Today You Found Me, Too (Part 3)
A pair of demonesses confront the cost of eternity — exile not just from Heaven, but from the very act of prayer. A mortal’s prayer reaches Heaven—rekindling light in the hearts of the damned.
“An inviting place to pray,” said Rashala, who had approached the altar upon entering.
She ran a hand across its polished oaken surface.
Azini nodded. “A perfect place, to be sure.”
Now, that caught my attention.
A pair of demonesses talking about prayer?
“So, you… pray?” I asked cautiously. “You pray to God?”
The question brought a look of sadness to Rashala’s face.
“I still try from time to time,” she said softly. “I pray for the clade. But…”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“You’d think I’d learn.”
“The prayers of demonkind do not reach Heaven’s halls, Jon Dottingly,” said Azini, speaking when it became clear Rashala was too emotional to continue. “The Fallen lost that ability during the Exile — never to be regained.”
Azini swallowed hard.
She, too, was tearing up.
“Rashala and I lost the ability to pray. As did our entire clade.”
I moved to comfort Rashala, placing an arm around her.
She leaned in and sobbed quietly on my shoulder.
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry,” I said — though I feared my words might sound trite and hollow.
These were immortal beings.
Their banishment was eternal.
What comfort could someone like me offer with just words?
“The Exile wasn’t just about physical separation from the Almighty and our fellow angels.”
Azini looked down at her datapad, her gaze distant.
“Mostly, it was about the loss of communication. The absence of communion. Without the ability to pray, none of that is possible.”
“And what’s an angel who can’t pray?”
There was unmistakable bitterness in Rashala’s voice.
“A demoness. That’s what.”
I gave her a gentle squeeze for comfort.
Azini activated her datapad.
Colorful symbols rose from the screen, filling the space above it — but only briefly.
With a sweeping gesture, she scattered most of them away.
They vanished in a hundred frustrated splashes.
Only a handful of emblems remained — ten or so — hovering near the periphery of the display.
“We can monitor prayers,” Azini said, stepping closer.
She placed the datapad in my hands.
“Even now — despite lacking the ability to pray ourselves — we can still do this.
In truth, we track every prayer ever muttered.
If anything falls neatly within Nar’Zhavel’s wheelhouse, it’s the tracking of prayers.”
I was still holding her device when Azini reached out and selected one of the remaining symbols — an intricately carved letter A.
“‘A’ for Azini,” she said.
But the selection had little effect.
The swirling formations of shaded black and gray mist above the screen stirred slightly… and that was all.
“Prayers received by Heaven would appear here.”
She gestured to the vacant space above the screen.
“As you can see, there are none.
Nor will there be again.
Ever.”
Azini selected the letter R that hovered at the edge of the display.
“R for Rashala,” presumably.
The black and gray mists shifted slightly — but that was all.
Nothing of note appeared.
To emphasize the absence of prayers further, Azini reached into the swirling clouds and flexed her fingers — a gesture that suggested she was drawing something out.
The mists responded — multiplying, then shrinking.
“Going back in time,” she said.
“You can see… there’s nothing.”
She repeated the motion.
The clouds multiplied and shrank again — this time, representing an even greater passage of time.
Perhaps all the way back to the Great Exile.
Still, nothing appeared.
And I sighed.
Rashala moved from my side to Azini’s and resumed her crying,
while I tried — and failed — to contemplate eternity with my feeble human mind.
Eternal separation.
Eternal damnation.
As the weight of their sorrow settled over me, my attention drifted —
from the void of swirling clouds above the datapad’s screen
to the group of small symbols hovering at the edge.
The little writing quill was there — I was certain it represented me.
But there was another symbol I thought I recognized:
a black crow in flight.
“Does this represent Marissa?” I asked, pointing to the crow.
“It does,” answered Azini.
Without thinking, I reached up and touched the symbol of the crow.
In an instant, the display changed — radically.
The black and gray clouds remained,
but now an array of gold and silver points of light shimmered into view,
filling the spaces between the drifting formations.
They looked like stars.
And the swirling shapes they formed reminded me of galaxies —
the kind I’d seen in documentaries and science fiction films.
Only these were far more beautiful than anything a screen could capture.
More alive. More sacred.
The sudden appearance of the glimmering lights drew the faunesses’ attention.
Rashala and Azini stood up straighter, turning to face the display.
Rashala placed an open hand to her chest — a gesture of reverence.
“Are these… prayers?” I asked.
“Marissa’s prayers?”
The faunesses nodded.
“The prayers of a witch?” I asked, skeptical.
“Yes,” said Rashala.
“And the prayers of a prophetess,” Azini added quickly.
“A prophetess in service to the Hellspire Dynasty and the Citadel of Laeron Madrin —
a veteran of countless battles against Shazzthalabon’s filth.”
Azini extended her fingers toward one of the galaxy-like structures near the center of the display.
Then she spread her fingers apart — and the formation expanded rapidly. Exponentially.
The clouds vanished.
And now, the lights looked even more like stars —
spherical, timeless, mesmerizing.
Azini focused on a particular cluster,
bringing it front and center with a single hand gesture.
With another, she conjured lines of text above each point of light.
The writing was in a language I’d never seen before —
elegant, ancient, unplaceable.
“Marissa prays for you,” Azini said, scanning the lines.
Rashala giggled softly.
“She prays for you a lot.”
“Daily,” Azini added.
I was stunned.
Truly stunned.
I struggled to find words.
“She prays for me?” I asked, quietly.
“Yes,” Azini replied.
“For strength. For wisdom. For the courage to write what must be written… for the sake of prophecy.”
My mouth went dry.
Honestly, I started to feel dizzy.
And I didn’t have anything to say to that.
And when the silence became too heavy to bear,
I reached for the writing quill hovering at the edge of the display — and touched it.
In an instant, the splendid stars vanished.
The clouds returned.
The display wasn’t as dark as it had been for Rashala…
But it was clear:
I hadn’t prayed in years.
“Jon, you must pray more,” Rashala said, matter-of-factly.
I sighed.
“You sound like my mother.”
“There’s nothing a person can do that’s more powerful,” added Azini.
“And you sound like my father.”
“Yet it’s true,” Azini replied.
“Marissa Bonifay knows this. You saw her prayer record.
A woman like that isn’t one to waste words on lines that go unheard.”
She was right, of course.
And I had no rebuttal.
“There’s no better place to say a prayer than a chapel,” Rashala said, flashing a sly smile.
“Even one within a demon’s domain. Your prayer will be sung by Heaven’s seventh choir regardless of your location.”
I took a deep breath and looked at Azini, who nodded in agreement.
Deep down, I knew I wasn’t getting out of this.
Even deeper down, I knew I shouldn’t try.
“All right,” I said at last.
“I’ll pray. Right here and now. But on one condition.”
Both faunesses raised an eyebrow.
“I’m going to pray for you guys,” I told them.
Gobsmacked — that’s the best word to describe their reaction.
And that only spurred me on.
“Come with me.” I led them to the altar.
“Now, have a seat on the floor. Cross your legs. We’ll do it just like we were in Sunday school.”
The faunesses did as instructed.
They sat upon the polished flagstone floor and politely crossed their cloven hooves.
They closed their eyes, and I placed Azini’s datapad on the floor beside us.
The first words of that prayer didn’t come easily…
but somehow, I got them out.
I took both Rashala and Azini by the hand.
“Dear Heavenly Father, it’s Jon Dottingly.
I know I haven’t prayed in a while, and the fault for that is mine alone.
I apologize.
Please, forgive me.”
I felt Rashala squeeze my hand.
“But I have something to say, Lord God.
I have met a pair of demons. Their names are Rashala and Azini.
They are faunesses, and they have been helping me tell the people of Earth about the wonders of prophecy.
I couldn’t do this without them.
I don’t know what they might or might not have done to be in their current predicament.
But they are invaluable to the cause of good right now.
I ask that You might smile on them — if for but a moment.
Thank You.
And amen.”
When I opened my eyes, tears were streaming down the cheeks of each fauness.
I looked down at the datapad —
just as a brilliant silver star appeared amid the black and gray morass that represented my spiritual record.
It was a prayer.
The one I had just spoken.
“Our names have been sung in Heaven once more,” Rashala managed to say to Azini through heaving sobs.
“Can you believe it, after all these years?”
Azini opened her mouth to respond —
but she wouldn’t get the chance.
“And that’s how every adventure should begin, Jon Dottingly —
with a prayer.”
The speaker had not entered the priory scenario with us.
But we all recognized her voice.
It was Marissa Bonifay.
Rashala and Azini scrambled to their feet, paying homage to the witch with a flurry of bows and curtsies.
“I always knew you were good with words.”
Marissa took me by the hand and helped me to my feet.
“But being so good with faunesses? That comes as a surprise.”
I chuckled.
“Thank you.”
I stretched my limbs a bit.
“I’m kinda sore. Praying does that to me.”
Marissa flashed me a crooked grin.
“I read your story, Jon,” she said.
If she had anything more to say about prayer, it would have to wait—
or so it seemed.
“My story?” I asked.
“The one concerning your journal?”
“Of course. The story you used Demon Rum to imagine and document, rather than using Nar’Zhavel as I requested.”
I gulped.
“B-but I haven’t given it to you yet,” I stammered.
Marissa let her grin return.
“You forget where we are, Jon.
You forget Nar’Zhavel.
You forget my ability to access the sum of Creation’s history.
It doesn’t matter whether that history occurred two thousand years ago… or two days ago.”
Marissa gestured for Azini to bring her the datapad still resting on the chapel’s flagstone floor.
With a quick hand motion, she caused my prayer record—complete with its one glorious star—to vanish.
In its place, text appeared.
Very familiar text.
“Books,” Marissa said, reading aloud.
“Back on the Isle of Indamar, some who knew me liked to say I lived to be rebellious.”
She smirked.
“They weren’t wrong.”
“Others swore I lived for boys.”
She arched an eyebrow at me before continuing.
“Also not wrong.”
I nodded.
“Yep, that’s it.”
Then I shrugged.
“So, what do you think of it?”
“Oh, it’s splendid—
as are all of your works,” she replied.
“Is it accurate?”
“Absolutely.”
I smiled.
“You have plenty of tools at your disposal, Jon. And you use them well.”
“Thank you. But I should have visited this place before ever writing a word. I realize that now.”
Marissa brushed the comment aside.
“Unlike a certain pair of faunesses, I refuse to sound like your mother.”
Her eyes flicked toward Rashala, then Azini.
“Or your father.”
The faunesses curtsied low in an apologetic manner.
Ignoring them, Marissa turned back to me.
“You may do as you will without any judgment from me.”
For some reason, I felt like curtsying, too.
“Now, let’s see to that journal.”
Marissa gestured toward the chapel’s exit.
“There’s no real reason to pay it a visit. I can attest to the accuracy of what you wrote.
But every quest needs a proper conclusion.
Besides, that journal drips with magic. I wouldn’t be surprised if it decided to show off for you.”
And with that, we left the Rose Chapel and returned to _The Bearing of the Roseblade_.
I had the honor of activating the mechanism that would allow the painting to grant us access to the secret chamber beyond.
I pressed a particular rose—carved into the baseboard directly beneath the painting.
With a soft click, the painting popped open slightly, like a door on a hinge.
Marissa swung it the rest of the way, revealing the hidden space beyond.
And the four of us entered.
The tiny study was exactly as I had envisioned.
Sunlight filtered through an alabaster dome in the ceiling, the same lighting system used in the Rose Chapel.
It cast a soft glow over shelf after shelf of books.
A small desk stood near the center—
and upon it sat the object responsible for the sea’s mysterious sounds,
despite the priory’s inland location.
It was an echostone.
Resembling a shimmering shell, it lay nestled in a small wooden cradle.
Marissa lifted the echostone from its nest and held it up for me to see.
An instant later, the shimmering stopped.
Its inner light faded.
And it grew dark.
Never again would it echo the sounds of the ocean.
With a hint of nostalgia on her face, Marissa returned the now-silent echostone to its cradle.
“I spent a lot of time here, Jon. It was my refuge.”
I looked around, taking in the tome-laden shelves.
“I bet you did.”
“I read every one of these books,” she said.
“Many of them more than once. And often two at once.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“And sometimes four at once?”
A mischievous glint lit her eyes.
“Yes,” she said, grinning. “Sometimes four.”
Without diverting her gaze, Marissa reached to her left and pulled a book from the nearest shelf.
**“_The Fifth Stroke._”**
She handed the black book to me.
“It’s by Madam d’Vereau. A naughty thing, to be sure.”
She smirked.
“Adolphus will make it available for you to read back in your study on the Mortal Plane.
I expect you to have it finished by the next time we meet.”
I ran my hand over the book’s smooth, dark cover and let out a low whistle.
“We’re due for a little chat about sex, Jon,” said Marissa.
“It’s overdue, in fact.”
She pointed to _The Fifth Stroke_.
“It can begin with that.”
Behind me, Rashala and Azini giggled.
I scratched my head.
“A little chat about sex?”
Then I grew rather bold.
“What would you like to know?” I asked.
Now, the faunesses laughed.
And Marissa smiled.
She dismissed my question with a bemused wave, then took Madam d’Vereau’s naughty book from my hands and replaced it with another—
—the reason we were there in the first place.
Marissa Bonifay’s personal journal.
As I wrote the story of how she came by this book, I learned it had once belonged to another teenage girl, centuries earlier. Her name was Tannon Baelthorne. She, too, had laid claim to this hidden chamber. She had sat at the same tiny desk in the corner of the room. She had read these very books — including _The Fifth Stroke_.
Marissa had made the journal her own with a single entry of just four words:
Today, I found you.
In that moment, the cover had changed — replacing Tannon’s name with her own. Marissa Bonifay.
The journal was enchanted.
And I could feel its magic pulsing through my hands as I held it.
Marissa gestured for me to open it.
She told me it might surprise me.
I had no doubt it would.
Still, I didn’t hesitate.
I opened the journal.
It had a message for me. Just one line:
Today, you found me, too.
If you’re not ready to subscribe but still want to support the saga, consider tipping the scribe — every coin helps keep the story alive. (You’ll be taken to a separate page to leave a one-time tip.)
