AN: Mari dared me to add mucus to my story. Hope goo fits the bill as well.

Blessed Memory

Colonel Brandon, for the most part, did not wake up with no recollection how he had got to bed.

Granted there had been that time when he had thought Marianne might marry Willoughby and had drank himself into a stupor every night. But the blinding headaches the following mornings had been a strong indicator of the preceding events. Also the subtly worded rebuke his batsman had offered.

Admittedly, there was little subtlety about Barnes barging into his rooms, ripping open his bed curtains and fairly yelling, „RISE AND SHINE, COLONEL! YOU HAVE AN AWFUL SINGING VOICE BY THE WAY.“

The Colonel was certain that Barnes was secretly a sadist.

However, Barnes wasn‘t here yelling at him, nor did he have a headache, so he must not have been drinking heavily last night.

Colonel Brandon turned his head to the windows to ascertain the hour (barely morning – the sun was just rising) and noticed a folded paper on the pillow next to his.

This was the second unusual thing about the Colonel‘s morning. He did not habitually woke up to notes on his pillows. The only people allowed in his rooms were Marianne, Bates, and he guessed the maids needed to enter every now and then to clean up, too.

Marianne was more likely to barge in and tell him whatever important, semi-important, not-really-important or not-even-remotely-important thing crossed her mind. On the other hand, she might think it romantic to leave him a love letter on his pillow.

If Barnes or one of the maids had left him a love letter though, he‘d have to worry.

With a groan he reached over and grabbed the note.

Don’t worry, my friend.
You were pretty gone last night.
We buried the body.

Well. Right. Not a love letter then. Slightly more worrying than a love letter in fact.

Body? What body? What the deuces had happened last night?

The Colonel stared at the cryptic words. The hand seemed familiar but he couldn’t say whose it was. The writer could at least have signed it. Not signing showed an altogether impolite approach to note writing of which the Colonel felt he couldn’t approve.

Donning his morning robe, he crossed the room and knocked on the door to his wife’s sleeping chamber.

He knocked again when no answer was forthcoming. He even put some strength into it just in case Marianne was in deep sleep.

When still no answer came, he shrugged his shoulders, decided that she owed him for all the times she had barged into his room regardless of the hour, and opened the door.

Her room was empty and there were no signs of recent occupation.

He wouldn’t get any information here.

The house seemed eerily quiet as he stepped into the hall. At least the scullery maid should be up and about lighting the fires. She was a clumsy little thing who constantly made a racket by dropping the coalscuttle everywhere. He heard neither the girl’s teary apologies nor one of the other maids berating her impatiently. The lack of this early morning background noise disquieted him even more than Marianne’s absence.

Marianne had been know to spend the occasional night in the gardens because, she claimed, they were so romantic in the moonlight. He had even joined her every now and then for while he didn’t see the point in exposing oneself to all the critters that filled the night, he did enjoy Marianne in a mood for romance.

The servants not doing their work, though, was highly irregular. In fact, now that he focused on it, all the servants seemed to be mysteriously absent.

The Colonel wandered through the dark and cold house. With each room that he discovered untended, he became more agitated. Something horrible must have happened last night.

To be fair, the note had been speaking of a body so it stood to reason that it wasn’t the entire household that had been murdered. Still, even one body was one more than he was comfortable with in his own home.

He really wished he’d remember even a sliver of last night.

As it turned out he’d forgot more than merely the night. Half a day seemed to have vanished from his mind.

He clearly remembered sitting down to luncheon with Marianne but after that the details were hazy. He’d gone back to his study afterwards to go over the estate accounts. Marianne had come with him for company. She’d picked up one of the various travelogues from India he’d scattered all over the house for Margret’s sake. And then …

Nothing.

Where there should have been the memory of several hours pouring over the estate books until Marianne deemed he’d done enough, laughing teased him about the lack of romance that were accounts and lured him to an activity she considered more appropriate for the moment; where should have been the memory of going to dinner, of having rabbit stew with fresh bread (his favourite), of after-dinner-port while Marianne played the piano; where there should have been the memory of anything really, there was nothing.

The last time he had a black-out on a similar scale, he’d been in a fever-induced delirium brought on by sepsis after being shot in Agra. An Indian serving man had shown him some breathing exercises after he had nearly strangled a nurse in a blind panic back then. He employed those now to keep his breathing under control.

Breathing in accordance with the mantra (In. Hold. Out. Slowly.) he had been taught, Brandon made his way to the study.

It was the last room he definitely remembered entering. Maybe it would give some clues as to what happened after.

The peek through the door revealed that whatever had happened the day before could very well have started here.

Simply said, the room was in a chaos. His desk had been overturned, his chair lay smashed against the fire place, the settee Marianne had had installed there thrown clear across the room. Something or someone must have agitated the fire. The charred remains of his priced Persion carpet hinted at something of an explosion.

Breathe in. Hold for a beat. Breathe out. Slowly.

The Colonel carefully closed the door to the study and backed away.

A bit wild-eyed, he strode down the hall, now very worried what he might find the rest of the house.

Half the door to the drawing room hang askew. The other half seemed to be embedded in the opposite wall. In splinters.

The room itself presented no less explosive picture, though someone seemed to have taken rather great pains to pile all the seats, tables, and side-boards in the back of the room.

On the top of Mount Furniture throned the carpet, neatly rolled up but sadly splattered with some gooey substance that slowly dripped down onto the side table beneath. It made its way down the table legs at a slow but determinedly steady pace until it soaked into the chaiselongue and the squishy armchair that was his particular favourite.

Brandon sighed, having now come out on the other side of his panic and proceeded straight to weariness.

He wished whoever had piled the furniture would have also had the foresight to put sheets over it. The room was ruined. That wasn’t even taking into account the pattern that had been drawn in red paint on the floor.

He stared in horror at the giant pentagram.

This … this abomination!

In his drawing room!

This was just the outside of enough!

First the absolutely useless note on his pillow, the talk of a body, the strange absence of his wife and his staff, and now some lousy low-life had used his drawing room for some sort of devilish ritual.

His gaze fell on the note he still held in his hand. He half expected someone to have drawn some sort of devilish thingamajing on it, too. Instead he realised there was writing on the other back as well.

Love, we’ve gone to the pub celebrating.
If you feel up to it, come and join us. M.

Now, here was someone who at least managed to properly sign a note and give directions. Just one of the many reasons why he loved his wife. And not Edward who was a lousy, lousy letter writer and had written the first part as he now saw.

Well, there was nothing for it. He had to go to the pub. Onwards to answers!

---

The pub, a lovely quaint establishment called “The King’s Leg” (because some king or other had once sprained his ankle around here and called a rest), was still open despite closing hour being long gone and the night now being long gone as well.

The loudest party in there was the one he was looking for. His lovely wife was well in her lovely cups, her sister not far behind. His brother – he of the lousy letter writing abilities – was playing some sort of card game with two gentlemen he had never seen before.

Edward noticed him first. Probably because he was loosing and looking for a way to stop playing.

“Brandon, my man,” he called and reminded the Colonel eerily of Sir John Middleton. “Feeling better again?”

“Well, I’m up at least,” said the Colonel. “The rest remains to be seen.”

“You had the worst of it,” said one of the strange gentleman. “I didn’t expect to see you up and about at all.”

“At least, for another day,” agreed the other man.

Brandon blinked. “Excuse me. Do I know you?”

“Oh dear, we feared this might happen,” said Elinor. She turned to the barkeep and signalled him. “Get the man a little pick-me-up!”

“Yes, do that!” exclaimed Marianne suddenly and turned to her brother-in-law imperiously, “Edward, you’ve got to bless the drink for him. Just in case.”

Edward solemnly made the sign of the cross in the general direction of the bar. Then he made the sign of the cross over his own mug of ale and having gotten into the swing of it blessed all of the drinks on the table.

The others applauded.

“What on earth are you doing?” asked the Colonel fearing for Edward’s sanity.

Edward semi-steadily looked at him and replied, “I’m blessin’.”

“Well, yes. I can see that. I still don’t understand why,” said the Colonel.

“Demons,” said Edward gravely. “Can’t be too careful.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Marianne placed a tender hand on his upper arm. “Don’t exert yourself too much, my love. You’ve had a rough night.”

She used her grip to pull him down next to her. He sank onto the bench and reached for his blessed ale. Maybe sanity or at least verity could be found in the cup.

“Sancte domine,” intoned Edward under his breath.

Brandon ignored him and asked Marianne, “Are you going to introduce me to your new friends?”

“Oh, these are Samuel and Daniel,” she said. “Aren’t the boys wonderful?”

The Colonel spluttered. “What?”

Edward stopped intoning his incantation long enough to say, “The Winchesters, you know?” as if that would explain anything.

Elinor, who had always more versed in social conventions, said, “This is Mr Winchester and Mr Samuel Winchester.”

“Pleased to meet you,” murmured the Colonel without meaning it.

“Our pleasure, too,” said one of the ‘boys’. The other one added, “May I tell you that you were brilliant?”

“Brilliant at what?” asked the Colonel thoroughly frustrated.

“At being possessed of course,” said the first Winchester.

Edward started blessing the ale again.

The younger Winchester smiled encouragingly and nodded at Edward. “You’re really lucky to have him around. He knows his blessings, our Edward does. One of the best. Couldn’t have done it without him.”

“DONE WHAT?” the Colonel roared at the end of his tether.

“Exorcised you,” said the elder Winchester drily. “Sorry again about the goat’s urine. But, man, demons, you know.”

The Colonel visibly pulled himself together. “In fact,” he said frostily, “I don’t.”

“I think you had better start explaining, Marianne,” said Elinor, not unkindly. “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known … well, that.”

“What do you remember?” Marianne asked softly.

“We had luncheon, then we went to the study, and then nothing.”
“Yes. That seems to cover most of what happened before,” said Marianne. “Do you remember the book I was reading?”

“Yes. Tales of the Peninsula, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed. It was actually quite a good read. Very thrilling. About the native religions ...” Marianne trailed off for a bit. She continued without looking at him, “There was an invocation in it. I was just reading it to you because it sounded so ridiculous and then … well, suddenly you roared for brains.”

The Colonel was speechless. That sounded quite unlike him. He signalled for Marianne to continue.

“I thought it was quite unlike you,” said his wife. “Luckily, the boys … I mean, these two gentlemen were close by and they seem to have some kind of detector that goes ding and stuff when there’s demons.”

“Demons?” repeated the Colonel dumbly.

“Well, you,” said Marianne. “Or rather the one that possessed you. I’m not sure on the technicalities.”

“Don’t listen to her,” said one of the Winchesters. “Your wife’s a natural.”

Marianne giggled.

“We got to your house quickly,” said the other Winchester. “We were in the area anyway. Meant to call on Edward.”

“Need his help for a little blessin’ over in Exeter,” agreed the first.

The Colonel took a large gulp of his blessed ale, signalled to the barkeep for another round and said, “So I was a demon. Or possessed by one. Whatever the technical term. What happened next?”

“We subdued you, of course. Bound you like a christmas parcel,” said the first. “Sam stayed with you while I got Edward.”

“I prepared the drawing room for the ritual,” Marianne said. “Sam painted the ban circle.”

“I came with Edward,” said Elinor. “I don’t like him to go alone blessin’ in the night.”

“Wouldn’t have been alone,” slurred Edward. “Praise the lord. The boys were there. And Marianne. And Brandon, I guess.”

“Who was a demon,” Elinor pointed out sensibly.

“Or possessed by one,” said Marianne.

“Whatever the technical term,” said the Colonel who had given up on sanity in favour of blessed drinks.

“The rest went pretty smoothly,” continued one of the Winchesters. “We put you in the circle. Chanted a bit. Waved around a small cross-”

“Demon took one look at this little baby,” said the other Winchester and held up a knife, “and left your body.”

“Then there was the small matter of the slug,” said Marianne.

“Which wasn’t so small any more once it was a demon,” said Elinor.

“Or possessed by one,” said Edward. “Hallelujah.”

“Whatever the technical term,” said the Winchesters.

“Back up,” cried the Colonel. “Where did the slug come from?”

“The garden, I guess,” said Marianne with a French shrug. “It’s difficult to tell with them being so small and getting simply everywhere.”

“The point is,” said Mr Winchester. “The demon, needing a new host, possessed the slug.”

“Or was the slug,” said Edward.

“Whatever,” said the Colonel.

“Guess what slugs and demons have in common,” said Mr Samuel Winchester and grinned broadly.

The Colonel levelled a look at him. “I’m not in the mood for guessing games.”

“Salt, Colonel. They really, really don’t like salt,” said Samuel.

“We a-salted that little bugger to hell,” said Edward and nudged the Colonel. “A-salted! Get it?”

“Slime all over the room but the demon’s good and gone now,” said Daniel.

“You were pretty out of it,” said Marianne. “Understandably so, I'd say.”

“So we put you to bed,” said Edward. “Did you find my note?”

“And then we went blessing with the boys,” said Elinor.

The Colonel signalled for another round. “I guess the bill’s on me then. Edward, bless the drinks, will you?”


Praise the Lord, this is the End.