “Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”

▶️ Chapter 1: Rough on the Surface – May 29

Well, well, the knight has arrived, it seems lol. I've had a lot of fun figuring out tarot cards for this series. Consider this a little taste-test. In Chapter 1, we're then gonna dive into the boys' side of things and find out how they even ended up there.

PS: As a teen I was obsessed with Charmed, Sabrina, and Practical Magic, so you may encounter a few of those elements in this series. I've developed my own witch lore and weekly monster cases covering local myths etc. for this one, and we'll also slowly uncover reader's whole family mystery in due time 😉🔮

Ready for the big one on Friday? Leave your first impressions and theories in the comments, my witches 💜

🔮 Series Masterlist

Coming Up:

“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”

Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?”

Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”

He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now.

Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.”

“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously.

Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”

“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head.

🚀 Read up to six chapters ahead on Patreon

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Series Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@jensensswthrt @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

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@spnaquakindgdom @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2

Siffrin wants to shrivel up and die right there. Just die die die and die again. Die and not come back.

If they can't even get past the first trap, how are they supposed to even beat the King again, let alone figure out what's really causing the loops?

They hear light footsteps and swishing grass and, as if being pulled up by puppet strings, they rise and stretch their smile back on.

Okay, well. The curtains open once more; they won't wait for you! Put your smile back on ‘stardust’ and don't make anyone suspicious this time!

Right on time, Mirabelle arrives to chastise them for napping. They smile and nod, smile and nod, and soon enough, she's on her way. Their eye was too unfocused to even tell if she was fooled by their act.

Not like it matters, anyway, he'll be dead in a day anyway.

But they'll have to put on the act once more, and then again and again and again until the end of time!

Stars.

They start to head to town, but a tug at the back of their mind has them turning back around and staring into the trees.

Oh right. Loop.

They push their way into the thicket and scan for any signs of the rukemi.

"Loop?" they call out to the boulder next to the suspiciously quivering foliage. "I'm going to the Favor Tree. I'll talk to you there, I guess."

Why there, anyway? There's no reason you have to go there.

...

Big tree nice.

They shrug, shake the leaden feeling from their limbs--or at least try--and trudge through the meadow.

Happy face. Happy face! Let's go Siffrin!

They pat their cheeks and shake their head to knock some of the despair away. Or, rather, to hide it better.

Mirabelle's second conversation went well, for the most part. She looked at them with a raised eyebrow and a quirk of the head a few times, but if she suspected anything, she said nothing.

Success! Just fit right back into that role!

...

Isabeau time.

" Tree-mendous tree! " they smirk and watch as he barks out his normal (normal!) laugh. He raises his hand toward Siffrin, stops, then lets it fall to his side.

Siffrin blinks. Did that happen before?

They can't take their mind off that gesture as they script their way through the rest of the conversation. It has been a while, after all, besides the complete fumble of the last loop.

He gives a small wave as Isabeau walks off, stopping at the treeline to give him a questioning look before leaving.

Weird. Well whatever, you probably still look like shit.

Shit?

Loop's swear popped into their mind so naturally. They don't even know what it means yet; maybe it isn't even a swear!

Sure sounds like one though. It has that zest only the good swears have.

He shrugs and moves on.

The Favor Tree looms over them, guarding a little patch of night under its million leaves. He inches forward and calls out.

"Loop?"

They look up into the branches to see the rukemi flattened against the same branch from last loop. They peer at him, tilting their head with their ears and long feathers fanned up and out. Like they're studying him, like they're deciding if he's a friend or a meal.

They don't respond. Just stare.

With a deep breath, Siffrin hauls themself up to their branch and plops down. They don't make eye contact for a moment, already suspecting some sort of quip for looping back so soon.

"So...Stardust?"

They groan. "I know, I know, I said that was the last loop and then messed it up."

"Hahah, yeah I uh..." They scratch the back of their head right under their long, fluffy feathers. "I suppose I should know what you're talking about?"

Siffrin's blood runs cold. "What? What!? What do you mean? You don't remember last ni--loop? ANYTHING?"

"I--" their gaze follows a dry leaf as it flutters down through the air, hitting and nearly sticking on branches on the way. "I think? Some things? You def--"

"Like what!?" He leans dangerously close to the edge of the branch.

Loop flinches. "Well, um. You're trying to kill a King?" they say with a huff and a flick of their tail.

A twisting feeling in their chest falls. "...Is that all?"

"No. Something about...hmm..." They bring their claw, no longer cracked, to their mouth and bite down once again. They speak in a low rumble. "No, that's impossible, but..."

"Yes!?"

"Time...loops? That's what you meant, right?"

Siffrin nods so aggressively their hat nearly falls off. "Yes! I told you about it and everything! And you don't remember?"

Loop lowers their head against their shoulders, as if trying to hide in their feathers. "Time loops, tyrannical king--now isn't that redundant?--he/they, stuck for a while, forgotten a lot since you've been trapped, I think, something about mangoes...oh right you told me quite a lot of personal details I don't think were relevant to anything, didn't you?"

Siffrin bites their lip. "Was relevant to me," they mumble.

Loop tilts their head. "Erm, well, we can unpack that another time." They put their claws together in the shape of a diamond.

"...Is that all?"

They make a swirling gesture in the air. "Bits and pieces of things. But, yes." Their feathers settle. "That's about it."

Siffrin sighs. They close their eye and press their face into their hands. Gravity pulls at them harder and harder, making them sink into themself. If the branch he's sitting on shatters and he crashes to the ground in a pile of meat, he wouldn't even be surprised.

Heh.

Ground meat.

But the branch holds firm, and he's faced with the fact that it's only his mind pulling him down.

"Stardust?"

Siffrin grunts. At least they remember that .

Okay. Okay, no this is fine. They're only mostly unhelpful! They remember more than your friends, at least! We can still figure things out!

Digging his palms into his face, he takes a deep breath and faces the rukemi. "We're here to kill the King who's been freezing everyone in time and--" they inhale again and push on. They repeat much of what they said the night before, slowly, painfully, already writing the script in their mind, they plan on telling Loop every single time from then on...

A flash of a buried memory flits across their mind, and they perk up slightly.

Oh right, at least there's that.

They divert the topic and dig through the mire for more and more, picking up speed until there's an edge of desperation to their voice.

More campfire meals. Finding an orb (which one, which one!?). Isabeau's strong hand stopping him from walking straight into a trap he so stupidly missed. Tending to Mirabelle's hair after the river mishap. Losing a drunken arm wrestling match to Odile. Losing a sober arm wrestling match to Bonnie.

Loop listens, just like the night before, head tilting side to side, occasionally having their attention stolen by a fluttering leaf or the gentle piou piou of a songbird.

After Siffrin's words peter off once again, they massage their throat and press their face into the cool, rough bark of the tree.

"Well." Loop stretches out, careful not to tumble out of the tree or snap the branch. "You certainly gave me a lot of information... Again."

"Please remember it this time," they murmur, dejected, hollow.

"Ehh. No promises."

Siffrin can only groan.

"But I certainly can try!" They give him a soft smile with their eye.

"Why can't you remember it all? Why is it only me?"

Why me why only me why why why?

"How would I know?" They give an exaggerated shrug. "Maybe you're infecting me with your memory problems."

"How would I even do that?"

They snort. "Well, we've already established time loops are a thing, so infectious amnesia doesn't seem quite so far-fetched anymore." They flick a leaf off their haunch with their tail. "Also, that was a joke."

Siffrin grumbles and knocks their head against the trunk. "Ugh, some help this is. The Universe is just toying with me at this point."

"I'm sorry ?" They raised their brow.

"I found you because the branch broke and you fell out of the tree."

Loop sinks their head into their shoulders. "Eghh, stars, that's unfortunately one of the things I do remember. What of it?"

"If the Universe did that--if it sent you to help , then this is just some sort of sick cosmic joke."

Just like me.

"Okay, first of all, rude. Secondly, the Universe doesn't work like that. It doesn't care about us. It just is. "

Siffrin presses his forehead to the bark. “Ugh, it’s not like any of that is real anyway." He lets out another long-suffering sigh.

"Are you even listening to me?" Loop's ears twitch. “Ehh, we’re getting off-topic anyway.”

Siffrin sniffs and shifts their head to look at them again. The bark scratches at their face and pulls at their hair.

“You still in there, stardust?”

They grunt.

"Okay, good enough," they shrug. "Anyway, I'm assuming you have not defeated the King again.”

"No." He knocks his cheek against the tree.

"Okay, well, did you try the thing I suggested? The er...poison?"

They grimace. "...No."

"And why not?"

Siffrin grits their teeth. "Didn't make it that far."

"Oo, that would mean you died, correct?"

They scrunch their nose and nod.

"Well, try not doing that again!"

He scowls and is only met with a twitch of Loop's ear.

"Well, anyway, now that you're not quite so...er...last night... Maybe we can put our heads together again and think of something else. What did your party do when you talked to them about it, again?"

"I haven't told them. I can 't tell them."

"Right. And you haven't told them once...why?"

“I told you why."

Loop squeezes their eye shut and exhales. "Something about not wanting to hurt them. A ridiculous reason in my humble opinion, but it seems like you're not budging on that." They clap their hands together and turn their eye upward in a smile. "Well! We'll just have to do this in a more roundabout way, then! Maybe there's somewhere you can do more research? You all have libraries here, right?"

They raise an eyebrow at Loop. Duh .

"Mhm. There's one in town and in the House."

"There you go! A new goal to strive for."

"Ehh, I'll check it, I guess."

How many more loops will it take to even find something useful? There's so many books in the House, and you can't even go into most of them.

"Great! Let's make a list of what we need to figure out. First order of business is to find an easier way to kill the King."

Siffrin presses themself even harder into the bark. "Don't even know if I can , I've tried thousands of times and only managed that one time. What if it was a fluke? What if Mira's not able to deal the final blow next time? What if there's never a 'next time'? What if I can't replicate what I did last time and have to fight him another thousand times?"

...

They scream into their hands.

"I can't do that. I can't keep doing this."

Loop's wings droop. "Well, that's what the research and experimenting is for, stardust. Finding another way." Their voice is gentle, soft like their feathers seem to be.

Siffrin's eye focuses on Loop's talons and how they so easily carve through the bark on the tree. An image flashes in their mind of them carving them into the King's throat--of their fangs slicing through all the weak points in his armor as he thrashes around and paints the room in his blood.

He thinks about Loop's jaws around his own throat--

"Can you help us?" The words tumble out of their lips on their own.

Stupid. Why are you asking this?

"Huh? I mean, I already am?" They flick their tail. "Well, trying, at least."

How are you going to explain to your friends? Are you that desperate?

"I mean help us fight the King."

'Oh, hey everyone, do you mind if I bring a blinding dragon thing with us to the fight? No, they won't eat you! Probably!'

"Er, no. I do distinctly remember telling you I'm not supposed to interact with humans. That includes killing them--even if it is regicide." They add that last bit with a huff and a gaze into the distance.

Siffrin sighs.

Well, at least you don't have to think about explaining anything.

"Plus, I won't be much help, I'm no fighter and couldn't kill a human even if I wanted to." There's a tinge of bitterness to that statement.

"But how? You're covered in sharp parts. It should be easy!"

" I am not a weapon !" they hiss, jaws slamming shut and glaring straight at him with an intense, wide-eyed look. Their feathers stand on end and almost vibrate with emotion.

It was enough to make Siffrin jump and straighten himself out.

" I. Don't. Fight . I didn't sign up for any of this." Loop grimaces and slaps their hand to their head, digging their talons into their scalp. "I didn't ask for this blinding migraine or to be dropped at your feet in the dead of night. I'm helping because I'm stuck in this fucking mess too, but I will not fight your battles for you."

A shiver runs down their spine as their blood chills. "Right, okay, sorry."

Loop studies them for a moment longer, making them shrink into their collar and under their hat until they look like a stray pile of clothes.

Loop sighs and scratches the bridge of their snout. "It's fine." A bit of dried skin falls off their scar and spirals down. The exposed flesh underneath makes the space behind Siffrin's good eye ache a bit. The shade of it is...slightly strange, but they can't really put their finger on what is so wrong about it.

Now that it isn’t quite so dark as before, Siffrin can take a closer look at Loop.

They look… not great.

He can't see much of their left eye; there's hardly any left of it besides scar tissue. It doesn't seem like they can open or close it any more than it already is.

The scar on their face is thick and leathery and extends partway down their neck. It's mottled with different shades and patterns, suggesting that it hadn’t been properly healed. It seems to pull their head slightly to the left as the skin has tightened from whatever injury caused it. A burn? There's really nothing else that could have done it...unless it was caused by whatever chemical warfare Loop was talking about.

Siffrin suppresses a shudder.

They seem to be missing feathers here and there, and many of the existing ones are damaged or dirty. And their front legs--the skin on them looks rough and mottled, though not quite as extreme as their facial scar.

It's hard for Siffrin to really guess much about Loop's condition outside of the obvious--it's not like he knows any other rukemis to compare them to. But... thinking about the fluffy round birds hopping around town, and the many, many chickens and ducks they've seen in their lifetime (oh, a memory! He's seen chickens and ducks before, now isn't that useful!) Loop looks... thin.

"Loop, are you hungry?"

They jump slightly; it seems like they were distracted by studying Siffrin themself.

"I could be, perhaps. Maybe a little." They puff out the feathers on their body just a bit.

"I can get you something to eat." They grab their silver coin and squeeze it in their hand until it hurts. "Well, I don't have any money, but I can catch some fish."

Loop's ears turn back, and they sigh. "It's fine, stardust. It's not like it matters if we're going to go back in time anyway."

"...Right."

The sun is close to the horizon. Dinner will be ready soon. Maybe he can leave a plate out for them; it's not like food does him any good anymore.

"Anyway, I'm sure you have places to be soon. So hurry on over to the library to find some other way of killing the King and more about the loops or whatever." They scratch at their throat. "I still vote poison, or dropping the ceiling on him, but I'm sure there's other magic spells you can use to turn him inside out or something."

Ew. But again, too kind an end for him.

"Okay. Thank you, Loop."

"Don't mention it. And please find something soon."

"I'll try."

Siffrin shifts themself and clambers down the massive tree, making each step with care to fight off the pins and needles that have returned. He takes one more glance at Loop as they watch him silently, head resting on their hands.

With a nod, he heads to the library and feels his smile plaster itself back on the moment he reenters Dormont. He wastes no time with pleasantries and heads straight for the nearest bookshelf.

The librarian approaches him anyway. "You're one of the saviors, right?" They ask with a tilt of their head, the beads on their glasses make a funny little clinking sound. "Do you need my help with something?"

He flinches. They stare at the librarian, giving them a questioning gaze. 

Oh right the boulangier isn’t the only villager who talks to you. Oh. When was the last time you even went there? 

A pain au chocolat doesn’t sound terrible in that moment. Maybe they should go grab one. Anything chocolate. Maybe something for Loop, too.

Wait… 

Can Loop eat chocolate? Or will it kill them because they’re part dog or something?

“Hello?” The librarian waves a hand in front of their face. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh, right? No chocolate for me, please—I mean I’m fine, thank you!”

They blink a few times. “Well, okay then. I’ll be over here if you need anything.”

Siffrin pulls their smile wider and waves a ‘thank you’ before turning back to the bookshelves.

Okay, that was blinding awkward of you, but whatever, not like any of this matters in the loops anyway! 

He shakes his head clear. Sliding his finger across the spine of every book, he reads each title carefully, once, sometimes twice, blinking away the fog in his mind.

Useless.

Useless.

Useless.

Weird headache book again.

Oh? No, just basic craft spells.

Nothing. Of course not. They probably checked it a hundred times before and just forgot.

What were they looking for again?

Oh, right, ways to hit the King harder and a book on time loops, as if that's something that exists outside of fiction. Maybe one of Mira’s horror books has something on time loops. Maybe it’s based on a true story too! You just gotta casually ask her—

No, that’s stupid, of course it’s stupid! 

Defeated, they lightly hit their head on the shelf and trudge out. 

Whatever. Whatever! It's something to look forward to. Enrichment!

They blink.

They're at dinner, eating ash once again. He smiles through the banter and is happy to notice that their friends aren't as suspicious as the previous loop. Or at least they don't seem to be.

Something to look forward to. Don't run headlong into your death this time!

He blinks.

They're in bed and Isabeau is once again trying to tell him what he's tried to say a thousand times before.

Don't be stupid, stupid, stupid this time.

They close their eye.

They're back at the House once more. At least they managed to get a little more rest that time. Even if they didn't get to sleep much, they still got to be horizontal for a few hours.

Beats sitting in a tree and talking all night.

It's hopeless.

But at least there's something new to do.

------------------------------------------------------------

He finished his three bows without fanfare the next day and moved into the Hanshi a few hours later. With everyone he cared for dead and everything important to him having been burned in Lotus Pier years ago, it didn’t take long. He only had to bring himself.

“You’ll sleep on the floor near the brazier,” Lan Xichen informed him and Wei Wuxian gulped before offering a small bow. “The Clan leader needs to look like the paragon of the Clan as such, I must take care of myself before anyone else. I am sure you understand how politics and gossip work, Yiling Laozu.”

He didn’t, and on the off chance he did, he didn’t care about what people thought anyway but he nodded to show he understood.

“Well, I hope you see him in your dreams tonight because I am sure he would’ve loved to see you in his.” It was said lightly but Wei Wuxian understood it for the curse it was. Not even half a day had passed since his sham of a marriage and his husband had already cursed him to nightmares.

“Have a pleasant rest, Lan-zongzhu,” he responded, settling his tired body near the brazier.

The next few weeks were a blur of doing nothing, getting sneered at by everyone and thinking of Lan Wangji. It always got worse if he would look in a direction and remember what Lan Wangji had done in that area years ago. He could picture him stomping around in that elegant manner of his in his mind and it never got easier, knowing he was never coming back.

Because he had learned to be a self-sacrificing fool from staying with him. Wei Wuxian would cuss him out if he wasn’t worried about how every one of his actions could affect his reincarnation. He probably thought too highly of his influence with fate but it was better to be careful.

The constant ache of feeling like something was missing, something was wrong, the nightmares and the bland GusuLan fare that was surprisingly not poisoned caused his health to decline steadily. He lost weight, his body ached constantly and his mind was in tatters, warring with immense guilt and self-hatred at all times of the day. So it wasn’t a surprise when the thin line between his guilt and lack of self-worth finally snapped. Frankly, he was surprised it took two months.

------------------------------------------------------------

“Excess emotion is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Xichen reminded, as he found his husband with tears streaming down his face again. He didn’t even seem aware he was crying but didn’t look surprised as he wiped his face free of the residue of his guilt.

“Why are you being so cruel to me? You won't let me die and now you don’t want me to feel,” he whispered listlessly, the rays of the setting sun making the harsh lines of his face more pronounced. He had known his husband wasn’t eating but surely a cultivator of his calibre could practice inedia for weeks, couldn’t he?

“Every Clan member has to abide by the rules and you are part of the main family now.” He pointed out.

“I didn’t take you to be so skilled at torture, Zewu-jun, but I was wrong. You’re so good at this, aren’t you? Ordering the kitchens to send me food Lan Zhan used to like better, not stopping anyone from whispering and jeering and taunting my dead family, letting everyone remind me how I failed at being a father before I could ever become one… before I could ever save my A-Yuan.” He choked on a sob and Lan Xichen was surprised. Yuan-er, dead? Who was telling him such lies? “I really despise you.”

“That’s alright. The last person in our clan you seemed to like was my brother and we all know how that went.” It was instinct, lashing out at a husband who never fought back because the guilt of having a hand in his brother’s death was too much for him. If he hadn’t whipped Wangji. If he hadn’t left him unsupervised. If he hadn’t underestimated the depth of his brother’s feelings for Wei Wuxian… It was no wonder Wangji overexerted himself and reached the Burial Mounds before the siege did.

The pain on Wei Wuxian’s face made him stumble. The guilt on his face had left its mark on his once-youthful face. His eyes were dull, and his smile, ever-present in his teenage, was twisted into a loathing grin. One directed at himself.

No. Lan Xichen won't sympathize with that man. Doing so was the cause of his brother’s downfall. He needed to hate him forever and needed to ensure Wei Wuxian got what he deserved and more.

“I didn’t come here to talk to you, I came here to tell you we’re having tea with the elders today. Make yourself presentable. Your Lan robes are there, wear them.” Lan Qiren had gotten Wei Wuxian an ill-fitting –more now than before because of all the weight he had lost— set of robes, plain white to signify that while he was married to the leader, he was nothing more than a prisoner. An unwanted.

Lan Xichen should hate him, he really should. It’d make things easier. So why then, did hearing Wei Wuxian’s heart-wrenchingly agonized sobs make him want to cry too?

------------------------------------------------------------

“You are a disgrace upon this clan and to every cultivator alive! How dare you look at me with such an accusatory expression?” Elder Zhou yelled, breaking half a dozen rules about composure. Lan Xichen looked at his husband and realized the elder was right. Wei Wuxian was glaring at him. Could it be that he realized who argued with him the most to make sure he punished his brother with the discipline whip?

“You’re only lucky Xichen wanted you alive. Your status as his legal spouse is the only thing keeping us from seeking justice! You don’t deserve to take a single breath of Gusu’s air with all the crimes you’ve committed!” Elder Wang spoke up too and was it him or the Elders had invited them to tea solely to take turns hurling accusations at Wei Wuxian. He had thought this was a formality, yet there seemed to be a reasoning behind every carefully worded barb. And it was working. Wei Wuxian’s clenched hands were shaking, his lower lip was bleeding from how hard he was biting it and there was an unmistakable wetness in his eyes.

“I think that’s quite enough.” He stood up, offering Wei Wuxian his hand. His husband quietly followed his lead. “Don’t forget in whose presence you are because you all have broken two dozen rules so far. Submit yourself for punishment tomorrow.” And then he was leading Wei Wuxian out and away from the Elders. Should’ve done this earlier, a voice in his mind grumbled and he was tempted to agree.

But the damage was done because as soon as they were in the Hanshi, Wei Wuxian fell to his knees, clutching his robes. His surprise made him speechless.

“Kill me, please. I can't do this anymore. Everywhere I look, I see him, I remember the lives I snuffed out and I feel the guilt. It's been getting worse, Zewu-jun, I can no longer take a single breath without feeling weighed down by self-loathing, deserved as it is.” His voice was hoarse from the tears, his form bony from starving himself, yet the grip on his robes was unyielding and spoke of someone who used to have so much power. And now he had been reduced to begging.

“It's killing me, I know that was the purpose but the soul-crushing agony I feel is unbearable. I am going insane and I don’t want to become a danger to the Clan. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I hurt another soul again. So please, please kill me. End this farce and free yourself. Shatter my soul too after so I can never reincarnate again. I don’t have a golden core so it’d be easy and I know I don’t deserve to ask this of you but please make it quick. I want to have one last moment without pain-“

“Wei Wuxian, calm yourself!” He fell to his knees and grabbed his husband’s hands. “Take a deep breath and explain what you mean.” Because he couldn’t have heard that right. Wei Wuxian was the strongest cultivator alive, how could he be that without a golden core?

“I would if it’d make a difference but… I can't, I can't breathe I can’t-“ Lan Xichen realized too late. Wei Wuxian looked dead, his outward appearance reflecting on his mind’s condition. He was right because Wei Wuxian was on the brink of insanity and begging him to kill him so his people stayed safe.

“He’s good, he’s one of the best people out there, Xiongzhang, so please help me bring him to Gusu.”

Ah. So this is what Wangji meant back then. This is why his brother wouldn’t budge in his defences of the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation.

I see it, I see it now, Wangji. But am I too late?

His eyes were a dull, lifeless grey. They seemed to be seeing through him. Wei Wuxian was dying. And most of it was his fault. He did this, he tortured the man his brother cared so deeply for with every member of the Clan. He should’ve felt happy, proud of breaking the feared Yiling Laozu. So why then, did the sight of Wei Wuxian almost dead make him feel like scum. Like a murderer. Like someone who killed an innocent.

Because that’s what his husband was. An Innocent. The pieces clicked in his mind. The rumours of Jiang Wanyin losing his core but coming back even stronger. The Demonic Cultivation. The pushing people away. The desire to stay away from Wangji yet be helpless to resist his light. The lack of Yin Hu Fu. The desire to keep one more person safe from his hands if that was the last thing he did.

Wei Wuxian had been innocent and Lan Xichen had committed a heinous, unforgivable crime.

“A-Ying, husband, I am here. I am here.” His hands were clutching at bony shoulders, pulling the man into his arms for a tight embrace. He held him as he shook, body wracked with sobs and unintelligible sounds of grief and guilt and he held him as his own eyes grew misty. He realized how every horrible thing that had happened to this poor, innocent man had his hand in it. He wasn’t any better than the things he was punishing Wei Wuxian for, was he? What was the purpose of being a Clan Leader, someone said to have infinite wisdom, both theoretical and real, if he was going to be blind in the face of his own guilt? He was a disgrace, he had tortured a man whose only crime was caring for others, and he had let others take part in his depraved schemes.

He was a monster.

“I am sorry, I am so sorry, please stay with me. Stay with me!” He couldn’t disguise the desperation in his voice as Wei Wuxian went slack against him. Would he be able to live with himself if Wei Wuxian died? Would he ever be able to face his brother with his hands tainted in his most cherished person’s blood? “A-Ying, A-Ying I am so sorry please don’t leave me, please! I’ll do anything you ask for, give you anything, please don’t go too, please please-“

He heard shouts in the background, he heard the word Qi Deviation being muttered and felt the oppressive feeling of untamed panic as the door to the Hanshi was kicked open. Yet his arms never let go of his husband, even when the world went dark.

------------------------------------------------------------

He sat up with a harsh breath, wondering where he was. Looking around didn’t tell him anything. He tried to remember what happened, where he was… It was then he noticed a weight on his left hand and turned to look at what had him in such a death grip.

Wei Wuxian slouched on the floor, seemingly asleep. But the grip on his hand was unyielding. It was also warm. Warm with life. Warm with proof that his husband was alive and that he had time to make amends and be a better person for him and Wangji.

“A-Ying,” he whispered, and Wei Wuxian sat up with a grumble, eyes red with interrupted sleep.

“Oh… I should call the healers since you’re awake,” he muttered and moved to get up. Xichen wasn’t having it, so he pulled Wei Wuxian towards him, making him stumble and fall onto him gracelessly.

“Don’t go yet, stay with me, A-Ying,” he whispered in his hair as his arms tightened around his husband. His husband. Wei Wuxian was his husband. How had he never realized how significant that fact was?

“I- alright?” And then he climbed into the bed and wrapped his arms around Xichen, offering him comfort he didn’t know he needed so badly.

“You’re alright. I didn't lose you…” He shuddered at the thought and felt Wei Wuxian look up at him. “You’re here…”

“I am.” Lying was forbidden in the Cloud Recesses after all. “Where am I?” He still felt disoriented, as if he wasn’t quite feeling or seeing everything around him yet. His head hurt and it made him realize he couldn’t feel his spiritual energy.

“I had to seal your spiritual energy so it wouldn’t harm your meridians. You were qi deviating and I didn’t know what to do. Turns out it was a good idea because Xiansheng told me I just saved your life. It’s a little fascinating, he said he had never thought of stopping a qi deviation fit before it killed or permanently rendered someone from cultivating by sealing the energy and forcing the disruption to contain itself and-“ He tuned out the rambling in favour of staring at his husband’s face. For the first time in years, he saw the passionate interest reminiscent of a scholar again.

The war had taken so much from them all. He had forgotten it had been taken from Wei Wuxian too. His core, his family, his standing in the world, the reputation of his deceased parents. It had taken the spark, the warmth that had made Wei Wuxian Wei Wuxian and none of them had realized.

Seeing him now, so alive and only because he had gotten over his pain and guilt to save Xichen’s life. Watching him gesturing minutely with his hands as if he could draw him a picture of every genius thought that crossed his mind to explain his thoughts better, Lan Xichen realized he was alright. Wei Wuxian was alive and so was he. Their relationship had been riddled with pain and guilt, doomed from the beginning. But maybe, just maybe, they could make something beautiful out of it.

Beautiful… It was the same word he could use to describe Wei Wuxian now, with his eyes full of life and his voice going hoarse from the constant rambling. His cheeks were flushed and he was panting as he stopped his tirade and looked at him with a look full of so much indignance he giggled.

“You’re not even pretending to listen to me!” He wailed dramatically, a triumphant smile touching his lips as Lan Xichen laughed again. So this was Wei Wuxian, the real Wei Wuxian. Someone who was so smart, not just in mind but in action. Someone who was kind and selfless. Someone who found joy in making others happy regardless of who they were and what wrongs they had committed in life.

Lan Xichen didn’t blame his brother anymore. He could see it. Feel the first dregs of infatuation coursing through his veins as Wei Wuxian pouted dramatically at him. Feel a stirring in his heart that could only be the foundation of love as he tightened his hold on his husband. Feel the warmth of a blush as it spread on Wei Wuxian’s cheeks and his ears as he leaned forward to kiss his forehead, whining about how unfair he was being, taking away his thoughts just like that.

“A-Ying,” he sighed and Wei Wuxian’s flush darkened as he looked away from him, a shy smile touching his lips as he hugged him back harder with utmost nonchalance.

“A-Huan…” It was Xichen’s turn to freeze, his face beginning to burn and Wei Wuxian cackled inelegantly in his embrace.

They would be alright. There was a mountain of hurt between them, unanswered questions, withheld knowledge, the grief of losing Wangji, and the lingering effects of war, too. But for once, Xichen was convinced, his optimism not unfounded.

They would be alright and they would be happy. It would take time but he was sure of it, surer than he had ever been of anything.