ONCE UPON A SECOND CHANCE. âââââââââââê° azriel x f!reader ê± .á âĄ
synopsis; After dying of illness, you wake up in Prythianâinside the body of a male Fae servant.
By day, you must play the part of "Olyver"; a quiet servant attending the House of Wind. By night, the strange magic binding you shifts, and you return to your true female human form.
All you have to do is find a way back to your own body permanently. Preferably before anyone notices.
Unfortunately, someone already seems to be sniffing out your secret.
That being the Night Courtâs lethal, yet silent Shadowsinger. Whoâs made it a personal habit to greet the back of your neck with a gaze sharper than Illyrian steel.
You should've known second chances would never come so easy.
(w.c; 3k+)
tags; 19th!century!reader, mentions of death, later chapters àȘâ⎠(fluff and angst, body possession, opposites attract, misunderstandings, second hand embarrassment, angry! to soft!azriel, denial of feelings, denial of mating bond, somewhat enemy to lovers vibe but make it sillier, domestic fluff, eventual smut)
a/n; this was originally posted on ao3 in 1st pov back in 2024. after getting back into reading the last book, i've come back to this and changing it to an x reader fic since i enjoy writing them.
⧌You had always hoped to escape, but death seemed to be your only opportunity ⧜
Chatter from the dinner party floated across the parlor and into the drawing room downstairs. When the voices quelled, the first string against the piano forte sang in the air. Muffled between all the walls and door of your bedroom, you closed your eyes, focusing on the rich melody. Beautiful and enchanting as it was, it stirred nothing of enjoyment. Instead, it settled like the prick of a dried branch against your chest.Â
For bitter reasons you wish you could cast away.Â
A creak disturbed your bedroom door, and continuing with your readings, paid only a turn of a page in kind. âIt has barely been an hour since you last checked on me, Gladice. As you can see, my condition hasnât changed much since then.â
âSorry to disappoint, but Iâm not Gladice.â The voice of a gentleman; warm as the Summer day outside of your windowsill, caught your surprise. âShould I leave and come back with an apron and bonnet on?â
Your mouth dried, knowing very well who the voice belonged to. Regret tore your attention towards your bedchamber door. At the sight of your childhood friend, handsome and dressed proper. You snapped your readings shut and pulled the beddings over your bone thin legs, up to the ridges of your hips.Â
âSimon, I thoughtââ you willed the need to cough by clearing your throat. âYou should be downstairs enjoying the company.â
âI was, until I had a pestering call to business in the lavitree.â He grinned, trying to alight you with his boyish charm and crass humor. When your frown lines hadnât eased, he tried his best efforts to remain so. âAnd I thought in passing, why not pay a visit to the fine Governess of this charming country estate. Who might I add, was so gracious enough to send an invitation to host us.â
âYou should thank my parents, then. Itâs their estate, after all. I simply asked permission and spilled ink all over myself.â You wrung your paper thin hands under the bed covers. âI thought I stated in my last letter not to come visit me in my room.â
âYou know Iâm usually one to keep my promises, but in regards to our last letter, I donât recall ever making one.â His gentleness was only outmatched by his stubbornness, and when he took a seat at your bedside, you couldnât help but edge further into the beddings. Wanting to disappear altogether when a look of sincerity crossed him. âHow are you faring these days?â
âNo worse than yesterday, or the day before it.â You replied plainly, turning a gaunt cheek towards the country view outside of the bedroom window. Youâd always made some effort to avoid letting conversation wander to uncomfortable places, and sought to change the subject. âSheâs quite talented at the piano forteâyour fiancĂ©e.â
âThat she is.â He agreed, before shifting forward as if to tell a secret. âAlthough, not quite as talented as you. While it may take her just a few minutes to fill an entire drawing room, it takes only a matter of seconds for you to clear one out.â
He jested and, for a brief moment in time, you laughed. Even though it was airy and small, you couldnât deny the flicker of genuine happiness. But you couldnât possess it for long.
Your lungs seized and heart cramped, setting your chest ablaze with pain. The force of each cough threatened to shatter your bones to dust. Your company rose to attention, but before he managed a word, Gladice stood sweat-cheeked at my bedroom door.
âGoodness gracious, miss. Iâll be sure to fetch the medicine,â she clucked frantically, motioning Simon away with quick sweeping gestures of her hand. âCome along, Mr. Dosett. Return to the party before youâre sorely missed.â
âI am so sorry, [Y/N],â Simon said just before he was swiftly escorted out.Â
Words of sympathy or pity, it didnât matter. They burned holes deeper than any flame could. Wounded further when you couldnât even string together the simplest reassurances; such as âIâm quite alright, reallyâ or ânever be sorry for making me laughâ.
You struggled to fetch your handkerchief from the nightstand. Pressing the cloth against your mouth, you coughed the last remnants of the spell in clots. You were able to dab away the red from your lips by the time Gladice scurried back into the room with tray in hand.
âThis wonât do, miss. Iâll be sure to tell the master to send word for the doctor.â She said severely, eyeing over your form.
âPlease, Gladice.â I sought for breath after straining to take the medicine. âDonât tell my father. Not until after tomorrow.â
Gladice shook her head with wild disapproval. âThat especially wonât do.â
âNot until after tomorrow.â You repeated, voice treading on a plea. âI donât wish to draw any more attention to myself. Having a doctor sauntering around the house would only serve as a souring reminder for our guests. And everything must be perfect for Simonâsââ you stalled, withdrawing the attachment held when speaking his first name ââfor Mr. Dosettâs engagement party with Miss Margaret. It must be.â
Hesitation gripped Gladice as wrinkles creased the bridge between her brows. Your gaze unrelented under the scrutiny, the knobs of your fingers gripping the stained handkerchief.Â
âMy concern has been made.â Gladice finally submitted, wearily setting the glass of water back on the tray. âBut I will do as you wish.â
You sighed with relief, exhaustion suddenly dragging your head limp against pillows. âThank you, truly.â
âRest well, miss.â Was all she said before shutting the bedroom door without a creak.Â
.àłàż à©â©â§â
The next morning arrived, and when Gladice came to dress you for the day, your gaze never left the bedroom window. A once still country landscape now moved and breathed as hired footmen carried and set long seating tables with matching table accents and decoration. Some propped to fasten a tent with lounge furniture for those seeking respite from a beaming summerâs day. While maids plated a harvest of appetizers and acrudemonts sweetened by the dewy air.
It was the only portrait you cared to peer through from the moment you were sequestered to your sickbed. Even though your mother had wanted to decorate the white washed walls and empty corners of the room for your comfort, the doctor met the notion with rebuke.
âA sickroom must be kept with as little furnishing and embellishments as possible. Else maintaining cleanliness and air free from dust will prove difficult, and delay any hope of your daughterâs recovery.âÂ
Your mother hadnât stopped weeping since.Â
âGladice,â you spoke your handmaid's name, stopping her hands rummaging for a plain day smock from the dresser. âI would like to wear the dress made special for my first season out.â
Gladice picked up her skirts and scurried out for a moment before returning with gown in hand. âYour mother had it in safe keeping in the mastersâ bedroom. She made sure it was kept pressed and laundered.â
For the day you got betterâŠ
 You pushed back the gnawing thought that would never be with an appreciative smile.
Gladice was gentle with your remaining locks, brushing the needle-fine hairs to never pull or snag. But no matter how genial her hands were, a clump or two would insist the floor was better to rest than atop of your head.
âIâm afraid your hair will break if we do anything more than a bun, miss.â
âWell, a simple bun is not half so bad. I consider myself lucky to have hair at all. I suppose it would have fallen out by the time I turned old and gray, regardless if I cared for it or not.â You made yourself say. âI believe waiting for the inevitable is more painful than arriving at its doorstep. Donât you think?â
âThat it can be, miss.â Gladice replied soberly. Whether she agreed because she believed it herself or not, you would never know. But you also wouldnât blame her if she did to solely spare your feelings.
From the hallway, a figure of grace stepped through the doorway. Your motherâswan necked and a beauty to behold even well past her childbearing yearsâpractically glided into the bedroom.
Even with such refinement, her hands betrayed that composure. They shook as she carried a tray of edible assortments. Before your dearest house maid could intervene, your mother spoke in one single breath. âA moment with my daughter, Gladice.âÂ
Gladice pushed her helping arms firmly down at her sides before acknowledging the request with a quick âyes, maâamâ and scuttling out.
A moment of stillness had your legs shifting beneath the bed covers. The dark circles that had been a stake beneath your motherâs sunken eyes had lightened over the past few days of hosting brighter company. A house fuller in life than it had been over the years. A distraction you had welcomed (and invited) for your mother being the socialite that she was. Or rather, that she had been.
She set the tray of finger sandwiches, honey drizzled sweets, and sliced apples from the orchard on the nightstand.Â
âIâŠâ She started with a twisting of her slender fingers. Catching a glimpse of your past-due seasonal dress laid at the foot of the bed, her mouth cinched to form an adequate smile. âI brought these up for you from the kitchen. I even picked out your favorites. They are fresh so I hope you enjoy them.â
âI will, Mother. Thank you.â You replied with an equally acceptable smile.
You had been eating less and less the past few months, but had never let my mother know of this. Or at least, never let on. And as if testing for heartbreak she stared intently, clearly waiting for you to take a bite. With as much passion as you could stomach, you pressed a soft pastry between my lips. You groaned without intent, and tried to lilt the end to feign how delicious it was.Â
âNothing could taste better,â You managed after a swallow, dreading for the next. âThe spread at this engagement party will be talked about by all the mamaâs back in town.â
Your mother swiped delicately at the corners of her eyes, sniffing. âYes, I should think it will be. And we will have an even grander spread for you once you areâŠâ
âBetter, of course.â You quickly finished for her, erasing the choking doubt tightening your motherâs elegant throat. Slowly, you took another unwelcomed bite, and bit back the bout of nausea fisting in your stomach.Â
Although eating had become unpleasant, the truth of it was, deceiving your mother made you all the more sicker. But what other choice did you have to keep her from a pit of her own despair? Playing pretend was the best you could do. Especially for a mother whoâd planted seeds for a daughter that would never have a chance to bloom.
âYes, I presume you will soon be the picture of health.â She said with a taut smile against her powdered cheeks. Those trembling fingers seemed to reach for you, until a hesitation restrained them neatly against the silk fabric of her dress. âI do love you. You know that, donât you?â
âIâve only known my whole life.â You said in a quiet voice, letting your gaze fall shamefully at mothers distant hands. âAnd you know that I love you, too.â
âOf course I know. I only wishâŠâ Your mother swallowed back her words, before clearing her throat. âWell, I should be getting back to your father. Who knows what manner of topics he might be discussing with someoneâs poor unsuspecting ear.â
âYou may find yourself with your hands full, Mother. Since every guest has exactly two ears.â You said, willing a smile despite your soured stomach. âThat means two topics; one for each ear. Then you ought to multiply that by how many heads you see. And if you wish to reduce that number, you might achieve that by simply misplacing Fatherâs glasses.â
Your mother returned with an amused lilt of her lips. âI may have to consider that.âÂ
Once the corners of her mouth began to quiver, she cleared her throat once more, and quietly made her exit.Â
When Gladice presented herself back at the bedside, you gestured to the tier of assortments, and requested it to be offered to the hired kitchen staff. âBe sure my mother does not see you when you do,â You mentioned briefly. âAnd if she asks anything about it, please tell her I ate most of it.â
Gladice tipped her head and dismissed herself with the serving tray. When you had been left in more than acquainted solitude, you ravished the sight outside your window once more.
The change of scene as invited guests seated themselves at the long tables, indulging in the food and festivities. Couples and groups sipping on the latest gossip and the news. A lively feast of patrons for your eyes to devour. One such pair being your childhood friend and his soon to be announced wife.Â
She was nothing short of beautiful andâwell, alive. A term you were becoming more and more unfamiliar with.Â
You bit the frame of the windowsill with your fingernails, aching to be the one at Simonâs side. Wishing to have red and full lips. Wishing to be so endearing to look at, it would crinkle the corners of his eyes.
You kissed the glass, sunlit and warm, and imagined it to be Simonâs lips. A kiss you envisioned the two of them would share on their wedding day, in a lovely white chapel. Where not too far off, you would lay silent and buried in a garden of tombstones kissing the worms.Â
Well, a kiss from a worm isnât half so bad.
You mocked your own optimism, considering yourself lucky to kiss anything at all.
All of your thoughts scattered when Simon angled his chin upwards, briefly catching your peeking eyes. Your cheeks blushed with as much color as your face would permit. Had he glanced a moment sooner, he wouldâve caught sight of your pathetic whimsies. As if that were the case, some irrational part of you wiped at the window, thinking he could have spotted the lip marks on the glass.
You had sworn, and would then be thoroughly questioned about it at Heavenâs gates.Â
Simonâs eyes did crinkle, in that friendly sort of way that was appropriate. He mustâve thought you were sending a common gesture, since he raised a hand and mimicked your movements as a simple wave. Possibly glad for the simple fact your coughing fit yesterday hadnât taken you in the night.
You hadnât imagined anyone would be remotely pleased enough to discuss even the sober topic of the weather had you passed.
Whatâs worse, the lovely Miss Margaret turned delicately over her shoulder. When your eyes met, she pinched a smile that thwarted the one sheâd given to Simon before it. You knew that look all too well; she then quickly averted her gaze away. Simonâs own smile faded, attending to his fiance's change of mood. Quickly ascertaining the source of her discomfort, he placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her across the lawn and out of view.
Pity was a dull, blunt pain in your chest. And lingered as it was passed from person to person. Never spoken, but always present, and impossible to ignore. The weight of it dragged you away from the window. You didnât care to look through it anymore. And didn't care so much about wearing your silk and delicately embroidered gown, either. Youâd decidedly chose to stare at the four white walls that sent your mother into misty-eyed fits.
If there was one thing youâd known, it was that you would take these feelings with you to the grave.Â
Then, and only then, would they be permanently put to rest.Â
Gladice had kept her promise.
Once the lawn had returned to an endless green, and all the guest carriages pulled past the last cobblestone, Gladice approached your father. Not a moment was spared before a footman was sent with a letter to fetch the doctor presiding in town. The journey was about a day's travel, and it stood to reason the soonest the physician could arrive post-haste would be the following day.
You succumbed to a fever in the night; one of too many in the past year. By the time the doctor arrived the next morning, Gladice had barely been able to change you out of your damp gown and launder the sweat from the bedsheets.Â
âI am afraid the state of your daughter's ailment is grim.â The doctor said severely, and one degree above my motherâs parade of tears. âAll that we can do now is make best with the time allotted by the good death. I advise to start with preparations concerning last familial farewells, measurements sent to a coffer of choice, and of courseâŠâ The doctor paused, thumbing over the cross pendant dangling from his primp collared neck. âBe sure your daughter has made amends with the Good Lord, so that she may have a proper Christian burial.â
The doctorâs words were quite poetically the nail in the coffin, for the arrangements had been swiftly made. Close family members (in distance, hardly in relation) paid their last visit to your sickbed, and holed themselves up in the guest's rooms. And while father held the discussion with the coffers of which palette of wood would best suit your frame, mother had been beside herself choosing the best memorabilias to hang above it in the parlor.
The last matter of amends was given to Gladice, whoâd taken perch on the sitting stool at your bedside. Steadying her voice and blotting the corners of her eyes with a white square of linen, she recited verse after verse from the Bible. In the stupor of your spiral, youâd hardly heard much of anything. Besides the occasional trembled breath and sigh of woe after each turn of a page.
The crack of your lips parted, and your breath took the form of death's whisper.
From the spreading darkness, a dreamy image flickered behind your glazing eyes. Another portrait you could look through for all of your eternity. So enraptured, you hadnât the faintest inclination of the shadows that danced by candlelight across the walls, surrounding you.
Beyond the open glass of a lattice window laid a river that embraced the ocean, shimmering and blue. Crashing against seaworn rocks and spraying like ocean jewels, glittering silver in the sunlight. And taken dearly to its side was a sparkling city; painted in strokes of colors and different hues of life. Your only regret would be never finding the proper words to describe it.Â
Perhaps it was the window to Heaven.
You reached for it with the entirety of your soul, the essence of your life, for whatever was left of it. Close enough to smell the foam and brine as it warmed on the red rocky cliffs. Near enough to taste the salt on the wind, and feel its touch sweep against your face, kissing your cheeks pink.Â
You reached until your last breath was taken.
And as if to return such affectionate devotion, arms of pure darknessâneither warm nor coldâlaced around your figure. Drawing you in with devastating care, carving you close as if you always belonged there. Embracing you closer than any lover could.Â
....and perhaps, ever would.
You were surely drowning.
All at once, your head was thrusted back from a splashing scullery pot. Coughing, you fought against the taste and smell of dirty dish soap and all other manner of grime.
âSnap out of it, lad.â A swift hand met your backside with a fierceness youâd never known, urging a spit of tangy water from your mouth. Heaving for a breath, you raked your hands over your drenched face. That same hearty hand clapped down on your shoulder, jostling you in every which way. âWelcome back.â
You braced yourself against a kitchen sink. Battling the onslaught of noises hammering your senses in all directions. Each throb of your head accompanied by the clang and rattle of cast-iron pots, pans, and stacking dishware.
Your eyes cracked open, still blurry and half-soaked. You blinked away the last bit of dish water clinging to your lashes, and stared down at your reflection rippling across the murky suds.Â
Your breath had stolen from you.
Your hair had been cut much too short, and much too layered to be considered lady-like. Only a few long strands remained at the back, gathered and tied by a single velvet ribbon. The bangs at the front framed the contours of your glowing face; more angular and sharp, but nevertheless still soft-lipped and rose-cheeked. Strangest of all was the pointed shape of your ears. Straight from the fairytale books of your youth.
Your hands trembled against the foreign landscape of your face. Bracing your touch down the length of your neck, over the square of your shoulders and across the broadness of your chest. Stiffly, you gripped the fabric just above your breast bone.
Youâd never been gifted with a large bosom⊠but stood to reason you had more to offer than a mere serving plate!
âOlyver, you alright there?â You flinched when spindly fingers prodded at my forearm. Turning, you swallowed the sight of a maid with similar misplaced features. She scrunched her quill-length nose, exaggerating her penny dotted eyes. âYou look a little pale, lovey. Have you gone and hit that pretty nogginâ of yours a bit too hard? Me thinks you should rest for the day.â
O-Olyver? Your heart galloped to an unreturnable pace.
âThatâŠThat is not myâŠâ The words stuck to the back of your mouth, threatening to choke you. Impossible to take a decent breath, your legs wobbled, and eyes rolled to meet the back of your head.Â
âFor Cauldronsâ sake, the boyâs flopping like a damned fish again.â The gruff voice returned, and snatched up your sagging weight by the underarms. âSomeone fetch for a healer to look him over.â
You heard little else as your head bobbed and consciousness waned, till the darkness crept in like a newly close acquaintance.
