Iscariot

And if I only could make a deal with God.

Aomaris fought for breath as he lay on the table within the tent. The wounds from the battle with his father were too severe. His body was shutting down; his healing factor not strong enough to halt it, let alone reverse it. He had a vague sense of his brother Raestrao, heard garbled words.

"The pain will only get worse," the healer admitted, wearily returning to the tent only after the new Demon Lord had left. He looked down on Aomaris' broken body, blessedly still unconscious. "The chest wound has healed, but nothing else. He will die and the dawn will take him.

"No one could heal this much damage, not even Lilith, herself." The old demon shook his head, clicking his tongue in pity. He gave a resigned sigh. "He was the best of them, compared to his brothers but brutes live and die bloody."

"We could remove the wings, try to lower the risk of infection..." The aide nervously offered from over the healer's shoulder.

"It has already taken hold. To try and keep him alive now would only be a cruelty before the inevitable. Let him die with dignity."

The assistant looked down at the demon's torn body. It was true. They'd managed to pull the horn out and close the stab wound, but so many broken bones, bloody gashes raked from neck to hip. The old Demon Lord's claws practically eviscerated the brute. That he was breathing at all was a mystery.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the rebels' Dragon Lord, hanging his head. They collected the rest of their instruments quietly and left.

Aomaris could feel himself fading. He struggled for one more breath but in the end, he let go. A weird rattle of air wheezed from his damaged lungs and he fell limp, the world fading away.

Minutes passed before his eyes snapped open, flaring with red light.

"Errrrrrah!" It was the growl of an ancient beast, a deep rumbling voice, nothing like Sam's. He tried to move, tried to sit up. The muscles of this body were torn. He wasn't going anywhere. The pain of his crushed wings seared his back in a way he hadn't felt in millennium.

"You. Owe. Me." He rasped the words out into the light of the guttering candle. His breath blew it out, smoke wafting. "I did as you asked."

A spark flared, bathing the tent's interior in white light. His red eyes watered, his anger rumbling with another growl.

"Only in part," The chiming voice of the Celestial answered, providing no relief. "We fulfilled our part of the agreement. You reside within the demon, you left your ancient vessel behind, and he was granted your power, but the Heir did not fall with the Lord. A Demon Lord yet remains."

"You agreed to the demon that if he took my powers, you would not touch his brethren!"

"And we have not. Raestrao has become... Surprising."

"You still owe me."

"It is not our fault the body has broken. Limbo is not terrible. You have sent your share there," the celestial pointed out and the dragon snarled again.

"It does not end like this, not for him. I do not end... Like.. This." He gasped each word out, mortality looming.

"All end, Oros."

"I do not. We killed the Demon Lord."

"You did not. Raestrao defeated his father."

"And why did he?" the dragon pressed.

"He did not wish Aomaris' death."

"Then you owe him," Oros' deep voice growled out into the tent. The entity was silent, the odd chiming that surrounded it ringing in the air. "Or would you risk a fall, Raziel?"