When the war was called to an end, the prisoners whom had been unjustly sentenced were released without delay, the flocks that had been torn apart were reestablished once more. He had been the one who had gone in search of the messenger, to release him from his confines himself, after all, it was him who had brought him here that time ago.

His insides twisted with guilt as he passed cell after cell, the grated doors opening slowly as inmates cautiously stepped out, looking down on end of the hall and then up, as though this was some sort of false hope that was being given. It took him some time, passing a number of cells along the wall, until he found the one he was looking for.

Inside sat a dirty figure, hunched over on themselves, as silent as the night. He pulled the grated door open slowly, it scratched harshly against the floor, and still the inmate no move to greet him. Not that he expected it, not after what had transpired between them both, and the other shivered as he stepped into the cell. It wasn't until he laid his hand on their shoulder that he felt their quivering.

"Zaves?"

There was a jolt of recognition at his voice, and the head turned towards him only slightly, "Nis?"

"I'm here, my friend." He knelt to try and find his eyes "You are free."

"For how long?"

"Forever."

He leaned back slightly, taking the Power's hand with him, and finally their eyes met "Really?"

Nisroc nodded "Come with me?" and held his free hand out for him. The shackles clanged together as his hands curled around the one he offered to him, and he helped him climb to his feet, steadying him when he stumbled. It made him twist in guilt, his heart clenching tightly, they all knew what happened to the prisoners placed under the cruel wardens control and to think he had allowed his dearest friend to suffer those pains made him sick to his stomach.

They were to all be taken straight to the Healer after being released, to be diagnosed and treated, and he could think of no archangel better for his friend to see in this precarious position then the one who had raised him.

The two of them slowly shuffled out of the cell door, into the bodies milling towards the exit, too many then there should ever be in these parts, all heading for Abraxos and Titus who held the keys for their freedom from the chains that kept them bound. Their eyes met when they stepped up next in line to be unshackled. He shook his head minutely, now was not the time, it was the time to free them all and see to getting them looked over, time to make up for past mistakes that couldn't be taken back but moved on from.

Puriel and Haniel were directing them down the steps, directing other warriors to aid those that couldn't walk on their own rather well, and fell still as they descended, slowly but surely. Zaveriel looked up as they hit the last step, squinting as he looked up into the sun above, smiling at the warmth that shone down on his face, all the while leaning against the Captain for the support he offered.

Being as conditioned as he was when it came to keeping his soldiers in arms, he took note of all the vulnerabilities at first sight.

He favored his left foot.

His breathing was shallow and sporadic.

His tunic stuck to his back with dark stains.

A large gash sliced right above his right eye.

He was not well. Not that he had expected him to be after staying where he had for so long.

They had caught the Healer by surprise, as his Infirmary was overtaken by prisoners wrongfully held and subsequently abused, his bright eyes going wide at the sight of his old charge hobbling into his healers aid, and a dark hand pressed to cover his mouth as he fell into shock.

Never had he thought in a thousand years that his young messenger would have ended up in such a cruel place.

He left the others to their task, stepping away in a silence that had few eyes turning to watch him with surprise, he approached slowly, to the limp messenger hanging from the guilty Power's shoulder, leaning forward to catch the younger's attention.

"Zaves?"

Silence followed for a long moment, and they both waited on bated breath for any semblance of recognition, slowly he turned his head up. His eyes could just be seen peeking out from under his matted curls "Raph?"

The archangel nodded, holding a tentative hand out for the one he had raised "I am here my little sprite."

"Raph." He tumbled forward, pushing away from the Power, the one whom he had once called his friend, reaching instead for the archangel. He's caught quick, before he gets too far, and he clings to the Healer's front as he breaks into painful sobs, ribs grating together at the contraction of everyone, and the Healer is taken by surprise for a moment before he cautiously wraps him in his arms.

The archangel nods from over his shoulder, a silent nod of gratitude to the Power that had seen to personally delivering the traumatized messenger back to his once guardian, turning to guide him to a bed, on that sits particular close to the work area he has set up towards the back of the Infirmary, undoubtedly to keep watch over him while he worked on other projects to aid with the ailments of others.

But he follows, he's lost his friend once, and refuses to abandon him again.

Just as quickly as they arrive to the bed that's been chosen personally by the Healer, so does the things needed, that they all use at the present in treating their nonstop incoming patients. He eases him back into the bed, coaxing him to let go of his front, and steps down to the foot of his bed where the basin and sponge lay.

Spotting the Power that remained at their side, the Healer puts him to work, "If you choose to stay, then rub him down, get this coat of grime free." He nods, taking any opportunity he can to help his ailing friend. Zaveriel stares blankly, up at the ceiling above, and then looks down to the Healer as he moves about preparing the tonics and mixtures that he's going to needed, before returning his gaze upwards.

Not once does he look to the Power.

"Drink this." It comes as an order, albeit a soft one, from the Healer who steps up to his charge's front. Zaveriel looks up at him with wide eyes, then to the cup he holds out for him, and returns his gaze to the Healer, "It's a tonic, it'll help with the pain of those broken ribs as they mend, I could hear them rattling as you sobbed yourself hoarse." And he holds it under his lips for him to drink from, which he does without complaint.

It makes him sleepy, they can see that from the way his eyes flutter, and he looks to his old guardian with curiosity, "I may have snuck come chamomile in there to help you sleep. My bad." Theres a brief look of betrayal that comes over his softening features as the tonic and his deprivation finally take hold. When he is sure that his charge is fast asleep, the Healer turns to him, and it nearly makes him take a step back at the severity of his glare.

"Let me make one thing clear." He knows it's never in ones best interest to have an archangel upset at you, and it was hard to upset this particular one, so it was a truly dire situation "If you ever break his heart, his trust, again. So, help me, not a single soul, will be able to put you back together again. Do I make myself crystal clear?" the Healer is not one to pick favorites among the ones he raises, but Zaveriel was one of the few exceptions (along with Azrael and Constantine) to that rearing, he was rather fond of the wild little messenger, and did not take to anyone harming one of his charges, previous or otherwise.

And he's seen first hand that the destruction caused by the Healer's hand when enraged is just as tragic as his Commander's is.

"Clear, sir."

"Good." He waves to the sponge in his hand "Continue sponging him down." He turns to sit at his feet, "I am going to work on the flayed foot."

"Flayed?"

"Did you think they were kind to their prisoners?" he looks up from where he's examining the finely peeled skin, "Be happy he's as alert as he is. Others were not so lucky. Poor Gadreel, for example, he will never walk unaided again."

"Is there nothing that can be done?" he turned away, the sponge stilling over the hand that lay peacefully before him "Heal him?"

"Oh, I can heal him, I intend to, with every single poor soul that's brought to me." He turns back to the foot he's mending, "But I am no miracle worker. The nerves in his feet are shot. He can barely feel himself standing, hence, why I said he may never walk unaided."

Nisroc nods, sponging down the arm, and the hand, that lay before him "Why go after the feet?"

"One cannot run if they cannot stand."

They work well into the night, the steady stream of freed prisoners trickle to a stop as well, and the Infirmary still bustles softly with life as its nearly overtaken with those needed seen to with great care and great haste. His back aches from leaning over the unconscious messenger, his arms going sore from the constant motion, when a gentle hand curls over his shoulder.

Raphael is still visibly upset at the sight before them, but his features have softened, he's harsh and sharp for a short time before the rage simmers down once more. Often times, he's been known to scold sharply and harshly, before forgiving and comforting with the soft tone he's rather known for.

"Take a rest," He nods to his quivering hand, "You've been at it for a while. He won't wake for some time. I may have infused the tonic with a bit of my own grace. Allow yourself a break."

"I can't, I hav—"

"Nisroc." No matter how old he gets, having his name spoken in such a manner still makes him feel as though he's no more then a small fledgling tottering around, especially by someone so much older then he was. "I know. I won't lie to you and say things will be easy. But wearing yourself thin won't be of any help." He took the sponge from him before any more protest could be made, "I cannot take back what my brother has done to you all. Forcing you to choose him over your family. I can take the memories of the past, if I thought it would help you, but I know it would not." The Healer helped him stand, leading him to the rare empty bed, and guided him into laying "It will take time, all things such as this do, but I have no doubts that he will forgive you."

He leaves him for a moment, returning with a cup for him to drink from, and he eyes it suspiciously, "What is this?"

"Drink."

"Are you doing the same to me as you did to him?"

"You won't know if you don't drink. So drink."

The Power knows he cannot disobey an order, even if it is one give indirectly, and he gingerly takes the cup to drink.

He's asleep a minute after he downs it and misses the Healers smug smile.

"Still got it."