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They’ve taken to napping in the sun.
Everyone does, here in the Day Court. After lunch, people close their blinds and draw their curtains and doze off for an hour or two. The city grows quiet, almost quieter than at night, especially when it’s the height of summer and no one can be bothered to stick their nose out of their home before they’ve had a chance to digest their lunch.
This particular Day Court custom has taken no time at all to worm its way into Lucien and Elain’s lives. During their very first days in this court, back when they were still mated strangers thrown together into circumstances bigger than themselves, they were unable to keep their eyes open in the afternoon, weighed down by a hearty meal and unexpressed feelings.
Now, years later, they don’t sleep because they’re heavy or tired, because Helion has put Elain through another grueling clairvoyance lesson, because political unrest in Autumn has Lucien feeling anxious. They sleep because they want to.
And if there’s something Elain likes more than sleeping, it’s watching Lucien sleep.
He’s lounging on an outdoor couch on their veranda, an open book on his bare chest and a half-filled glass of almond milk on a nearby table. The blinding sun doesn’t bother him: his skin has darkened, his clothes have turned shorter and breezier, and he’s taken to the light and heat like a big orange cat―which is ironic, since there’s a dog currently cuddled up next to him, seeking Lucien’s warmth as if laying belly-up under the Day Court summer sky at three bells past noon weren’t enough.
Having been born in the Autumn Court, Elain believes, Lucien and Astra are hell-bent on seizing every chance to banish the perpetual Autumn chill from their bones.
The serene picture they paint makes Elain’s heart do a happy little jump in her chest. She takes a sip of her lemonade, adjusts her straw hat on her head, and loses herself in her thoughts of the family she’s made.
These days, thank the Mother, they’re home most of the time. All three of them: Astra doesn’t leave their side for more than a minute, always following Elain into the kitchen and hopping on a chair to watch her bake or joining Lucien on his daily rounds. Eris skirts his High Lord duties to show up at least once a week―ostensively to check on Astra, the bastard pup of one of his prized hounds and a stray from the village near his country house, but everyone knows he comes by to try and mend his relationship with Lucien, to visit his mother and rejoice at the sight of her glowing, peaceful face.
Laoise comes to have coffee with her son and daughter-in-law almost every morning, some time after ten bells; at the same hour, in the weekends, Elain and Lucien walk up to Helion’s palace to have coffee with her. Astra has not yet warmed up to the Pegasi, and Helion has learned to leave Meallan out of her sight if they―both Meallan and Helion himself―don’t want to be cursed out by a scruffy-looking mutt several centuries their junior. But Astra likes Helion well enough to jump in his lap to lick the whipped cream off his pastries and then paw at the golden ornaments in his hair, and Helion has long-since started joking that he’s honing up his skills as a prospective future grandfather.
It’s too soon for that, Elain thinks. They’ve only just settled down: they moved out of the palace a year ago, before last summer rolled around. It’s taken almost a decade to find a place that could rival the beauty and charm of the High Lord’s seat of power, with its tall windows and high ceilings and rock-hewn stairs that lead directly to the sea―and in fact, they haven’t been able to: there’s no rivaling Stella Maris, not if they don’t want to build a whole other city.
But this little house they’ve made for themselves is enough. It’s a former government building that used to host sailors and fishermen, both local and foreign, for a fairer price than most dwellings in the city proper. It sits inside the Outer Walls, so Helion can rest easy at night knowing his only son and heir is safe, but there’s a handy secret passage that goes straight down to the beach, and the hundreds of acres of fertile land all around provide fruits and vegetables for all seasons. The lemon and orange trees have become Elain’s favorites, while Lucien has taken a liking to the endless tomato fields. Astra, for her part, is content to just sniff around and let butterflies land on her nose.
Inside, the rooms are spacious, but not huge. The largest one is the kitchen, which suits Elain just fine: she has all the space she needs to store her ingredients and cooking supplies, she can move around freely without risking knocking anything over, and Lucien can come in and fuck her on the counter whenever he wants. There’s always something baking in the oven, fresh fruit in the icebox or in the various ceramic bowls scattered rather carelessly around, dishes and silverware drying on the rack over the sink. Astra licks away anything that falls on the floor.
They rarely use the dining room: it’s too big for just the two of them, and even when they have guests over, they prefer laying out a table on the veranda or under the gazebo a little further away from the house, in the middle of the gardens. They eat around the little table in the kitchen when they’re alone, or bring sandwiches to the beach when they can’t be bothered to go back home for lunch. If they’re in the city for some reason or another, they’re always ready to try out a new restaurant, or one of those street food stalls where you can get a whole meal―an oily, sticky, delicious one―for a few coins.
Mid-mornings and mid-afternoons are perfect times for a snack: a cup of coffee with cookies on the side, fruit dusted with cinnamon powder, toasted nuts covered in caramelized sugar, a slice of fragrant bread dipped in the sauce that’s been simmering on the stove for two hours and will be simmering for two more. The latter is the quickest way to Lucien’s heart, particularly when topped by a fresh basil leaf Elain has just plucked from the plant on the kitchen windowsill.
Elain has gained a significant amount of weight since she first stepped foot in the Day Court. She couldn’t care less, not when Lucien has made a habit of showing her just how much he likes her generous curves, the way her flowy dresses hug her body, the softness of her thighs and belly. Lucien himself is looking a bit rounder now, his cheekbones less gaunt, his muscles less taut. It’s a delight―in bed, out of bed, wherever―to hug him close, dig her fingers into his skin, and know that he’s eating well. That he feels safe and cared for, that he’s allowing himself to rest and just enjoy the passing of time.
Life in the Day Court, Elain has come to realize, it’s like this. Slow, almost sluggish; syrupy, in a way, like the golden honey Lucien likes to drizzle over his pastries at breakfast. No one here seems to be in any rush, ever, and even when they are, it’s no big deal.
In summer, the shops open later; in winter, they close earlier. Meetings over coffee turn into hours-long conversations. People stroll aimlessly around the city: in the various markets, along the Inner or Outer Walls, barefoot on the shore, picking up seashells as they walk. The days feel long and full of possibilities.
She and Lucien have a routine, now. A well-practiced one, that only changes according to the seasons.
There’s an olive grove up on the hill, which didn’t come with the house but is now theirs as a gift from Helion, complete with its own oil mill. The first month of autumn is dedicated to making oil, and then, they start preparing for winter: fertilizing the soil, stacking firewood, planting beans, artichokes, onion, garlic, shallots. Their home is exposed to the elements, and in need of a fresh coat of paint before the first rains come around.
Winter is for lazy days and lazier evenings, spent cooking or reading or fucking before the fireplace. Since some of the plants in their garden need protection from the cold and wind, Lucien isn’t above using his powers to provide them with warmth and a ray of sunlight. It doesn’t snow here, not on the coast; the storms are terrifying, though, but somehow entrancing as well, when lightning hits the sea on the horizon and tall waves crash on the rocks.
Spring means hard work from start to finish. They begin with harvesting what they planted in the months prior and end by sowing spinach, lettuce, potatoes, radish, chicory, celery, carrots, peppers, eggplants, tomatoes, zucchini, pumpkins. Peach trees sprout pink, fat blossoms; almond flowers are white instead, a little smaller, and they look delectable when they fall into Lucien’s hair. Elain helps him braid it away from his face, now that the temperatures are rising, and lets him do the same to her.
And summer...
Summer has become Elain’s favorite season.
There’s nothing better than waking up early in the morning, putting on her swimsuit, and watching the sun rise, either out on her bedroom balcony or down at the beach. She picks lemons from her citrus grove to use their zest while baking, or make lemonade, or drizzle their juice over the fried fish Lucien buys at the docks. She toasts bread, dips it in olive oil, and tops it with diced fresh tomatoes and oregano to munch on while she plays catch with Astra in the garden. She splashes around with Lucien in the sea, then lies down next to him on a towel on the sand and watches in fascination as his hair dries in tight coils, which she promptly ruins by running her hands through when their inevitable kissing turns into Lucien fingering her from under her sundress.
It all feels... decadent. Luxurious.
And yet, it isn’t.
The hours are marked by the position of the sun in the sky and the tolling of the city bells, not by ancient grandfather clocks or servants that knock on doors to remind them of their duties. The only two servants they do have, a butler and a lady’s maid, are there for Helion’s peace of mind and mostly keep to their quarters, leaving Elain and Lucien to their own devices.
They don’t wear expensive clothes. Sure, their jewelry and accessories mark them as members of the nobility―of the High Lord’s family, no less―but the cotton, linen, and wool their entire wardrobe is made of are not different than those of any other person in the city.
Elain has taken up embroidery and enjoys personalizing her corsets, Lucien’s waistcoats, the throw pillows on their couch. Some of the old ladies in their neighborhood have even been teaching her how to knit, with good results, and crochet, with... worse results. But it’s a nice activity, nonetheless; it keeps her hands busy when she feels restless, when a vision takes her by surprise and she needs to do something with her body to make sense of what has just happened in her mind.
It’s all so different from what Elain had dared to imagine when she was still a human, when she’d pictured herself as little more than a trophy wife, navigating society with a perennial smile that grew faker and faker with each passing ball.
As High Fae, Elain has already come to terms with the fact that she’s going to live several human lifetimes.
But here in the Day Court, with her mate, her family, the purpose she’s found for herself, she well and truly feels immortal.