There was no way to measure time like that; it might have been minutes or hours, days. The angel's screams fell silent, the writhing tapered of to shaking sobs, and then tremors of recovery. His body transformed, showing the many faces he had acquired over the years. Many of his feathers, those that belonged to the demon, fell out and littered the floor.
All at once, it stopped, and the angel was still. His wingers were a shimmering, iridescent white, six feet across at full length, but bent to shield him where he lay. His knees curled in to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs. He was silent and still, as if dead.