Fallen Angel's Harem in the Abyss
Chapter 35: Is there Calm in the abyss? - 2

Chapter 35: Is there Calm in the abyss? - 2

Azareel stirred beneath a tangled nest of moss and fur, limbs heavy with the weight of dreams not yet fully gone.

A twitch.

Then a low, disgruntled grunt as something sharp jabbed his cheek.

"...Ow," he muttered, silver eyes cracking open.

He blinked into the dim light—just in time to see a golden whisker stab him square in the face.

Again.

Nyxsha lay sprawled beside him, vast and unbothered, her black fur rising and falling with each deep, rumbling breath.

Still asleep.

Her whiskers twitched in her dreams, each flick landing with uncanny precision—tiny swords testing the limits of his patience.

Azareel shifted, cautiously, trying to turn away without waking her.

Another poke—this time a glancing touch to his ear.

He scooted toward the relative safety of her tail, seeking refuge among its scarred coils.

Poke.

"...I’m gonna go water a tree or something," he muttered, wriggling free from the tangle of limbs, fur, and territorial murmuring.

His torn robe whispered over the moss as he slipped out.

The garden greeted him in silence—not lifeless, never that, but still.

As though the world itself held its breath beneath the Abyss’s eternal twilight.

Barefoot, he wandered through glimmering berry bushes, each step quiet on dew-soaked moss.

He sidestepped vine-puddles that shimmered like spilled shadow, avoided sleep-petals curling sluggishly at his feet.

The air was cool and faintly sweet, thinned by the night’s lingering hush.

Far above, a single drop fell from the Bone Ceiling—its echo soft as a half-remembered lullaby.

He came to the center where the roots twisted like a throne, their forms gnarled and ancient, pulsing with a subtle life.

And there she was—Sylvara, sitting atop the throne of her own body, half-rooted into the soil, her amber eyes glowing low in the dim light, her flowering hair cascading in crimson waves that caught the faint luminescence of the berries.

"You’re awake," she murmured, her voice a soft hum, like petals brushing against silk.

Azareel smiled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Technically, Nyxsha’s whiskers are awake. I’m just collateral," he said, his tone light, his silver-white hair tousled from the nest.

Sylvara blinked, then smiled faintly, her berry-stained lips curving. "They are rather sharp."

"I think one of them bent my nose," he replied, touching his cheek with a wince, his silver eyes sparkling with quiet humor.

He sat down near her, carefully avoiding a suspicious root that arched like it might pet him on instinct, its tip quivering faintly.

Sylvara watched him in silence, her amber eyes unblinking, the garden’s hum softening around them as if listening to their words.

Then she asked, her voice low, laced with a brittle edge beneath its melody, "You didn’t come here because you missed me?"

Azareel blinked, his head tilting slightly. Then he gave the warmest, gentlest answer possible: "Would it be wrong if I did?"

Her vines coiled slowly, rustling like a sigh through leaves. _{f .r e\ewebnov(e)(l).c om}

"No," she whispered, her amber eyes flickering with something vulnerable.

There was a long pause, the garden’s stillness wrapping around them like a shared secret.

Then she said. "Why?"

"Why what?" he asked, his voice soft, his fingers tracing a pattern in the moss.

"Why do you speak kindly to things that don’t deserve it?" Her voice was still melodic, but the brittle edge sharpened, a hint of pain blooming beneath the surface.

Azareel plucked a fallen petal near his feet, its crimson surface soft under his touch.

"I don’t think anyone doesn’t deserve kindness," he said simply, his silver eyes meeting hers without judgment.

Sylvara leaned forward slowly, her petals rustling like breath in the wind.

"Even me? Even when I wanted to feed on you?"

"You didn’t," he replied gently, his smile unwavering.

"I could have," she whispered, her voice trembling faintly.

"But you didn’t," he said, his tone a quiet anchor.

She stared, her vines twitching.

One of them, reflexively, wrapped halfway around his arm—then froze, afraid to finish the gesture, its tip quivering like a hesitant hand.

Azareel didn’t resist.

He touched the vine softly, his fingers light, reassuring.

"You’re not dangerous to me, Sylvara," he said.

"I’m dangerous to everyone," she murmured, her amber eyes dimming, petals wilting slightly in her hair.

"Then maybe... everyone else just touched you wrong," he replied, his voice warm, his words landing like sunlight on shadowed soil.

Sylvara inhaled sharply, her petals blooming wider without her willing it, her cheeks flushing faintly with amber sap.

She pulled her hair forward like a curtain, shy and desperate to be seen and unseen at once, her vines trembling.

Azareel gently tugged it aside, his touch careful, his silver eyes steady.

"You’re beautiful," he said, "but I don’t stay here because of that."

She blinked, her voice a whisper. "Then why?"

"Because you bloom even when no one’s watching," he said, his smile soft, his words a balm on old wounds.

Sylvara made a soft, choked sound, her body glowing faintly, the roots pulsing beneath her.

Her vines touched his hair, his shoulder, his fingers—delicate, trembling, like hands learning to hold without crushing.

"You make me want to be gentle," she whispered. "And that... hurts."

Azareel leaned in, his sleepy smile returning, and rested his head against her petal-covered thigh, his silver hair spilling across the crimson leaves.

"I think blooming always hurts a little," he murmured, his voice fading as his eyes fluttered closed.

Sylvara looked down at him, her lips parted, her amber eyes wide with a mix of wonder and ache.

Then she sang—low, soft, wordless—a lullaby woven from petals and roots, her voice a gentle melody that wrapped around him like vines turned tender.

And that night, under her vines, Azareel slept.

No whiskers.

No pokes.

Just warmth.

And blooming.

.

.

.

Warm.

Too warm.

Azareel shifted with a sleepy hum, his cheek pressed against the plush curve of Sylvara’s thigh, surrounded by the gentle rustle of petals and vines that cradled him like a living blanket.

The garden’s glow filtered through the canopy, casting a soft, ethereal light that made the air feel alive, humming with subtle magic.

He blinked awake slowly, his silver-gray eyes, flecked with rain-blue, adjusting to the dim luminescence.

And froze.