New story idea with a new character, If You like this and want a part two or have a new idea please let me now. Also sorry to whoever requested this, i can not find the original request but IT was with a close scenario from my father mirian fic with a new character. (Also yes, i did search hor peregrine falcons court for this fic. So it is not only Lore accurate but bird accurate)
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The day always began the same.
The fog rolled in from the sea. The clock struck the same careful hour. The children stirred in their peculiar ways — Hugh murmuring to his bees, Millard invisible but audibly disgruntled about breakfast portions, Emma already awake and staring out the window like she expected something to change.
Almar Peregrine always noticed the smallest shifts.
As an ymbryne, he carried the loop in his bones. He kept it stable. Reset it when danger pressed too close. Smiled at townspeople who must never remember the strange children wandering too near the cliffs. And before every reset, he walked the village.He made sure no one suspected. No one whispered and No one followed.
He was careful. Charming. Precise.
And on one particular loop — though he would relive it countless times after — he walked straight into you.
You were coming down the narrow path from the laundress’s house, arms full with a heavy basket of folded clothes. The wind caught the top sheet and nearly sent it flying. You adjusted your hold instinctively — and that was when he saw it.
Life swelling beneath worn fabric.
He collided with you gently — too gently for a true accident.
Almar caught it in one smooth motion, the movement almost wing-like in its grace.
“My deepest apologies,” he said, voice warm and cultured, hat already tipped in apology. “I should watch where I’m going.”
You smiled at him — polite, slightly flustered.
“It was my fault,” you said. “I’m not as steady as I used to be.”
His eyes dropped, only briefly, to your stomach. Something in his chest shifted.
“I beg to differ,” he replied softly. “You seem quite steady, all things considered.”
You laughed — and that was the moment it happened. The loop did not reset the same that day.
But when it did, he remembered. And he found you again.
After the next reset, he adjusted his timing.
He left the house five minutes earlier. Took the path by the orchard instead. And there you were again — basket in arms, wind threatening your linens.
“Allow me,” he said before you could protest, taking the basket from you with a smile that could disarm suspicion itself.
Every loop, he found you.
Once struggling with a stubborn fence gate that had frozen stiff.
Every time, he stepped in.
Attentive without appearing intrusive.
“Careful — the stones are slick.”
“That’s heavier than it looks.”
You began to expect him. That was dangerous. Almar knew it was dangerous.
And yet— Like a bird, he began to build.
He lingered near your cottage when he could. Brought small things — extra flour, mended hinges, kindling stacked neatly before storms. He memorized the rhythm of your days.
It felt less like courtship. More like instinct.
The children did not know.
He was meticulous about that.
Before each reset, he ensured no townsfolk had seen anything peculiar. Hugh’s bees never strayed too far. Millard avoided wandering into public roads. Emma was warned — gently — about the importance of staying unseen.
They never suspected their headmaster slipped into the village each day for reasons unrelated to loop maintenance.
One afternoon, after a reset, she found him in the upstairs hallway holding a folded bedsheet that had long gone unused. He had not realized he’d been staring at it.
“Is someone coming, mr perengrine ?” she asked lightly, though her eyes were sharp.
Almar blinked once, composing himself.
“Theoretically,” he replied. “Yes.”
Her gaze flicked to the empty bed behind him.
Somewhere in the village, you were walking the same path again, unaware that time had folded itself neatly around you.
“A baby is on the way,” he said finally.
Emma studied him carefully.
“And you’re certain they’re peculiar?”
He folded the sheet with deliberate calm.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “I am not.”
What unsettled him most was this:
No matter how many times he reset the loop…
No matter how precisely he recreated the day…
Unaffected by repetition.
He noticed it first in the way you moved — heavier now, slower. The curve of you more pronounced. A hand resting instinctively beneath your belly as you stood.
Time touched you differently.
And that meant something.
Almar found himself lingering longer each loop.
Fixing things that did not need fixing.
Standing too close when the wind turned sharp.
He told himself it was responsibility. Protection. Prudence.
But when he returned to the house and shifted into his peregrine form, he did not fly far.He circled.
Perched on the rooftop of your cottage more than once, talons curled into the thatch, eyes sharp and possessive.
A nest did not need to be acknowledged to be built.
And somewhere deep in his careful, controlled heart, Almar Peregrine wondered—
If the child was peculiar… would You giving birth mean you'll be affected by the loop again? Will he lose everything like that?
The realization came like a blade slipped between ribs — subtle, precise.
When the baby was born… you would be fully within the loop.
Right now, you stood half-outside it. Your pregnancy continued despite the resets. The child grew. The curve of you deepened. Time clung to you stubbornly, refusing to rewind.
And anchors tied things down.
If the child entered the loop properly, would you snap into its rhythm too? Would your memories dissolve into repetition? Would you forget the versions of him that existed between resets — the gentler smiles, the longer glances, the days he lingered too long at your door?
Would he lose the only thing that felt unscripted?
The thought made something sharp unfurl inside his chest.
Jealousy. Ugly. Instinctive. Avian.
The child was not his. Peregrines mated once. For life. It was not merely romantic — it was biological. Written into marrow and feather. To choose once. To remain.
And yet here he stood, circling a nest already seeded by another.
He had searched for signs of a man. Watched your cottage from the air. Observed from hedgerows. Timed his visits at varying hours. No boots by the door but yours. No second cup left drying. No deeper voice answering when he knocked.
If there had been a husband —
Almar was certain he would have known.
And if there had been one…
The thought did not finish itself.It did not need to. He began to plan.
Introduce you to the children — slowly. Casually. As though it were coincidence. A kind headmaster assisting a local expectant mother. Hugh would adore you instantly. Millard would be curious, if wary. Emma would see far too much.
If you saw the unused rooms upstairs…
You might begin to think of it as shelter.
He would wait until you were further along. Until walking grew more difficult. Until storms made the road treacherous.
Then he would offer help that was impossible to refuse.
Just until after the birth.
Just until you recovered.
The roots would be too deep to pull free.
The worst thought came one evening as he stood alone in his study after a reset.
What if you were affected?
What if, once the child was born, you reset fully too?
What if you became just another repeating face in his endless day? He would not endure that.
He would not endure you becoming a pattern.
His mind raced — calculations layered over instinct.
Could he shift the loop boundary?
He found himself pacing like a caged hawk. And then— He did something unthinkable. After one reset, once the children were safely in bed and the house settled into its familiar rhythm, he did not remain to watch over them.
He told himself it was reconnaissance. He walked to your cottage in the quiet blue hour before dawn. The door was not locked.
Village doors rarely were. He stepped inside.
The air was warm — warmer than the manor ever felt. It smelled of soap, dried lavender, wool. Of you. He stood very still, listening to your breathing from the small bedroom beyond.
Almar removed his gloves slowly.
He walked the small space with deliberate quiet, straightening a chair that did not need straightening. Adjusting a folded blanket. Ensuring the firewood stack was orderly. Then he stopped beside the cradle you had begun assembling. His fingers brushed its edge.
The word formed without permission.
He crouched, adjusting the padding inside with meticulous care. Testing its stability. Measuring its angle relative to the hearth’s warmth. Bird-instinct, ancient and unashamed, guided his movements.
He did not realize how long he stood there until the faintest shift of bedsheets reached his ears.
You turned in your sleep.
For one suspended moment, he considered waking you. Stepping into the role fully. Confessing nothing, yet implying everything.
Instead, he stepped back into the shadows.
He watched you. And something inside him settled into a terrifying certainty.
If time tried to take you —
If another man appeared —
If the loop demanded sacrifice —
He would choose differently this time.
And though you did not know it yet…
