It catches them by surprise, when both Messenger and Commander meet in the training field for the first time, both with the intent to have their own legions train together to strengthen the bond between them, when the Captains of both sides refuse to meet each other's eyes.
Their friendship had weathered many storms and pulled through it unscathed, but perhaps this time was different, after all, the Fall and following war had broken apart the strongest bond that Heaven had ever known. Nisroc treated the young messenger as though he was a younger brother, he was one of the few who had been allowed under the messengers guard, to get close enough to truly call him a friend. Zaveriel looked up to the Power, not merely in their difference in height, and their fighting style were similar in dance. They worked better then most of their legions combined together, covering each other where they were weakest.
But now they refused to even look at the other.
Gabriel and Michael exchanged looks in silence before gesturing to pair them off together to begin their sparring.
Of course, they had paired their two Captains together, perhaps in the hope that the spar might relieve the tension that had grown between them.
Zaves flinched.
It caught them all by surprise, for all of his cockiness and flippant attitude, he ducked, he flinched away from the Power's raised hand. The sparing came to a halt as the others turned in their surprise to stare at him, their Archangels staring in similar fashion, and the Power recoiled as if it was he whom had been struck.
"Did you just… Did you just flinch away from me?" his voice seemed to come in and out of his control, wavering with emotion, and he looked between his raised hand to the messenger before him "Like…. Like I was going to strike you?"
The messenger felt his face heat up from shame and embarrassment, looking up to the older one immediately, his features curled into an angry sneer "No! Why…. Why would I do that!"
"Zaves, I would never strike you."
He was taken aback at the hateful glare he received, "Oh, but, my friend, you have." Without prompting, the messenger tugged the leather belt he wore loosely around his waist away and tugged his tunic free. The all stared as he pulled it up to reveal his thin frame, perhaps a bit too thin, and the Messenger felt his chest tighten, the Power stared at it, the thick jagged pale line that travelled a course from his left collar bone down across to his right hip, and he gestured to the bumpy scar "This. This is no ones fault but yours. This was done by your hand."
"I—I would never—"
"Oh, but you did, when you left me there. Left me there, alone, at their questionable mercy."
He rubbed a hand over the protruding scar "This is because I dared to look at him." He yanked his tunic back down, raising a finger as if to jab it in the taller angel's chest, but held back, "So excuse me if I flinch a little when our eyes meet."
"If I had known—"
"That," he laughed, a nasty laugh, a spiteful laugh "That's the funny part. You all knew what was going on there. Or did you not hear the screams of the prisoners every time you brought a new victim to their end?"
Zaveriel waved a hand around him, wildly in the air, "Look around you! How many refuses to meet your gaze? How many turn away when they see you all coming? How many do you see flinch away from you?" he let his arm drop to his side "Look at them all. The factions turn their backs on you when you come near. The Choir shiver in fear and pain at the mere mention of any Power. The fledglings break into sobs at your presence. Little Akeelah, she holds herself at a distance, a protection in case this illusion breaks and she needs to bolt again."
This time he did poke him in the chest, a harsh jab, "You may not have our blood on your hands, but they are not clean."