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Chapter Text

Glynn hummed softly to himself as he made his way around the castle grounds, enjoying a quiet afternoon to himself. His usual three o' clock tour had only one guest, and she was too busy rambling with the guide about the history of the famed Ulfstead Castle to really care about what Glynn was doing. The wind was just cool enough to take the bite off the sunshine, and the late-spring air had all the animals out and about, squirrels and birds pausing to watch as the little old engine trundled by.

It was the kind of afternoon that Glynn's shedmate, Stephen, loved. And as Glynn rounded the final bend, he spotted his old friend basking in the sun, letting its rays warm his creaky old boiler and lull him into a light doze.

"Lazy old engine," chortled Glynn, drawing alongside. "Why don't you do some hard work for a change?"
"Says you - it's a Tuesday, why're we even doing castle tours?"
"My guest seemed quite delighted!"
"Yeah, to get off the coach!"

The two shared a look, and burst into delighted chortles. Over the last decade, the pair had become almost inseparable, bickering like an old married couple with the added bonus of several comedic incidents including the world's slowest race.

"I will say," continued Stephen after a while, "I am a little worried about those diesels Sir Robert has hired to bring in the building materials." Glynn raised a bushy eyebrow, his eyes scanning the yard. Only Millie was puffing about, shunting together a line of trucks to take around with the groundskeeper.

"Any particular reason?" quizzed Glynn. "It's not like you to talk about engines when they aren't here."
"They're reckless," came the blunt reply. "Did you see that Sidney the other day with the crane? I thought he was going to have the windows out!"

Glynn did remember. The hapless diesel had been trying to line the crane up, but just kept overshooting the stop over and over and over, not seeming to care one bit.
"I've heard Sidney has memory problems," he said instead, trying to defend the kind, if a bit clueless, blue diesel.
"Memory problems?!" spluttered Stephen. "And he's working? That would never fly in our day!"

Glynn knew that too. He remembered meeting the fourth coffeepot once, after which is was discovered the young engine could barely remember his own name some days, let alone the timetable or the most basic of instructions. His shoddy memory had led to absent-mindedness, then truancy. He'd been sent away within the week.

"These are nicer times," he replied. "They have special rules in place now to protect engines like Sidney."
"That's true," admitted Stephen. "I just… bad memories."

There was the blast of a horn, and in roared Diesel, hauling a heavy load of trucks. A too heavy load of trucks. Both Stephen and Glynn gaped as the couples strained, the steel screeching as Diesel skidded to a stop.
"Finally done," he sniffed. "And they wanted me to take it in two - that would've taken an era."

Glynn was speechless! Stephen, however, was far more grave.

"You should be more careful," he said. "An engine of your size should not be pulling so many trucks - it is unsafe." Diesel sneered, banging the trucks away.
"Give over, old engine. It's efficient. That's what us diesels are: efficient. What need do we have of your limits?"
"It's not about efficiency," snapped Stephen. "It is about safety."

Diesel snorted.

"I thought there was no such thing as safety in your day, old-timer," Diesel mocked. "You didn't need it, and neither do I." Glynn's features darkened.
"It is because our generation had no safety measures in place that you do," he reminded harshly. "You should be thankful for every health and safety rule, because it is there to protect you!"

Diesel rolled his eyes.
"It's a heap of drivel which they use to slow everything down."
"Your brakes are a safety feature!" snapped Stephen. "So is your horn, and your cab! Every safety feature found on a railway is written in blood."

With that, Stephen snorted away, leaving in a great cloud of smoke.

Glynn watched his friend go, worried.
"He's right," he said softly. "Our wheels only run on these rails because of the safety laws we fought to have implemented. Your callousness will be your destruction."

Glynn found Stephen in the back of the sheds, the old engine staring blankly down at his wheels.
"You know, they never changed them?"
"Never changed what?" asked Glynn softly, puffing up alongside.
"My wheels. If you look close enough, the blood splatters are soaked into the steel." Glynn went silent - every engine knew the tale of the Rocket and William Huskisson.

"These diesels," Stephen quietly went on. "Do they not know how The Old have suffered to their benefit? It was the Opening Day - I didn't even have brakes fitted! I… I…"
"Say no more," Glynn said quietly. "As bad as they can be, the diesels do mostly follow the rules."
"Yes, mostly," agreed Stephen. "But what happens when they aren't? Diesel got lucky today, and the saddest part is he doesn't realise it."

Glynn just wished he had an answer for his friend. But unlike in books, there was no right way to comfort a friend haunted by death. William Huskisson's blood had seeped into the poor old engine's wheels; the rules that governed engines' safety were written in blood and carved out of the steel of those who had never been anywhere near as lucky as Diesel and his brethren.

Chapter Text

Every evening, two fast trains leave the Big Station, five minutes apart. First to depart is Gordon with the 6:25pm express that runs along the mainline, while Edward follows at 6:30pm with his train for the branch. The two trains had been made famous by the infamous tale of Gordon's 'Wrong Road' incident, when a lady in a large green floppy hat had tricked the fireman into thinking the guard was waving his green flag.

The whole disaster had been a bit of a stain on Gordon's feelings towards the evening express for a littl while, though in the end it was not enough to reduce his love for the trip by any great amount.

Gordon loved the evening express.

The big blue engine loved every facet of the train, from the bustle of passengers hurrying to catch the last train to the mainland for the evening to the way the guard would be just a little more relaxed, content to let a young child have a go at blowing the whistle sometimes. Gordon loved how the entire journey was Eastward, allowing him to gaze out at the slowly-rising moon while the setting sun dipped below the horizon behind him, his eyes always focused on the world ahead.

It felt like shrugging off the day's struggles, outrunning them in the twilight as he powered towards the night.

Gordon set off from The Big Station with a spin of his wheels and a steady bout of sand. An afternoon shower had threatened his express, but the haze had cleared up a little over an hour prior, giving Gordon unrestricted views of the night sky as the first stars began to emerge, their tiny white lights twinkling brightly high above the island. Gordon loved staring up the sky, seeing the stars as he flew along - it was soothing. 

Once the big blue engine was out on the mainline, he picked up speed rapidly. There was no 'guaranteed connection' with the Skarloey Railway on most weeknights; the big engine had a free, unimpeded non-stop run all the way from the Big Station to the Other Railway. A real chance to open the taps, to roar along in the dusk and feel the wind against his boiler, to enjoy the world around him as it quietened from bustling to almost silent. Shopkeepers flashed by, all too fast to be seen individually even as their combined actions filtered into Gordon's mind like stop-motion animation, all putting away the specials boards and closing up the doors and windows.

Tunnels rushed by in seconds, signals gone almost before they could be seen.

Gordon flew by Thomas at the junction, whistling to his old ally even as he noticed Thomas glaring up at the clock. Probably waiting for Percy again - the little green tank engine really was terrible at keeping to time in the evenings.

Indeed, Gordon spotted Percy as he passed by the Junction; the little green engine looked exhausted, panting as he slowed for the signal. Poor old engine, branchline life seemed so full of small tragedies.

Gordon did not get switched off the mainline at Edward's Station - he always whistled just a little louder as he approached the signalbox so he could not be mistaken for Edward. The old blue engine would only be about ten minutes behind Gordon, not going that much slower despite his age. On the few occasions when Gordon didn't pull his evening express, he tried to watch Edward fly past with his own train, getting a vision of an era long since passed but kept alive thanks to one old engine who was determined to never slow for anything.

It was such a brilliant change to the timid engine Gordon knew back in Vicarstown sheds; Gordon could freely admit that working the branchline with BoCo had done one of his oldest friends a lot of good.

The sun finally set behind Gordon as he roared up the hill named for him, not slowing this time even a little. The blossoms on the trees were just beginning to unfurl, spring warm in the air already. By the next week, they would be fully open and bathing the side of the hill in hues of red, blue and pink. For now, they were all bathed in shades of purple as twilight drew to a close, the sun's final rays dipping over the horizon.

Gordon passed Henry, who was going in the other direction with a freight train. Gordon wondered if there was some symbolism in that, in Henry being the one chasing the final dying rays of the sun while he steamed ever forward into the night - but thought better of it. Fantastical novel tropes were for Daisy or James to think about. Gordon had his express.

Every evening, two fast trains leave the Big Station, five minutes apart. First to depart is Gordon with the 6:25pm express that runs along the mainline, while Edward follows at 6:30pm with his train for the branch. And every evening, without fail, Gordon watches as Sodor falls asleep, the sun setting in the distance behind him as he thunders across the island into the night, bringing people safely to their destination.

Chapter Text

Young Thomas 'Tommy' McColl awoke with bright eyes. His alarm had yet to even go off, and yet the young boy was already out of bed, sprinting around the room.
"Today's the day!" he cheered softly, staring out the window at the lazily rising sun. His father was already out in the fields, tending to the cows with their loyal Border Collie Katie, leaving Tommy to rush about inside, preparing his bag.

"Today's the day!" Tommy cheered again, leaping down the stairs three at a time as he raced into the kitchen. His elder sister had yet to rise, deep in the grips of what his father called 'the curse of teenagedom' - apparently, it just meant that Susie spent most of her mornings sleeping in and most of her evenings texting on her phone, not that Tommy really understood it.

Still! Today was the day!

Farmer McColl and Katie wandered back on in, the morning's duties completed. They brought with them the chill of the dawn air, making the young boy shiver a little, but he didn't mind.
"Today's the day!" he cheered.
"Good morning to you too, Tommy," chuckled Farmer McColl, leaning in to hug his young son. Katie twirled around Tommy's feet, trying her best to trip him up as she wagged her tail. "How did you sleep?"
"That doesn't matter!" groaned Tommy, flopping into a chair at the dining table. "The field trip's today! We're gonna meet the really old engine!"

Farmer McColl chuckled again, already rounded the kitchen bench to reach the stove.
"Then you'll need a special big breakfast - how does a nice Fry-Up sound?" Tommy's eyes went wide with excitement.
"Really dad? You never make a Fry-Up! Thank you thank you thank you!" Tommy rushed to hug his dad before sprinting upstairs to get dressed.

Farmer McColl was very proud of his produce - the eggs, bacon, and even tomatoes that were stocked in the local markets all came from his farm, not to mention the milk that Daisy took down to the dairy when she felt like it. His Fry-Ups were the freshest on the branchline, and Farmer Trotter could suck a lemon.

With breakfast served, Tommy dashed out the front door and down towards the bus stop, speeding away from his father as he played with the dog on the long dirt track that led down to the main road.

Tommy had been excited about his school's Big Day Out for weeks! They were going to go on a special excursion train behind a really old engine and learn a bit about the island's history. He was even more excited when he saw all his friends on the school bus, practically tripping up the stairs as he clambered aboard, waving goodbye to his father.

The Knapford Public School served all the villages along Thomas' branchline, and both the railway and the local bus company put on free rides for the children so they could get to class. The school itself was barely a stone's throw from the station, so it was all too easy for the teachers to corral the kids into two uneven lines and get them down to the station.

There, a very special excursion train was awaiting them. Bloomer the very old engine, with his big, bushy moustache and boyish grin welcomed the children.
"Hello boys and girls! Step back in time, and let me take you on a grand journey to see how Sodor used to be!"

The children all excitedly boarded the train, Tommy getting very lucky and managing to snag a seat in the coach right behind Bloomer! The train started swiftly, and soon they were puffing through the countryside, though not too fast. Bloomer was a very old engine, after all. Gordon roared by on the next track over, while the Caledonian twins huffed by with a heavy freight train in the other direction.

On board, a group of tour guides explained the history of Sodor's railways over the carriages' loudspeakers. How engines like Neil had built the railway, and how the oldest engines on Sodor - Skarloey, Rheneas and Duke - all lived on the Skarloey Railway except for Neil, who loved to shunt at Crovan's Gate Works.

The tour stopped at Crovan's Gate so the children could go on a tour of the works and go to see the narrow gauge engines. Tommy hung back a little.
"Mister Bloomer, why didn't the guides say you were one of Sodor's oldest engines?" he asked, gazing up at the very old engine. Bloomer chuckled - it sounded a lot like the way Tommy's grandfather chuckled, with a low, slow, deep laugh. Tommy wondered if all old grandfathers laughed the same way.

"Oh young fellow, you don't need to call me Mister Bloomer!" Bloomer said, beaming. Tommy stared, amazed. He had never spoken to an engine before - his father sometimes talked to the engines, but he'd never had the courage.

"I'm not considered one of Sodor's oldest engines cause I didn't come to Sodor until recently," Bloomer explained. "They found me in a shed on the mainland - I'd been there for decades! Nearly a century, they told me. So they brought me back to be completely overhauled. I'm a little older than Neil though - not that I'll ever let him forget it!"

Tommy listened intently, then smiled up at Bloomer. "Thank you for telling me!" the young boy chirped, and he scrambled away to join his classmates. Bloomer watched the young boy go, a content smile on his old, wizened face.
"The young uns are alright," he mused.
"Of course they are!" laughed Skarloey from the next line over. "We taught em!"

Tommy had a wonderful day out - they toured the works, meeting a small railway engine named Jock, who was in for a service, as well as a large diesel named Bear, who was being repainted. They learnt about how the mechanics, engineers, boilermakers and everyone else int he works had to collaborate in order to get jobs done, and even saw a demonstration on how a metalworker hammered a huge piece of steel into shape to be used for a handrail.

"It's very important to understand that there's a special culture here at the works," the demonstrator said. "For example, we all have nicknames for each other - mine's Wee Tam, cause I'm the shortest in my unit."
"What're some other nicknames?" asked one of Tommy's classmates loudly. 'Wee Tam' blushed a very interesting shade of red - Tommy saw some of the farmhands blush like that when they were talking about 'adult things' behind the barn!
"Is it like how one of the farmhands on my farm is called Mr Juicy?" asked Tommy innocently. 'Wee Tam' choked - weird, she hadn't been eating.
"Ooooo! I like that!" chirped one of his classmates. The teachers all looked like they were blushing too.

After that, the guides hurriedly brushed over the history section of the tour. Bear did his best not to howl with laughter in the background.

After that, the children all ate lunch in the little cafe next to the Skarloey Railway platforms, watching as engines from both railways came and went.

Finally, Duke puffed in. Tommy slipped outside, and walked over.
"Hello, Mister Duke! I'm Tommy, and my class is looking at the history of railways on Sodor on our excursion. Can I ask some questions, please?"

The old engine looked over, and smiled softly.
"Of course - what can I help with?"

Tommy beamed, and sat down right on the edge of the platform, leaning on Duke's bufferbeam. Duke stared in shock.
"Well, I wanted to know what Sodor was like when you arrived!"

Duke bit back the reprimand that was on the tip of his tongue, instead considering the question.
"It was very different - for one thing, we had none of this modern technology. We didn't even have radios - and I hear only the big cities of Crovan's Gate and Suddery had gotten an early telegraph. We certainly didn't up in Arlesburgh until the mid 1880s. Everyone also dressed differently - people liked to dress up for church every Sunday, and they wore proper coats all the time."

Duke paused, dredging up ancient memories from way back when he'd first arrived on Sodor.

"I was the only engine on my railway," he said eventually. "I pulled all the coaches and trucks, shunted all the trains. I had to know the railway very well, and I worked very hard. Engines these days are lucky - they have each other to lean on. It's not fun being alone, it's always better working with others. I was alone for many years, and I would never wish that on anyone - always do your best to make friends, young one."

At that moment, Duke's driver strode up, and stopped to stare at the casual way Tommy was leaning on Duke.
"Hullo there, young fellow! You can't sit there - it's not safe! You'd best be back to your teachers now, they'll be looking for you soon!" Tommy hopped up, and beamed at Duke.
"Thank you for telling me about what Sodor was like when you arrived, Mister Duke! Have a good day!"

Tommy jogged away back towards his school group, leaving Duke and his driver behind. The old engine waited until Tommy was out of earshot before sighing.

"I can only hope I said the right thing," he murmured softly. "But it's such an important thing." His driver smiled.
"If you think it's important, than it was the right thing to say," he replied.

Tommy greatly enjoyed the rest of his day - the teachers rounded them up and got them back on the train, and Bloomer the antique engine took them safely back to the Junction. There, the children went back to their classrooms to wait for the bell, all chatting excitedly about their big school excursion.
"I hope we go back next year!" beamed Tommy. "I want to talk to all the engines!"
"But we could go to the zoo next year!" moaned one of his classmates. "I want to see the zebras, not talk to stuffy old trains."

Tommy huffed, thinking stinky animals were not all that exciting once you'd lived with a heap of them for years on end. Zebras were just multicoloured horses to him, after all! But the engines - they had stories, and they loved to share them.

At the end of the day, Tommy met his father at the gate, and the two slowly made their way back up the track to the farmhouse.
"How was your big day out?" asked Farmer McColl. Tommy beamed, and told his father his story.

Chapter Text

The island of Sodor is home to many heritage pieces, not least of all the engines on the Fat Controller's railway. Some of them - like Edward - date back to the Victorian era, while others - like BoCo, Daisy and Bear - have only recently begun to be seen as vintage.

There is one engine, however, who best embodies the heritage feeling that can be found on the Fat Controller's railway, and that engine is Toby.

Toby's Vintage Train is the best and easiest way for workers to get from Ffarquhar up to the quarry, riding in Henrietta and Victoria. However, sometimes tourists didn't quite understand how important the old tram and his coaches were.

A couple were looking to get married on the island, and had gone to Ffarquhar to look at venues. They saw the beautiful local church, and several gorgeous local fields were looked at, all overlooking the town and its picturesque landscape. None of it was quite to the couple's desires, and they were just waiting for Thomas' evening train when Toby trundled in, about to head up to the quarry to pick up the workmen.

"Oh look!" gasped the man. "Isn't he just darling?" He pointed directly at Toby! Toby was most offended.
"Oh yes - it's a heritage train, it'd look so pretty! Do you think they do hires? They probably use the old dear just for charter services, so it shouldn't be too hard to find out!" Toby was furious! He was about to snap, when Henrietta grinned.
"Toby - isn't Thomas' next train after we return?" she murmured. Toby considered, then grinned.
"It is! Oh, you are clever!"

And with that, Toby, Henrietta and Victoria headed up to the quarry. Victoria giggled the entire way up.
"Darling Toby! Old Dear Toby! Poor engine, those two seemed very intent on using you for a wedding!"
"I am not a centrepiece," sniffed Toby. "They can hire Thomas like every other prospective married couple that bothers us. I have real work to do."

Toby arrived at the quarry, and the workers piled into Henrietta and Victoria. As they did, the quarry foreman strode up.
"Sorry to bother you, but we've a few extra trucks that need taking down. It's only five, but it seemed a bit little to send Mavis on a special trip. If you could take them down to Ffarquhar, that'd be most helpful."
"Consider it done!" grinned Toby. "This'll show 'em, this'll show 'em!"

Toby pushed the trucks behind Victoria, ran round the train, and set off.

The couple were still on the platform when Toby clanked in, blowing steam and ringing his bell.
"Oh look, he's back— what is that tram doing?!" yelped the man as Toby slowed to a stop at the platform with a line of trucks behind his coaches. Then, the doors all swung open, and filthy, dirty quarry workers strode out onto the platform, sending a cloud of dust everywhere! The couple screeched in horror as they scrambled away to preserve their designer clothes.

Toby nearly laughed himself sick.

"I might be 'heritage'," he murmured, "but that doesn't mean I'm not useful!"

Chapter Text

In today's lecture, we will cover the Great Rebellion on the Island of Sodor during the English Civil War, and the site of the Roundheads greatest defeat: Peel Godred. This lecture will begin with the early naval skirmishes off the coast of Harwick and Brendam, before focusing on the Ballaswein Campaign and how the famed General Smith failed to take the walled city of Peel Godred…

***

They made their camp at Ballaswein, pitching their tents and preparing for the grueling march that was soon to come. Up from Harwick, they had marched. It had been long and grueling, but the army was now within fighting distance of the famed ancient walled city - all that it would take was one final push, one up the valley and into Peel Godred.

The general, confident, rode atop his horse, his eyes raking over his army of five thousand strong. With this force, he would crush the rebellion on the Island of Sodor, clearing the way for Cromwell and the Roundheads to crush the Scots and Irish, and with their defeat, end the war.

The weather was dry, the day cool but not cold - instead, wind blew gently from higher up in the mountains, bringing with them the scent of cool, dewy grass. With luck, the weather would hold, ensuring that the valley remained passable. The general had been warned by an advisor back on the Mainland about how the sleepy creek turning into a raging torrent during the stormy seasons, and he had planned out his advance on the walled city with such a limitation in mind.

Attacking up the valley from Killdane was impossible; the Sudrian rebels had barricaded it with fortifications dug in the entire way up, cannons pointing down at their forces. It was impudent of them, and once Peel Godred had fallen, it would be easy to rush down and smash through them and their makeshift forts.

The Sudrians would be pacified or they would be crushed - there were no other options for them.

"Such primitive people," sniffed the General, watching on as a small group of Sudrians toiled away in their field, off to the side. The people of Harwick had yet to revolt against their presence, and the simpletons of Ballaswein were even more passive, showing none of the grit and resolve of the English, or even the power and aggression of the Scots.

They just existed.

***

For us in the modern era, we know that General Smith's line of thinking is reductive at best and downright horrendous at worst, but it is important, perhaps, to understand what such a man as the General was thinking, the night before the defeat in the valley. The Roundhead Army was primarily made up of English soldiers in this time, and their derision and distaste for the people of Sodor would is in many ways a strong historical signpost for their later actions in Ireland. What we are less aware of is how the Sudrians reacted to the Roundhead contingent…

***

The locals stayed well clear of the Roundhead army, gathering in clumps of two or three in distant meadows, pretending to care for their animals but in reality keeping a very close eye on the soldiers.
"They're starkers, ta try and assault from this way," hissed one softly. The other shushed him.
"Don't say that - what if it hears you?" The Sudrians in the town began to act oddly too. A late evening patrol noted that old, illegible Sudric runes had been painted on a number of doorways, inked in the blood of a sacrificial lamb.

"Barbarism, paganism," sniffed one of the soldiers, watching as the Sudrians hastily cleaned up a number of streets, allowing for a second lamb to be guided into the town square on spotless cobblestones. "We will civilise them, once our mission is complete."

It was odd, how the people of Harwick seemed almost afraid of something else, as if the presence of the army was not what concerned them most.

The soldiers, and the General especially, laughed it off. Sudrians - northern Sudrians from backwater towns most definitely - were not of the same education or knowledge as their British overlords.

The Roundheads would prevail. Peel Godred would fall.

It did not take much persuasion to have the camp settle for the night - the assault in the morning would be tough, a long, grueling climb up to the back of Peel Godred, followed by a grand attack on its little-defended back walls and the rush to seize all positions of importance before the rebelling Sudrians could find even the slightest chance to counter their blow.

The fires were dampened, a guard rotation was established, and the General retired to his tent, confident in his ability to lay the impenetrable city of Peel Godred low.

He had no idea what was coming.

How could he?

He was asleep when the clouds moved in the night, swirling above in a great mass over the campsite. They lowered down, obscuring the vision of the few guards the Roundheads had thought to appoint. It kept everything hidden in the cover of dark and mist, making it impossible to see the blood red eyes watching them from high above on the mountainside. It meant none of the soldiers heard the creaking and groaning of boulders being mashed together, moved and prepared.

And when the mist lifted, it did not move out to sea, as was natural, but up the mountain pass, vanishing.

How could the General know what was to come, when in the morning all seemed well? When he had no trouble mounting his horse and riding it around the camp, calling out orders and rallying cries in equal measure? The grand general suspected nothing as he took his position at the head of the column, leading them up along the riverside.

***

There is a very good reason why the railway builders of Sodor, in the 19th century, decided against using Harwick as the port for Peel Godred, instead picking Arlesburgh further south. That reason is the terrain. The route seems flatter in the beginning, before climbing up and around the back of Peel Godred on a route that in some places is nearly vertical. It means that, logistically, getting an army up that way is nearly impossible…

***

The route grew rockier and steeper - the big guns grew more difficult to haul, and the line began to stretch. A few rebels fired potshots from their hiding spaces, but they were quickly dispatched. The route climbed upwards for miles on end. The sky darkened, clouds forming overhead.

A horse groaned, and collapsed sideways. It's rider screamed in pain as his leg was crushed, the boulders on either side of the narrow path making it impossible for him to escape. A medic was called for, but he had to shove his way through the throng of soldiers, all slowly marching their way up the side of Peel Godred, through what felt like intense heat. Sweat beaded on foreheads, helmets were removed, armour loosened where possible.

"This isn't normal," muttered one of the General's aides.
"It is fine," came the blunt response. "The march cannot be much further." The aide said nothing, falling back. The general turned back, spotting the darkened clouds on the horizon. He raised an eyebrow, surprised. It was the dry season, rain was not foretold in the almanac. And then, his eyes trailed downwards, to where it appeared like eyes were watching in the woods on either side of the column. They seemed to be watching the cannons.

"We must slow, to ensure the line stretches no further," General Smith finally said.

***

It is common knowledge that elongated supply lines and columns end poorly. General Smith had been trained in classic warfare, including the Battle of Teutoburg Forest. He knew that stretched columns led to crushing defeats. He likely had to stop the front of his column to allow the rear to close the gap, though this information can only be assumed, and not verified due to the complete nature of the defeat.

***

That was when the general spotted it. A boulder, almost perfectly spherical. It stood tall and proud on a ledge overlooking the valley, and the general began to feel the deepest sense of wrongness. The line slowed, trying to give the cannons time to catch up - they were paramount to the fall of Peel Godred, after all. They stood, almost still, in the shadow of the boulder.

The sun blazed down on them - the men grumbled about the heat and the way their uniforms clung to their backs, even after having stripped most of their metal armour from their bodies. The cannons were heaved into view, their bulk almost completely blocking the way back down the valley.

"Good - no retreat," the General said darkly. "We march on till the fall of Peel Godred."

In that moment, for no particular reason, the General looked up at the boulder. His face went pale, he began to stammer.
"T-t-the boulder!" he gasped, almost falling from his horse. "It - it - it has a face!"

Water came crashing down the ravine.

***

Sudrian rebels had released water from the large Loey Machan, up in the highlands of Sodor near the city of Peel Godred. The cannons blocked the Roundheads' retreat, and none of them would have been able to escape the torrent of water anyway.

***

The General turned his horse about, trying to rush back down the valley, but his troops were too packed together, boxed in by the giant brass cannons that blocked the retreat. The water hit him side on, a huge, rushing wave filled with the dusty debris that had built up over the dry weeks. He was flung from his horse, water ripping through the panicking troops and slamming them into each other, the valley walls and the cannons. Screams echoed across the valley. Some men tried to run, but their armour held them back, the heavy metal slowing them down - they too were ripped up by the torrent. The water turned red. 

The cannons were thrown about like leaves in a stream, twisting back on themselves, blocking escape. Then, they became a meat grinder, before finally being washed away. 

And the Boulder stood, watching. 

In a matter of minutes, the entire army was gone, drowned and battered to death in the unforgiving arms of nature. Northern Sodor was soaked under the deluge, which managed to ease by the time the rush reached Harwick. The people of Harwick could only watch grimly as battle standards, weapons and bodies floated into their town, getting stuck in the river and on the banks. The cannons were thrown down the mountainside with such force that they ripped out three bridges before coming to a stop.

"They've failed to take Peel Godred," mused a townsman to his friend. "And I'm not surprised. Everyone knows St Machan takes care of his own."
"What a waste of life," his friend said, nudging a battle standard with his boot. "What a failure."

***

To conclude this lecture, we must understand that the Roundheads never managed to completely pacify Sodor. They managed to take control of the lowlands between Vicarstown and Toryreck, however the key cities of Ulfstead and Peel Godred would remain out of Cromwell's hands, and sporadic uprisings led by Sudrian church officials and royalists who hid in the mountains and forests would continue to harass the Roundheads until the Restoration in 1660.

***

The route the Roundhead Army took would eventually - in part - become part of the Cronk & Harwick Railway, but it was Skarloey, on his little railway on the other side of Peel Godred, who would see the boulder next…

Chapter Text

The Island of Sodor was abuzz with news of Flying Scotsman's return. The world famous engine had been away in the USA for some time, and after a near disaster, he had been repatriated to England, repaired, and sent to the Island of Sodor to acclimatise to life back on railways that were more familiar to him than the giant trunk routes of the USA.

Or, at least, so Sir William McAlpine said.

It was - to those close to Scott - much more realistic to believe that the world famous engine's return to Sodor was at least in part to allow him the chance to speak to his last surviving brother as well as many of his closest friends, to recover from nearly being scrapped on a foreign continent.

The engines were all very excited to see their friend again, none more so than Gordon.
"We need to think of poor Scott," the big blue engine said to all who would listen. "He has been through a very traumatic experience, and we need to be encouraging!"
"An whit aboot us? We went throuch somethin traumatisin," Donald asked cheekily. Gordon sniffed.
"You did not have to go to America."
"An whit's wrong wi Americae?" Donald quizzed. Gordon winced.
"Well! They are Yanks," Gordon replied. "Did you meet their soldiers during the war?" Donald had to admit he had not. "They were terrible! So rude, and womanising too. And their engines were so brash and callous."

Duck looked over, confused.
"No they weren't," he said slowly. "We had a heap of them on the Great Western, and they were fine enough, if not a little blunt." In the background, Edward groaned to himself, not really wanting to try and explain to anyone the fact that the USA was not like England, and had a different culture where being at least a little forward was normal to them.

Not that the other engines would listen to him. Again.

But when Scott arrived, on a cool midsummer day when the clouds were white and fluffy while the breeze was cool and had just a hint of sea salt, he was not traumatised at all! In fact, he had a healthy tan and a beaming smile that lit up the sheds. Most of the engines - though not Edward - were stunned!

"Brother! You… seem oddly chipper for someone who's been through such hardships!"
"Gordon! It's so good to — hardships?"
"Yes!" peeped Percy. "Like meeting Americans! Gordon's been telling us how terrible and womanising they are!" He looked over to where Gordon was getting paler and paler. "Did you get womanised?" He grinned smugly at Gordon, and puffed away. Duck bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Scott took a deep breath, and burst out laughing. Gordon went as red as James' paintwork!

"Well Gordon?" asked the world famous engine. "Do you think I got… er… womanised?" Duck cracked up laughing, practically shaking on the rails. Behind him, James and Henry cackled and howled with laughter so hard they spat up lumps of coal!
"No! Certainly not! I— well, that is to say—"

Scott took pity on his brother, and smiled warmly.
"Nothing of the sort happened, I promise," he grinned. "It was actually a lot of fun - I'll tell everyone about it this evening. In the meantime, I do hope you have some coal to spare. I'm running low."

Gordon blinked dumbly, then led Scott away, not even reacting to the peals of laughter coming from the peanut gallery.

** ** **

That evening, almost every engine could be found at the Big Sheds. Even Daisy had deigned to wander down from Ffarquhar to see Scott and hear about his adventures!

Scott looked at all the expectant faces, a little stunned.
"Um… well, this is a few more than I was expecting! How has Sodor been while I've been away?"
"Who cares!" came a shout from someone - Scott suspected it to be either James or Thomas - they were shushed by a furious Gordon.
"Who said that?!"
"It's alright, Gordon!" laughed Scott. "I'm not surprised - well, maybe a little at how many showed up, but not at your excitement. It isn't every day an engine goes off somewhere foreign!"
"It doesn't mean they can waltz on in here and make demands of you, Scott - you need to learn to stop being such a people-pleaser."
"I am not a people-pleaser," huffed Scott. Gordon just raised his eyebrow, unimpressed.

Scott pointedly coughed.

"Well! It was a lot of fun over there - I started in Boston and wound up over in San Francisco, right on the other side of the continent! It is so beautiful over there, with scenery unlike anything you'd ever seen!" He paused, considered. "I remember being on the route to Slaton, Texas, and seeing a day clearer than any day I'd ever seen before it. There was not a single cloud in the sky, and it was so hot it looked as though the sky was no longer blue, but closer to being a light white. I was stunned by it!"

The engines all looked amazed! They very idea of a sky with not only no clouds, but where it was so hot that the colours themselves were beginning to drain away - it was beyond comprehension.

"I met a lot of wonderful engines and people over there two - the first was Hank."
"Who," asked Gordon pointedly, "was Hank?"
"He's our ancestor, Gordon!" replied Scott brightly. Gordon's jaw hit his bufferbeam.
"Ancestor?! In America? What, was he sent over with Eisenhower?"
"No," snorted Gordon, "he's a Pennsylvania Railroad K4 class locomotive."

There was a beat of silence.

"Sir Nigel Gresley used them as inspiration for our class, Gordon - though we got a different firebox and were built a little more sleek and a little less big."
"Sir Nigel was inspired by an American?!" spluttered Gordon, stunned. Scott chuckled.
"Oh yes indeed! Hank was doing railtours on his heritage line, so we visited and I even double-headed a special train with him. It was a lot of fun… Hank was a nice engine. Very nice. Real salt of the earth character."

Gordon blinked.
"Right, because a steam engine whose class helped create our breed can be described in such terms."
"Hank was nice!" Scott huffed. "Just because our siblings were about as pleasant as running into Jack the Ripper, doesn't mean their lot were." He paused, considered, then hummed. "Or at least, Hank wasn't. I didn't run into any other K4s over there. Hank told me most of them are nice enough though - they had their own fierce rivalry though, with the New York Central."
"What, like you lot and the LMS?" quizzed Henry. "Surely there wasn't ever a railway rivalry as strong as that!"

"There was!" chuckled Scott. "Hank told me all about how they used to compete on trains between Chicago and New York, racing each other across the US North-East. Hank particularly remembers racing against a fellow called Connor - though, unfortunately, Connor was scrapped. There aren't many New York Central engines left anymore."
"What, did they have a manager like Dr Beeching?" asked Oliver, astounded. "I know that the US dieselised faster than we did, but surely not!"
"Surely so," sighed Scott, looking downcast. "While the Pennsylvania Railroad set up museums to remember their past, the New York Central scrapped all their steam engines as fast as possible, and now only eight steam engines survive from that entire railway. Poor Hank, he told me it doesn't feel the same, not being able to trade banter with Connor."

The engines all stared in shock - it was a truly horrible thought, to have a manager who would callously cut up and scrap hundreds of engines without thinking of preserving any of them.

"Well!" went on Scott, trying to keep the mood from plummeting further, "the next engine I should tell you about was the exact opposite of Hank. His name was Vinnie, and he was only a few weeks away from withdrawal, let me tell you! But he was the rudest, the nastiest, the most spiteful engine I'd ever met! And I met Spamcan!"

That got a snort out of Henry.

"Why do you say that about him?" asked Thomas. Scott grimaced, and looked very put out for a long moment before sighing.
"Because he was a bully, plain and simple. He had absolutely no reason to act the way he did, and yet he loved to insult, berate and push around the smaller engines. He tried it with me! He came up and asked me if I was the shunter!"
"The shunter?!" exclaimed Gordon, furious. "Let me at him! I'll teach him - shunter indeed, is he blind? You have a tender!"
"In America, they use engines with tenders to shunt," Scott replied. "I didn't see one tank engine the entire time I was there… then again, I didn't see many steam engines at all."

Thomas smothered a snort, while Percy looked over at Gordon.
"So, who doesn't shunt again, Gordon?" he asked. Gordon went as red as James' paintwork - again - and spluttered indignantly.
"But a Pacific?!" he finally managed. "We're far too large! We'd derail! That's why tender engines of our size don't shunt."

Scott shared a look with Thomas and Percy.

"Well, Vinnie seemed to think that engines of our size do shunt, and he came storming over, smoke billowing everywhere - he looked like he was a bull about to go on a rampage! - and so I simply puffed out of the way. The idiot didn't slow down at all, so when the signalman changed the points he went roaring down a siding and crushed a boxcar into splinters! As you can imagine, the managers weren't happy with him, and even less so when he began spitting vitriol about me."

"What a rude engine," sniffed Duck. "I hope he got what was coming to him."

"He did," Scott replied. "They told him I was famous, and a privately preserved engine - and then he wasn't so cross. He wanted my former owner to buy him! But Mr Peglar wouldn't… The managers withdrew him on the spot. Last I heard he went to a scrapyard somewhere in Ohio."
"A horrid fate for a horrid engine," agreed Gordon. "Serves him right! Imagine attacking other engines!"
"He was notorious for it, apparently," Scott sighed. "The diesel shunters all told me he would bash them around, thinking that because he'd survived this long that he would be preserved. Thought no one would touch him. They got the privilege of dragging him into the out-of-use siding."

A few of the engines who had worked under British Railways were stunned at the idea of a steam engine bashing about shunters, just because he believed he would be preserved.
"If we'd done that back on the Great Western..." muttered Duck, horrified. "Something was wrong with that engine." 
"Not even the diesels would!" agreed Oliver. 

"And then there was Beau," mused Scott, with a low chuckle. Gordon looked over, confused.
"What kind of a name is Beau? It's a term for a male suitor!"
"What kind of a name is Flying Scotsman," retorted Scott. "It's an express train. Engines have odd names sometimes, you know that!"

Gordon grunted, and looked away. A few of the engines laughed at that, while Edward just smiled.
"It's hard to try and understand other cultures sometimes, isn't it?" he said softly. Gordon sighed.
"That's true enough, I suppose," he grumbled.

"Beau was the old 'American' type engine the San Francisco Belt Railroad was renting to pull enthusiast trains up and down the line."
"An 'American' type - you mean like me?" asked Edward, a little surprised. "Not many of us still in steam, after all."
"He was an ancient engine," grinned Scott. "Built in 1875, apparently. He's nearly a hundred!"
"That's not special," sniffed Gordon to himself. "Skarloey and Rheneas are over 100 years old, and that engine Duke they found not too long ago isn't much younger."
"Doesn't make Beau any less special," Scott retorted. "Especially because he was such an odd sort! He told me he used to work for a silver mine out in Arizona, and he had stories that'd make your steam turn to ice!"

"Ooooo, tell us one!" peeped Percy.
"Well, there were several stories, such as raids by Native Americans, and accidents on stretches of line like 'devil's back'! Now that's a story to tell. Apparently, for nine years there were accidents on the same stretch of line. No one knew what caused 'em - but at least twice a year, a freight train would go hurtling off at speed! Engine crews and their locomotives taken in the blink of the eye, until finally one year things changed." The engines all watched intently, drawn in by the story.

"The driver and fireman had the local signalman on board, and for once the trainwreck didn't kill them! Instead, according to Beau, at the last moment the signalman threw the engine into reverse, right before the train crashed. At least, Beau thought it was the signalman. No one was ever quite sure - but what's curious, is that signalman was involved in the first accident, all nine years ago. And after that accident, the stretch of line became as safe as anything, well, apart from the occasional runaway."

"Wow! That is a really good story! Very chilling!" chirped Percy. 
"Thank you," chuckled Scott. "But I'm not much of a storyteller - you should hear Beau! Now there's an engine who can weave together a tale."

Scott yawned, and Gordon coughed pointedly.
"Right! Everyone back to your own sheds! Scott's tired - you can pester him another time." The engines all huffed, and a bunch of them shuffled off to sleep in the carriage sheds, not really wanting to make the trek back to the other side of the island this late in the evening.

Edward, though, sidled up alongside Scott, the two watching as everyone else fell asleep.
"You changed the name, didn't you?" Edward murmured. Scott looked over.
"Oh?"
"In that last story - it was Devil's Elbow, wasn't it?" Scott hummed softly.
"So you had heard that story, eh?"
"Their government hushed it up cause of World War One, but an American soldier told me about it," Edward replied softly. "It's not a story they wanted to admit to, especially not to foreign press."

Scott didn't reply for a moment, instead gazing out the shed at the stars.
"You're not wrong. I cut that story into ribbons because of the ending - Beau apparently had had that signalman as a driver for some years prior to the first accident. You can imagine what that felt like for him."

There was another brief pause.

"Did you enjoy your trip to America?"
"I did. As wild as it was, I enjoyed seeing more of the world. Maybe one day I'll get to see more."

Sitting there, neither Scott nor Edward knew how true that statement would one day be.

Chapter Text

If anything, Percy had to thank the badgers. It was an odd thing to be thankful for, badgers. They normally made nuisances of themselves, digging holes too close to the trackbed and causing the entire branchline to be shut down while some wildlife specialist came out to extract the furry pains from their new burrows and wax poetic about putting in special channels for the creatures to travel by.

Sir Stephen had gotten so bored of listening to the same argument over and over that he'd even put in such channels - there were six along the branchline, including one right near the Junction where Percy collected the mail from its special apparatus. It included a hook that the mail was placed on, and a special net that extended from the carriage to grab it.

Percy would collect the mail along his route in such a fashion, the same apparatus later dumping mail bags in special receiving bays on his way back in the early morning. This allowed for a change over of vans at the Big Station, where Bear or a foreign engine dropped off mail from the Mainland and parts of Sodor and picked up mail heading back. It was a very complex system, and Percy looked after the mail along Thomas and Duck's branchlines, making sure that all the mail was always delivered on time.

But one night, Percy felt off. It began as he was being steamed up.
"Driver," Percy mused, "I don't know why, but I have a funny feeling in my boiler."
"Are you unwell?" asked his driver, pausing in his routine oiling of Percy's valvegear. "Do you need Thomas to pull the mail tonight?"
"Oh no," replied Percy. "Just… it feels like something is going to happen tonight. Could you keep an eye out?"
"Alright," agreed his driver.

Neither Percy nor his driver could have expected what was to happen.

Percy's run seemed to go alright at first - he made his way along the line, the various mailbag apparatuses depositing sacks of letters and parcels into his vans. There was a brief delay near Dryaw, as Percy had to wait for an errant ram that had wandered onto the line, and then, he approached the junction. There was a distant flash, which Percy chalked up to an engine flying by on the mainline.

Here, the line curved as it prepared to join the mainline, and a thicket of trees obstructed Percy's view of the lineside. But when he did round the bend, his eyes widened.
"Driver! There's no mailbag!" Percy exclaimed. His driver looked too - and indeed, there wasn't!
"That's odd - maybe the postman's late."
"At this hour? No one's on the roads!" huffed Percy. He went to slow down, when he saw the signals up ahead. His driver sighed.

"We can't stop, they're already signalling for Gordon's return express. We need to move fast or we'll miss our path."

Percy grimaced, but picked up speed anyway, not wanting to get stuck at the junction for twenty minutes.

It wasn't until he was preparing for his return journey that things began to sound… odd.

"There's a mailbag missing," the foreman said, striding up with his clipboard. He tapped it with his pen. "You're missing the Knapford bag."
"There was none," Percy's driver replied. "We looked, and it wasn't on the hook at all!" The foreman scowled.
"What're you playing at - that bag was marked as delivered!"

At that moment, Bear set off with the return mail train. Percy watched it go, and then looked over to see BoCo of all engines rumbling in with the midnight goods. The moment he stopped, his driver hopped down and strode off to the office, returning with a familiar sheet of paper. It was the usual papers for the Flying Kipper!
"What're you doing with Kipper papers?" quizzed Percy, looking around in confusion. "Where's Henry?"
"Henry's got the special tonight, remember?" BoCo replied. "He's bringing in all those dignitaries for the conference." Percy had vaguely heard it was happening - the government had chosen to host some of the countries' closest military allies for a major conference near the Big Station, and Henry had gone to London to collect them and bring them up overnight.

Bear's taillamp swayed in the breeze, vanishing in seconds. Thanks to the delay, Percy's mail vans had simply been attached to the end of the train, to be sorted while it crossed Sodor.

"How odd," murmured Percy. At that moment, the foreman returned, this time with a police officer.
"Percy, this is Constable Simmons. He is looking for the missing mailbag, so please oblige him at every possible turn."
"Of course, sir," Percy replied. Constable Simmons stepped into his cab, and Percy set off with the return train.

They were forced to stop at the Junction though, shunted into a siding as a security precaution as Henry's special train roared through.
"Why did we have to be shunted?" huffed Percy.
"No trains allowed on the line - could cause a security risk," the Constable explained. "Only the TPO was allowed special consideration, cause they're all vetted government workers."
"Are the dignitaries that valuable?" asked Percy.
"Of course!" exclaimed Constable Simmons. "Were they put in danger, half the world could go to war!"

Percy did not like the sound of that.

They set off again presently, and were just rounding the bend onto Thomas' branchline when Percy's headlamp caught something on the side of the line!
"What's that?" asked the Constable. "Woah up, I'm having a look." Percy stopped, and Constable Simmons stepped down. There was a teenage boy, curled around the missing mailbag! The Constable was furious!
"He's tampered with Her Majesty's Post!" he exclaimed. "That's a criminal offence; he'll be looking at prison time!"
"Why's he asleep?" Percy's driver queried, stepping down. The Constable paused, and checked the teen boy again.

"He's unconscious, must've knocked himself clean out falling from the pole!" Constable Simmons said with confidence.

Percy was not so sure.

"That's Roy!" he said, stunned. "The Chalmers boy!"
"You know this kid?"
"Yes - he's an animal lover. He got permission to camp out by the lineside and take photos of the wildlife coming out of the badger crossing just up there."

Constable Simmons grabbed Percy's lamp, and flashed it on the badger crossing. A badger looked back, stunned. It took a step, and stepped on something. There was a brilliant flash, as a previously unseen camera lit up!

"That's that flash from earlier!" gasped Percy. "We saw it as we neared here!"

The Constable, a little confused, agreed to talk the whole thing out at the next station, where they could hopefully revive young Roy.

They stopped at Dryaw, and the stationmaster there found some smelling salts to wake Roy up with. The poor boy came to, groaning lowly and clutching at his head.
"Did I… stop it?" he slurred, before looking up at all the very grave faces staring back at him. "Uhh… hello."
"You have a lot of explaining to do," snapped Constable Simmons. "Tampering with Her Majesty's mail—"
"There were assassins!" yelped the boy! "They had a bomb!"

There was a stunned silence.

"What nonsense!" spluttered Constable Simmons. "Where do you get off saying that?"
"But there was!" exclaimed Roy. "They said they'd delayed the mail train so they could sneak a bomb on board so it'd go off next to a special train!"

The Constable was about to bark a reply when Percy spoke up.
"Sir, we were stopped by a ram on the line. Near here." Constable Simmons turned, and stared.
"Really?"
"Yes, just up the line - but I thought it a bit odd. The farmer just had his fences repaired." Constable Simmons paused.
"Do you have proof?" he asked pointedly.
"Yes! My camera, they tripped it!"

The Constable grabbed the camera from where he'd left it in Percy's cab, and held it up for Roy to flick through the photos. He only had to go one back - and there they were. Caught in two photos. Three men in dark coats holding a weird device.

"That is suspect indeed," Constable Simmons said darkly. "What happened."

Roy was very quick to explain. He'd been camping out, waiting to see a badger with his special tripwire camera prepared and a backup video camera a little way back, when the postman had dropped off the mailbag. Roy had waved, the postman had waved back, and all had been well. Then, three men in dark coats had driven up to a spot near the line, and strode towards the mailbag, holding a duffel bag.

They'd taken the weird device out of the duffel bag, and set a timer, checking exactly when Percy would arrive, when Bear would depart and when the bomb would detonate, to make sure Henry crashed. They'd even planned Percy's delay, to make sure the vans would simply be added to the back of Bear's train.

Roy had waited until they were walking away before sprinting to the mailbag and using his pocketknife to slash at it, hoping to cut it down before Percy could collect it. He'd slashed and cut at it, when the men had seen him, and Percy had whistled. The men advanced on Roy, triggering the camera - that had been the flash Percy had seen! Roy had kicked at them, but they had gotten closer and closer, until Percy's lamp began to shine. The three men had ducked out of sight, giving Roy the chance to cut the mailbag down!

He'd been knocked unconscious by the fall, and didn't know what happened next. But based on the second photo, the saboteurs had taken the bomb out of the mailbag to implicate him, and had triggered the camera again on their way to their van.

"This is a very serious allegation," Constable Simmons finally said.
"We can look at my video camera - it should be back by the lineside!" Roy replied, looking pleading. "I promise you, it'll prove I'm telling the truth!"

So back the lot went, and there it was. The video camera, which had caught the whole thing! Constable Simmons was as pale as a sheet, and turned to the others.
"I need to make a call," was all he said.

The assassins were caught, a few days later, trying to flee the island. They had been identified by the photos Roy had caught, and the boy was given a large sum of money as thank you, as well as a special medal.

"That's the value in badger crossings!" beamed Roy to Percy, holding his medal. "They'll save lives!"

Percy could only agree.

Chapter Text

The Skarloey Railway was abuzz with activity. Gangers had begun to build new sections of track around Crovan's Gate, while decorators had begun hanging up streamers and bunting and flags. The Thin Controller had even been roped into blowing up balloons!

"What is all this about?" asked Sir Handel, watching idly as two workmen tried to centre a large wreath on the sheds, and continuously were just a few inches off.
"It's probably to celebrate Skarloey and Rheneas turning one-hundred and sixty," Peter Sam replied cheerfully. "Granpuff says we'll be doing some special excursions."
"Isn't it also the 70th anniversary of those books about us - the first ones that the Thin Clergyman wrote," Sir Handel murmured, watching as the first workman moved the wreath a little too far to the left once again.
"It is!" exclaimed Peter Sam, as if just realising. "My, we'll be very busy then!"

Just then, Donald and Douglas arrived, hauling a long, heavy train of flatbeds. On the flatbeds was even more prefabricated track!

"That doesn't seem right," mused Sir Handel, as the track was unloaded. "Looks like the wrong gauge to me." Peter Sam considered.
"Maybe they've bought it off an old mine - like last time when we had the yards expanded! They'll regauge the lot later!"

Sir Handel wasn't convinced, but let it alone.

He was too busy to even think about the prefabricated track, as the entire railway became extraordinarily busy! The track was laid - but not connected to the rest of the railway yet - by Rusty and an unenthusiastic Fred, while Skarloey and Rheneas were repaired and the rest of the engines hauled long passenger and freight trains about, cleaning up the line on top of their usual work.

"Ye'd think the Kin wis coming, the way everyone's gang on!" Duncan complained, banging some trucks together in the yard. They were full of refuse from the mines and branches that had trimmed from too close to the line, and were to be unloaded into Percy's trucks, so the little engine could take them away.
"It's nice to clean up," Peter Sam replied. "I like a good spring clean!"
"It's no e'en Spring!" huffed Duncan.

Sir Handel would have himself complained, had he not noticed the Caledonian twins approaching in the distance. They seemed to be hauling quite the heavy load indeed, from the way they were straining. As they drew nearer, Sir Handel could make out… other engines. On flatbeds.

"Look!" gasped Peter Sam, noticing the train. "It's Talyllyn and Tom Rolt!"
"Whit're they doin here?"

The answer came in the form of the Thin Controller, striding across the ballast.
"We're holding a gathering." The engines looked puzzled.
"Sir?"
"Did I… not tell you all?" asked the Thin Controller slowly, looking between the three. He winced at the blank stares he got. "Well, we are. We've invited a number of engines from all over to come and join us - we have Talyllyn and Tom Rolt from their railway, Drayton from the Corris Railway, Prince from the Ffestiniog and a number of others."

That got the engines excited!

"So that's why the tracks are different gauges!" exclaimed Sir Handel. The Thin Controller chuckled.
"Yes, yes it is."

Tom Rolt and Talyllyn were unloaded onto the line - unlike most of the guests, they could run on the Skarloey Railway's gauge, and were soon puttering about, getting used to being steamed up again after the long journey from Wales.

Sir Handel watched, then noticed Duke, Skarloey and Rheneas sitting in the sheds, not looking the least bit surprised about the news of the Gathering.

He decided to confront them that night.

"Granpuff," Sir Handel began, voice sugary sweet, "did you know anything about the Gathering happening soon?" Tom Rolt and Ivo Hugh gasped dramatically; Talyllyn and Skarloey did their best to hide their snorts of laughter.
"A very good question, youngster," Duke replied. "However, I would personally ask the engine whose twin arrived today."

Skarloey stopped laughing.
"Excuse you! We were told together, and just because your sibling hasn't arrived yet—"
"At least your siblings are coming," huffed Rheneas. Skarloey, Duke and Talyllyn all shared a look.
"Dolgoch came last time," Skarloey said. "It was my twin's turn this time!"
"Curious how your twin always gets to be here for special celebrations…" mused Rheneas.
"Curious how Sir Handel always gets to be the one going off to the Talyllyn Railway whenever they need help," Peter Sam muttered.
"Oi! Don't turn this on me," snapped Sir Handel. "And you're not even being accused of anything! Why would you go after me like that, Peter Sam?"

Peter Sam just smiled innocently.
"I don't know what you mean? I'm just a delicate flower - maybe Duncan said it."
"Delicate flower by hind wheels," sniffed Sir Handel. "You're as delicate as a great lumbering lorry!"

Ivo Hugh and Tom Rolt gasped again, even more dramatically.

"Seriously? Not helping," grumbled Rheneas. Ivo Hugh and Tom Rolt stuck their tongues out at the old engine in unison, they shared a look.
"Why so serious, Rheneas?" they asked in chorus. Rheneas shuddered.
"Creepy. We should've never let you two meet," he muttered.

From there, the argument only devolved, and the Thin Controller had to come break up the whole thing in his dressing gown!

"I didn't know you dressed like Scrooge, sir," mused Sir Handel cheekily. The Thin Controller gave the little engine quarry detail until the end of the month - but Sir Handel considered it worth it to see the look on the Thin Controller's face.

** ** **

The number of engines arriving on the Skarloey Railway was getting a little ridiculous. On top of Talyllyn and Tom Rolt, Drayton from the Corris Railway and Prince from the Ffestiniog Railway had arrived by the end of the week. Peter Sam was very excited to see his new-build brother, and the two even double-headed some specials together.

Then came a torrent of engines. They came from all over the country, and they came in all shapes and sizes. One engine - nicknamed Sherpa - had even worked on the Darjeeling Himalaya Railway over in India! The yard filled up to the brim with engines, and soon the cleaners began refusing to come into work because of the number of different voices all calling for their attention.

"How many engines did you invite, sir?!" spluttered Skarloey one morning, watching as three more narrow gauge engines were unloaded onto a special section of track. "We've got nearly fifty different engines in our yard! We can't take any more!"
"I think that should be all of them," the Thin Controller said, quietly crossing his fingers behind his back. "This is a very special gala, after all. A lot of these engines will be doing the 'whistle up for 200' here in a few days…"
"You accidentally hit 'send to all' on the narrow gauge heritage railway group chat, didn't you?" chuckled Skarloey. The Thin Controller blushed.
"I… perhaps." He hurried away, leaving Skarloey to watch as all the engines chatted happily in the yards.

It was going to be an incredible gala, with this many narrow-gauge engines all gathered in one place for the first time perhaps ever. And while, perhaps, there would have been more space on another railway (Skarloey privately thought the Ffestiniog and Welsh Highland Railways in Wales had at least double the track length for engines), it was an honour to have them on the Skarloey Railway.

Sir Handel sidled up alongside.
"I can't believe we fit them all in," he admitted. "But it's… not unpleasant." Skarloey chortled.
"That's high praise indeed coming from you!" he joked. Sir Handel flushed bright red, and glared at his buffers.
"Laugh it up. But I mean - this. Having all our little heritage railways come together, work together and exist together. It's nice. It means no railway will be left behind, no engines forgotten."

Skarloey smiled sadly, knowing exactly what Sir Handel was thinking about.
"You're right. Let's make this a Grand Gathering, shall we? For our past, our present and our future."

Sir Handel could only smile and agree.

Chapter Text

The Rocket was built to win.

That was what his builders told him - the father and the son. They looked him right in the eye from the moment he was first steamed, and were clear with their expectations.
"Win. Or we will build another engine," the younger one said, his voice sharp.
"Do your best," the elder amended. "And if god's fortune smiles upon us, we will win. Or else you'll be scrapped."

The Rocket hadn't quite understood what those words meant - he'd existed for all of ten seconds, after all. All he understood was that he had a purpose. A very important purpose. He had to, otherwise his builders - the father and the son - would not have spoken in such powerful tones, with such powerful words. While The Rocket had yet to learn what those words meant, they imprinted into his being. Buried themselves deep in his funnel, wormed their way into his firebox and nestled between his frames.

The Rocket was built to win.

** ** **

The Rocket yawned, slowly waking up in the tiny, cramped shed that had been constructed specifically for the Rainhill Trials. Moonlight filtered in through the cracks in the woodwork, bathing the rails in an eerie glow.
"Hackworth's engine has a blastpipe," muttered the son from somewhere behind him.
"So does our engine," came the patient reply from the father.
"His is better."
"Well, you also made the cylinders - so if you've done it right, that threat is gone."

There was a lull in the conversation; The Rocket wondered what that meant. The father and the son often had lulls in their conversation, but they were rarely because they were content.

"What if we swapped the blastpipes?"
"That would end poorly for us - Hackworth is a fan of strong blastpipes."
"Well, we need to do something! The pair who made the Novelty keeps looking at us weird because our engine has a face. That isn't normal for a machine."

The Rocket really wished he didn't have the ability to hear his builders, for now he was well aware of their honest feelings. Still, he had a job to do.

The Rocket was built to win.

"Look, our weird machine with a face will win us the competition. He's my design," said the son.
"Look now," huffed the father. "Locomotion is doing fine, the Stockton and Darlington don't seem to have any complaints."
"It's outdated, father. Beamed engines are relics of the past. The Rocket will prove that multi-tube boilers and angled piston rods are the future." He turned to the engine, glaring at it as it tried its best not to shudder in fear. "So long as this bucket of bolts and wood doesn't fail us, we will win. It will be the primogenitor of all steam power. It will be famous."

The father considered.

"Then teach it to smile. Teach it some basic manners. People love hearing good manners and seeing bright smiles, don't they?"
"Yes, that's why parliament prefers me."
"Ha. Ha. I'll teach the engine then."

The father stepped around the front of The Rocket, pulling up a greasy old barrel to sit on. The son sniffed at his father, but followed him.
"You have a point, The Rocket will only truly impress when it can fully silence the nay-sayers."

The two considered the engine, then smiled. Awkwardly, but smiled.

"Hullo there," said the father. "My name is George Stephenson, and I'm your builder. We worked very hard on you, so do your best and win for us."
"H-h-hullo," stammered The Rocket, unsure what to think. "I am… The Rocket. It's… knives to meet chew."
"Nice to meet you," huffed the son. "Please, enunciate your words. We will get a proper conversationalist out of you yet. Repeat after me: Nice. To. Meet. You."
"O… oh. Alright… Nice… to… meet… you."

The son nodded.
"Good. I am Robert Stephenson, and I am also your builder. You are proof that my company can build the finest engines, and I want that on full display - understood?"

The Rocket didn't know what to say.

The father— George chuckled.
"Just say yes." The Rocket looked between his two builders, his creators, the two people whom he had interacted with in his entire life - two men who had placed their entire reputation, their livelihoods, their hopes and dreams, their money, their time and their effort into him. And The Rocket said:

"Yes."

** ** **

Stephen awoke to see lightning dance in the sky, great bolts of light streaming through the windows. Beside him, Glynn continued to sleep peacefully, unaware of the memories flashing through his friend's smokebox.

Stephen was so lucky to have Glynn, to have an engine who saw past the spotlight that blinded everyone to the engine trapped beneath it.

He just hoped that one day, he would be able to tell Glynn his story.

** ** **

The Rocket was the only engine in the entire competition with a face.

Sans Pareil had no face - it had a boiler and a firebox and cylinders, but no face. Neither did Perseverance, nor Novelty - and definitely not Cycloped, which was a horse on a treadmill.

The Rocket felt more alone than he ever had before. In spite of the previous night, when his builders had finally begun teaching him the rules of the world properly, he was now faced with the fact it likely was not enough for the crowd. At least a couple thousand people were milling about, overflowing from a grandstand and pooling around the track.

They mingled, and looked, and gasped at his face.

"Look!" they murmured. "How unusual! How irregular! Is it safe?" The Rocket made a conscious effort to smile like his builders had suggested, trying his best to seem cool and suave and normal, when in all actuality, the evidence pointed directly to him being the least normal there.

He had a face, and the others did not.

The engines were carefully prepared, according to the rules that had been set out. Robert even paused, taking pity on The Rocket and reading them aloud.

"The weight of the Locomotive Engine, with its full complement of water in the boiler, shall be ascertained at the Weighing Machine, by eight o'clock in the morning, and the load assigned to it shall be three times the weight thereof. The water in the boiler shall be cold, and there shall be no fuel in the fireplace. As much fuel shall be weighed, and as much water shall be measured and delivered into the Tender Carriage, as the owner of the Engine may consider sufficient for the supply of the Engine for a journey of thirty-five miles. The fire in the boiler shall then be lighted, and the quantity of fuel consumed for getting up the steam shall be determined, and the time noted."

Robert paused, nodded, and smiled.
"That is what we are doing now. You have been weighed, and now they are filling you with water and giving you your fuel. This, in your tender carriage, will be considered and taken as part of the load assigned to you.

"The Engine, with the carriages attached to it, shall be run by hand up to the Starting Post, and as soon as the steam is got up to fifty pounds per square inch, the engine shall set out upon its journey."
"And then I puff?"
"And then you win," replied Robert with a dark look. "You will cover a distance of one mile and three quarters each way, including one-eighth of a mile at each end for getting up the speed and for stopping the train; by this means the Engine, with its load, will travel one and a-half mile each way at full speed. You shall make ten trips, which will be equal to a journey of 35 miles; thirty miles whereof shall be performed at full speed, and the average rate of travelling shall not be less than ten miles per hour."

The Rocket rather wished he had a neck, like humans did, so he could nod to the instructions. Instead, all he could do was politely agree and hum to every point in the rules that Robert read.

"As soon as the Engine has performed this task - which will be equal to the travelling from Liverpool to Manchester - there shall be a fresh supply of fuel and water delivered to her; and, as soon as she can be got ready to set out again, she shall go up to the Starting Post, and make ten trips more, which will be equal to the journey from Manchester back again to Liverpool. The time of performing every trip shall be accurately noted, as well as the time occupied in getting ready to set out on the second journey. Do you understand, The Rocket?"

The Rocket smiled, trying to project more confidence than he felt.
"I understand, sir."

** ** **

For all that his builders had hyped up the trials and made them out to be terrifying, The Rocket was thoroughly underwhelmed. He was steamed up, moved to the starting line, and then brought up to speed. He made his way down the short stretch of line, stopped, then made his way back. Then forwards. Then back. Over and over again.

A brass band played as the newly built engines puffed back and forth, back and forth. They clanked and huffed, steam shooting from their funnels and the crowds cheering and jeering. The people had picked favourites out of the engines, making their choices well known as they saw the engines make their way past, rattling along at their top speed. Most were not calling out for The Rocket. 

Novelty shot past suddenly, roaring along at a speed unlike anything The Rocket had ever seen before.
"What speed is that engine doing?!" spluttered Robert.
"A good one, but we need to pace ourselves," George replied. The Rocket wished he could pick up speed, put more steam into his cylinders and rattle on after the Novelty, trying to catch up and prove his own excellence. Instead, George Stephenson kept his hand steady on the regulator, keeping The Rocket at a decent speed rather than showing off.

There was a shout; The Rocket wished he could see, but he was going in the wrong direction. George Stephenson turned around, and burst into guffaws of laughter.
"They've only gone and broken the darned thing!" he howled. The Rocket wasn't sure what that meant. Was one of his competitors out?

One of them was out. Cycloped, the engine made out of a horse on a treadmill, had broken. The treadmill had been constructed too lightly; the horse's hooves were too powerful. When the horse had been coaxed into a canter, it had ripped a hole right into the flooring of the treadmill, snapping gears, ripping apart wood and bringing the entire engine to a standstill, the horse staring around itself in confusion while the driver hissed and spat in rage.

Robert stifled his laughter behind his hand, but George was not so polite.
"Need a lift?" he called cheekily.

The other driver did not reply, but it was more than obvious to The Rocket that by the man's dark look, he was not happy.

Still, the first day ended up being a success, and The Rocket simmered down for the night feeling much better of himself.
"We did well today, right sir?" he asked politely, the moment he saw George.
"Aye, we did. You'll have the day off, then you'll back at it tomorrow and on the fifth day. Enjoy your rest - cause soon we'll be running you to the bone."

The Rocket was not quite sure what 'running you to the bone' meant, but it sounded rough.

Still, at least his builders were kind enough to sit him outside so he could watch the goings-on of the next day. With Cycloped out, Perseverance being repaired, and Sans Pareil being rested for its next showing on the fifth day, The Rocket only could watch as one quiet, solitary engine huffed and puffed backwards and forwards. Novelty was fast, lightweight and seemed to be a strong contender… only, The Rocket wondered if there was a problem.

"I don't like that engine," muttered George darkly. "It is too light - could you imagine it trying to pull freight?"
"It does seem less than suitable," agreed Robert. "I am not fond of its speed - it could threaten our engine!" The Rocket did not say anything, his eyes focused in on the engine. It was just speeding up for another run, but it seemed off. The engine sounded almost hoarse, coughing as it stormed along. There was a hiss, then a bang!

Novelty groaned to a stop, steam enveloping it. George blinked.
"What was that?" he demanded, standing from his chair.
"It looked like there was an issue with their boiler."
"Robert, that looked more like an engine exploding than a small issue with the boiler!" snapped George. He stepped forward. "We will need to go out and sooth the public to ensure they back steam."
"You are too hasty, old man," snorted Robert. "Look - the steam's already clearing. It was probably that stupid mechanical draught blower they fitted. That is why the blastpipe is better. Isn't that right, The Rocket?"
"I think you might be right sir - the men are trying to look under the engine."

And Robert Stephenson was right. The blower had failed with a bang, allowed steam to rapidly escape as the fire withered without the influx of oxygen.

"That'll be today's entertainment over," mused George with a chuckle. "Well, tomorrow we'll be back up and then we'll do a speed trial with you on the fifth day - you got that, The Rocket?"
"Yes, sir - I got it!" beamed The Rocket, feeling more and more like he was part of this team, rather than merely their machine. Maybe it was not simply the father and the son, but the father, the son and their engine.

That felt much more exciting to the young engine, being part of the team.

** ** **

The fifth day dawned, and The Rocket was weighed, prepared, and moved to the starting line. Novelty sat on the other line, prepared for its second attempt at pulling its train. The Rocket, having succeeded in this task and then watched as San Pareil had spat lumps of coke everywhere and failed, felt better about his chances. All he had to do was beat Novelty. George watched as Novelty set off, steaming back and forth, then grinned.

"I have a plan, if you're up for it," he said softly to The Rocket.
"Oh?"
"We'll detach your tender and show up Novelty to such an extent that no one will ever forget your name." The Rocket did not even need ten seconds to think about it, beaming.
"Yes sir!"

The Stephensons worked fast, building The Rocket's fire up until it was glowing hot and steam shot from his safety valve. Then, they waited until right as Novelty slowed at the other end of the test track.

"Now!" cheered The Rocket. George opened the regulator, and The Rocket responded with a will, charging forwards. His wheels whirred, spinning faster and faster. Smoke and steam poured from his funnel. He thundered by the grandstands, his pistons a blur.
"Good god!" gasped one man.
"It's the Power of Steam!" exclaimed another. Applause filled the air, as The Rocket rushed by Novelty as skidded to a stop, flushed but triumphant.

"Well done!" cheered George. "Well done! You've gone and shown them, you've gone and shown them! You'll be remembered forevermore!"

Little did The Rocket know how true that statement was to be.

** ** **

Oftentimes, children visited the museum. They came in class groups, or with their families, or with the other children from the orphanage the Earl funded. They loved to look around, to see the dinosaur park and the armour from medieval knights. They loved the rich tapestries, the weaponry that was hung in glass display cases.

They loved Stephen the most. They loved to point and talk to each other loudly about The Rocket and how he had won the Rainhill Trials, how he had changed steam forever. They said the name on his boiler, rather than the name he introduced himself with, speaking over him when he tried to interject to clarify.

He was not a being, but a symbol. a relic. In many ways, he imagined that the museum curators, teachers and parents alike all wished Stephen was as blank as the other engines at the Rainhill Trials, that he had never gained sentience and eyes and a mouth and a mind of his own.

The children were never told about the other event that made him famous - that they had to learn later on in life, when the sparkle of joy had left their eyes. Stephen hated seeing the looks from the adults, the glances at his wheels. He knew what they were looking for, the flecks of red that he knew had stained in.

Glynn never looked at Stephen's wheels. He preferred to smile at Stephen - to see him for who he is, rather than the mythos that was. Glynn knew there was more to the engine than the limelight, than the great floodlights that were always focused on one of - if not the - world's most famous locomotive.

"Why should I care about some stuffy trial from nearly two hundred years ago?" chuckled Glynn once, when Stephen dared ask why the coffee pot had never taken an interest in his history.
"You're here, I'm here - and I much rather spend time talking with my friend than listening to some stuffy history lesson."

Stephen didn't entirely agree with that way of thinking - but it was nice to know his friend did not care about the past, did not ask about the flecks of red or the way Stephen personally avoided speaking of an era long past.

Speaking with Glynn felt like speaking with someone special.

** ** **

There was a new engine in the shed, joining The Rocket and six others on their new home railway.
"Oh, my. What old fashioned creatures," sniffed the engine, being moved onto the right track. "It is such a pity you all will be soon forgotten."
"Who are you?" demanded Dart, one of the new engines.
"I am Northumbrian, and I am the most modern engine in Britain - see how much better I look than you all?"
"You look the same!" sniffed Comet. "We all do! We're all built like 'grandpops' over here." The engines all looked over at The Rocket, who was trying his best to ignore them. "He's famous, don't you know? He won a special trial to pick the engines to run on this railway."
"Please," sneered Northumbrian. "I would have won even more easily - that engine is only a comet, flashing by in a bright burst of light before fizzling out completely."
"And what is that meant to say about me?!" demanded Comet.

The Rocket tuned the lot of them out. He thought it frankly a bit ridiculous that the engines he had at first considered younger siblings had all turned so quickly into grumpy, snivelling brats who only fought amongst themselves.

"Do I look like a grandfather to you?" hissed The Rocket finally, startling the others. "I am not even a year older than you all, and yet you seem to be under the mistaken impression that that makes me senile." There was a pause.

"Well, you certainly are no longer modern," muttered Northumbrian. "What do you say to that?" The Rocket considered.
"I am the first. I am the eldest. I will be here forevermore. No matter what happens in the future, I worked hard to make sure we all could be here, and I will continue working hard on our new railway, no matter what."

Northumbrian scoffed loudly, but the other engines all stared at The Rocket with something akin to fascination. Idly, The Rocket supposed he was fascinating, even if it made him more than a little wary to be the centre of so much attention.

** ** **

George and Robert Stephenson returned to see the engines the night before the grand opening of their railway, both smiling broadly.
"All eight of you will be on show tomorrow," said Robert. "We are very proud of how well you have all worked, and now it will be time to show off to the world the ability of Stephenson's railway locomotives."

The son turned, and pulled out a list.
"Here is the list which we have decided upon for who is to be given what job," he announced, holding it up to a lantern. "Northumbrian, you shall have the honour of hauling the Duke of Wellington's train."
"Yes! Told you all, inferior whelps!"
"How dare you—"

The Rocket heard nothing more after that. His builder had decided against using him for the special honour of pulling the Duke of Wellington, the Prime Minister of the nation. The announcement continued; The Rocket was to pull the third train of guests. Not the first, but the third.

The Rocket was built to win, but not to do anything afterwards.

The Rocket was built to win a competition, and then leave the rest of the work - the actual work, the hard work, the real work - to others. Others who had been built based on his design, but who were seen as better, grander, more efficient.

The Rocket felt like cussing out his builders; he couldn't stop himself from such a ferocity that welled up from deep in his firebox and raged out of control within him. He was not to be driven by George, nor by Robert.

He was to be driven by a stranger, by Joseph Locke. Not by a member of the family; The Rocket was clearly no longer part of the family at all.

The Rocket went unhappily to sleep, not really wanting to be present at the opening ceremony the next morning at all.

** ** **

Stephen wished he'd never woken that morning at all.

** ** **

The gathering of the dignitaries at the station did little to sway The Rocket's low mood. The morning was fine, streamers decked every awning and the platforms were swarmed with people - but The Rocket barely took the moment to care.

The crowds only grew, larger and larger - larger than that which had been at Rainhill, larger than any crowd the engines had ever seen before.
"What, was every darned hotel and lodging-house in the city booked out for this?" demanded Arrow, hissing steam as a woman tried to pat his wheels.
"It would appear so," mused Comet, grinning politely at the lady and allowing her to touch his wheels instead. "We are very popular indeed."
"That's all the better for us," mused Phoenix from the front. "Good publicity."

The Rocket said nothing, simply watching the world around him. Many of the throng of guests recognised him, pointing in excitement and asking about tickets to ride behind 'the winner of the Rainhill Trials'. His carriages filled rapidly, and by the time the Duke arrived, he was already well and ready to go.

Distantly, one group of men had each paid two shillings for access to the best vantage point, the top of a chimney near the tunnel leading to Crown Street railway station; they had been hoisted up by rope and board to watch proceedings, and now stared and pointed.

A band began to play, the music drifting through the air.
"Ah, a wonderful ditty," grinned The Rocket's driver - Joseph Locke. "See, the Conquering Hero Comes in his honour - what do you think of it?"
"Hmmm…" murmured The Rocket, not really wanting to speak.

The Duke's party entered their carriage; a gun was then fired to mark the opening of the railway. The Duke's carriages had their brakes released and were allowed to roll down the incline under the force of gravity to be coupled to the waiting Northumbrian. The smug engine had his brightest smile on full display, proud and strong.
"Isn't he puffed up?" sniffed Phoenix. "Surely someone slipped him the bad load of coke?"
"We wouldn't do that on the opening day," gasped Dart. "It would be wrong!"

The Rocket sighed, and prepared for a long, slow day of puffing all the way to Manchester and back.

Had he been paying more attention, The Rocket would have tracked the movement of one William Huskisson, who had boarded the Duke's train, and was now on the other line.

** ** **

Stephen should have demanded he be fit with brakes. He should have been more careful, should have known that no one had ever seen this technology before, that they didn't know.

** ** **

Although in an isolated rural area, Parkside station had been designed as a junction station and water stop for proposed connections with the Wigan Branch Railway and the Bolton and Leigh Railway, and had multiple lines of rails in place. While he had travelled ahead of the others for most of the journey, Northumbrian was forced to slow through the more populated areas owing to the cheering crowds, and by the time it reached Parkside the first two trains on the northern track, hauled by Phoenix and North Star, had already passed through Parkside and had pulled up ahead of the station waiting for the Duke's train to depart.
"I can't believe it!" seethed Northumbrian to himself. "Overtaken by relics!"
"They're hardly relics," retorted George Stephenson, secretly wishing he'd swapped out Northumbrian for The Rocket. Sure, Robert had said using their most modern engine would greatly impress the Duke of Wellington - and it had - but George missed the quiet politeness and kindness of the older engine.

By now, the passengers in the Duke's train had been travelling for almost an hour, and the water stop at Parkside was the only scheduled stop on the journey. Although it was beginning to drizzle, people began to disembark from the Duke's train to stretch their legs.
"I wouldn't disembark!" called railway employees, striding up and down the train. "I'd stay aboard! It's safer for your health!"
"Pah!" snapped one - the Marquess of Stafford, if George recognised the voice correctly. "I am perfectly safe wherever I stride - it is my prerogative!"

More men followed, until about fifty milled about on the lineside, consisting of many of the most influential figures of the day, including the previously mentioned Marquess of Stafford, Charles Arbuthnot, Prince Esterházy, the Earl of Wilton, L&M founder Joseph Sandars and William Huskisson himself.

The drizzle had persisted over several days, and deep puddles had formed on either side of the railway embankment, penning in the men and keeping them on or near the railway tracks.

"Sandars!" called Huskisson, striding over and almost tripping over a sleeper. "You must be one of the happiest men in the world! Your rail-way is a grand success - look how the most important men of our time have all journeyed here specifically to sing your good graces!" Joseph Sandars, founder of the L&M, smiled bashfully.
"Minister, your comments are too kind," he replied. Huskisson went to reply, when the Chief Whip - a man by the name of William Holmes - called out Huskisson's name.

"Ah, apologies. Duty calls," Huskisson apologised, and strode away.

The Chief Whip had one very important message for Huskisson.

The Duke of Wellington had been becoming unpopular as prime minister, particularly in the industrial north west of England, for continually blocking proposed reforms for some time, and the people were increasingly backing Huskisson. For his part, William Huskisson saw himself as well placed to unite the two wings of the Tory party should the Duke retire, or to lead the reforming faction of the party into a split from the Tories and a progressive alliance with the Whigs. He also saw himself as a natural ally for the Duke, despite their political differences, as a Tory who was popular in Liverpool and Manchester, both of which were traditionally hostile to the party.

Not many truly understood what was going through William Huskisson's head. Probably flashes of the future that the success of the Liverpool & Manchester Railway would bring him - cabinet positions, the entirety of Britain cheering his name, even the role of Prime Minister. But when the Chief Whip told him that the Duke of Wellington in a particularly good mood owing to the cheering crowds which had lined the route, and that it might be a good time for Huskisson and the Duke to meet and try to arrange a reconciliation - well, Huskisson could not disagree.

And so it was arranged for Huskisson to walk along the tracks, meet the Duke at his carriage, and reconcile. Huskisson made his way along, stopping for a moment when his shoe got caught in some ballast, and reached the Duke. William Huskisson extended a hand. The Duke paused, smiled, and shook it.

"An engine is approaching, take care gentlemen!"

The cry went up, and everyone began to move. Some men climbed onto the embankment, others made their way into their carriages - but there was a problem. The Duke's carriage had no fixed steps, instead having a movable set.

The Rocket had not been focusing on the rails in front of him, instead thinking of all the things he would say to his builders when the day's journey was finished, when he heard an exclamation.
"For god's sakes! GET OFF THE RAIL LINE!" The Rocket looked up, and his eyes widened in horror.
"Brakes, driver, brakes!"
"We have none!" yelped Joseph Locke, and threw the reverser. That was when The Rocket remembered - he had been the experiment, neither the father nor the son had thought to fit brakes to him. The Rocket's wheels screeched, spinning backwards.

Only Holmes, Huskisson and Esterházy remained on the tracks. One was heaved into a carriage, while the other two panicked. The Rocket began to panic too.
"Move sirs! Move!" he shouted. "Get off the rails!"

Holmes clung to the side of the Duke's carriage with gusto, pulling his body in to press against the wooden paneling. Huskisson, meanwhile, panicked more. He rushed off the line in one direction, then the other, then back again, and then ended up right back where he had been.
"You had better step in!" called the Duke.
"For God's Sake, Mr Huskisson, be firm!" shouted Holmes.

Huskisson finally made a decision, and grabbed onto the door to the Duke's carriage. For a moment, it was still. The Rocket shut his eyes, praying to the deity the humans called their god that he would not hit Huskisson.

That deity was not listening.

The Rocket would never pray again.

The door swung open, directly into the path of The Rocket. Huskisson was right in the way.

The Rocket hit Huskisson and the door with a bang! Huskisson was thrown forwards; the door slammed shut from the force.

There was a sickening crunch. The Rocket did not dare to open his eyes, beginning to shake violently.
"I struck a man, I struck a man, I struck a man," he gasped, his words coming in short breaths. Everyone crowded around; a woman screamed and wailed in the background. All eyes were on The Rocket once more, though they were no longer belonging to people cheering for his success. No, they were the eyes of judgement, of fury, condemning him for manslaughter.

"It's all over for me. Bring me my wife and let me die."

The Rocket was built to win, and nothing else. No plan for what came after, for regular service. No preparations, nothing. Nothing to prepare the still young, despite what everyone said, engine for this. 

There was blood on The Rocket's wheels.

Chapter Text

Fred is a very lazy diesel, a very, very lazy diesel. When he had been built, it had been to aid Rusty with the trackwork and the maintenance trains; in actuality, it was a miracle if the gangers could get Fred started most mornings, the diesel often having 'ignition troubles'.

"Alf on the Talyllyn doesn't act like this," muttered Skarloey irritably as he watched the diesel moan and complain about being unable to do any of the work asked of him because "he felt ill in his valves". Rusty sighed.
"We can't simply compare them - you know how that ends up going." Skarloey winced, remembering the incident where someone had compared Duncan to the Talyllyn Railway's Douglas, and in return had been cussed out until they cried. "But, we can be annoyed."

Unfortunately, none of the engines knew what to do - none that is, except Sir Handel.

It was a cool Autumn day, and Fred had been forced out of the shed to help look after some track maintenance near the tunnel. He complained bitterly as he grumbled his way up the line, finally dumping the trucks off to one side. Sir Handel puffed by with some empty trucks for the quarry.

"You look like you're having fun," he said with a grin.
"You try having fun with maintenance work," sniffed Fred. "I don't think you even know how to do trackwork, let alone have fun doing it!" Sir Handel chuckled, and slowed to a stop.
"You really think that, don't you?" he said. Fred rolled his eyes.
"Everyone and their grandma knows you hate trucks!"

Sir Handel scoffed, but didn't deny it. Instead, he got a twinkle in his eye.
"Say - how about we swap jobs? I'll look after the maintenance train, and you can look after my trucks. Whoever complains first loses."
"That's an easy bet!" snorted Fred, already being uncoupled from his trucks. "You're on!"

And so it was arranged. Sir Handel took charge of the maintenance train and the cranes, while Fred buffered up to Sir Handel's trucks and set off for the slate mine.

Fred had a horrible time, bouncing along the track as the trucks laughed and jeered and bumped him about. Worse yet, at the quarry he had to shunt all the trucks about, and they made his life even worse. Their brakes slipped 'on', they ran hotboxes, couplings snapped, and Fred got a very good idea as to why Sir Handel hated trucks as much as he did.

By the time Fred had gotten his trucks together and begun making his way back down the line, he was more than ready to throw in the towel.

Then, he rounded the bend, and saw Sir Handel happily chatting to a couple of the gangers who were on their break, all while using his steam to keep their tools warm.
"What? How?!" spluttered Fred, skidding to a halt as the trucks banged into his again. "Trackwork is so boring - you should be bored! Why aren't you bored?!"

Sir Handel looked over, and sighed.
"Oh Fred," Sir Handel sighed, "I like trackwork because I'm good at it - I'm experienced, if you will."
"No you're not."
"I am."
"I've never seen you touch the cranes before! Rusty works maintenance - you don't need to lie to make your point!"

Sir Handel scowled.
"I am not lying! I did trackwork on my old railway!" He paused, looking a little sad. Fred just stared; he knew of Sir Handel, Peter Sam and Duke's old railway, but the three did not like telling stories of the little railway in the hills they'd worked on.
"Really?"
"Yes - especially towards the end. Duke kept making sure we were in the best mechanical shape Peter Sam and I could be in, at the detriment to his own health, so… I did the trackwork. I thought, if I could keep the track smooth and nice, that Duke wouldn't wheeze so much, and the trucks would stop jumping the points."

Sir Handel looked at the maintenance train and sighed, looking very tired.
"Our line still closed in the end, but I remember how to do this very well. I enjoyed it, even. No rushing about according to timetables, no dirty trucks. Just a chance to be helpful and talk to the people who keep our line running. Did you know Jenny here has a son? He's about to turn thirteen, and he wants to volunteer on our line too?"

Fred did not.

Jenny beamed at the recognition though.
"My mother worked for you all, and so it's becoming a family tradition by now! She polished you engines though, while I like getting my hands dirty. My son - Rob - well, he's more of a cleaner like my ma."
"Who was your mother?" quizzed Sir Handel, looking over.
"Why, Nancy of course!"

Sir Handel stared in amazement.
"You don't say!"

Fred sidled away, feeling like he had learnt a lot. It was clear to him that Sir Handel saw trackwork as more than just a chore, but a chance to talk and experience the world from the gangers' eyes, to be really useful and do his part for the railway that had rescued him after his old railway closed.

Fred could respect that.

Didn't mean he'd start working harder, of course - but he could respect it!

Chapter Text

Oliver had everything planned out: after his final passenger train of the day - of his life on British Railways - he would collect a couple spare wagons of coal from the yard and slip out on his journey north. He knew his goal well - Sodor was an island written about in books, after all, and had shown no sign of retiring its engines even when diesels intruded on their railway.

It was a sanctuary for steam, and Oliver would be damned if he didn't at least try and reach for his future.

His crew had agreed to the plan too, quietly finding old spare parts from other Autotanks who'd already been taken and using them to replace the worn parts on Oliver, getting him into the best possible condition for the run. This included three different sets of old numberplates, which they would switch out when needed.

"We'll do it, don't you worry old boy," grinned his driver, patting Oliver on the buffer. "British Rail has said the engine meant to pick you up isn't going to arrive for a full week, so we have plenty of time to get as far away as we can."

The day passed achingly slowly. Oliver puffed back and forth up and down his branchline, ignoring the diesel railcar which had been brought in to replace him. She slept at the other end of the line anyway, and was infinitely less popular than Oliver with the locals.

"I don't understand it," sniffed the railcar, watching as the majority of the passengers crowded into Isabel. "Half of them will surely be heading to the Junction, and yet they'd rather travel in your old, dingy coach than in a thoroughly modern railcar like me."
"The people here have known Isabel and I for thirty years," replied Oliver kindly. "We're tight-knit, if you will. You have to always remember to look after the passengers along your line - remember that."

The diesel railcar looked considering as she pulled away. Oliver hoped he was leaving his branchline in decent buffers, and that the diesel railcar would keep his line safe from Dr Beeching and his axe.

The axe had already fallen on Sammy's branchline further up the line, after all - and that meant the oh so wonderful Doctor had his eyes on their region.

Night fell, and Oliver pulled into the Junction with his last train. Men had already been by to remove several of the rails. They would be converting the shed for the railcar once Oliver had been removed, ripping up most of the facilities and turning it into a home for the diesel railcar and the Class 37s who ran trains from the nearby stone quarry.

Oliver waited impatiently for the last of his passengers to head home - they had not been informed of his withdrawal, most likely to stop them from trying to buy him themselves. Oliver did not blame them.

Once they were all gone, Oliver got to work, hurriedly slipping into the far siding hidden behind the sheds. He could have whooped for joy, finding the two coal trucks he'd stashed away there. They had been meant to fill the coal bunkers, but Oliver hadn't needed that much coal on his own.

They hitched the coal wagons up behind Isabel, and puffed to the points. The signalman nodded; once the next train had passed, he would descreetly slip them into the timetable, getting them out and well away from the branchline Oliver had called home for his entire life.

There was a low growl, and a diesel sidled up next to Oliver.
"Well, well, well - what's this then?" sneered the diesel. Oliver held his breath.
"I'm moving the last of the old rollingstock from this branchline," Oliver replied as blankly as he could. "The last of this line's steam engines was withdrawn, so I am moving this to the big yards."

The diesel narrowed his eyes; Oliver tried not to panic.
"Where is your brakevan?" demanded the engine. Oliver gulped. He'd forgotten a brakevan! It wasn't meant to have been an issue, but he still had, and that meant he was about to get found out, and dragged right to the scrapyard…

"I'm over here!" called a voice. The diesel's eyes whipped round in surprise. Oliver tried to hide his own surprise. There, in a siding on the other side of the mainline, was an old Great Western brakevan. If Oliver remembered his name correctly, it was Toad. "They're just waiting for you to pass through so I can be shunted on, Mr Diesel sir."
"Yes!" grinned Oliver quickly. "That's right! We're just waiting to couple up our brakevan over there."

The diesel narrowed his eyes, and looked between Oliver and Toad. Then, he snorted. Black fumes shot from his exhaust, and the diesel rumbled away.

Oliver let out a sigh of relief, and as soon as he could, scurried across the mainline to couple Toad up.
"Thank you so much! You really saved me."
"That's alright, Mr… Oliver, right?"
"That's right - and you're Toad, correct?" The brakevan practically beamed.
"I am, sir! That I am! I'm guessing you're not heading to the big yards."

Oliver chuckled nervously.
"Uhhh, no - we're escaping! To Sodor - please come with."
"I'd be glad to - I've been notified I was due for removal next week, so no one will look for me for a little."
"Perfect," grinned Oliver, and he set off into the night.

Oliver had not planned for Toad to be there - he'd been caught completely by surprise. But Toad had saved him that night, and would prove invaluable on the run from British Rail…

Chapter Text

The Little Western was busier than ever as the summer holidays loomed closer. A new resort had been built near Haultraugh, and guests were flocking to it for its stunning views and easy access to the sandy beaches the little line was known for. Duck and Oliver just couldn't keep up with their usual trains, and Donald and Douglas were too busy with their own work to help with more passenger trains.

Sometimes, Thomas, Percy or Daisy went to help out - but they couldn't be away from the Ffarquhar branch for more than a couple days at a time. Something had to be done, and the Fat Controller knew just what to do.

"Good evening engines," Sir Stephen said, standing proudly in front of the sheds. His engines all gazed down at the greying man curiously.
"Good evening, sir," they chorused. "What brings you here?"

The Fat Controller grinned, sitting down on an oil drum someone had left behind. Unlike his predecessors, Sir Stephen much preferred to sit down when talking to his engines, to be more on their level rather than some powerful authority looking down on them. His suit got dirty cause of it - no one thought to leave a camping chair or even a stool lying about the engine sheds where it wasn't needed, leaving the Fat Controller to rely on whatever was left lying around. Boxes, barrels, even an old, upturned wheelbarrow had fallen victim to Sir Stephen's desire to sit down when delivering news.

"It has come to my attention that you're all very busy." Sir Stephen began.
"You can say that again!" snorted James. "We've been rushed off our wheels!"
"Indeed - as such, I have spoken with some other heritage railway owners, and we've come to an agreement. A few engines in the heritage circuit are coming up on their boiler certificates, and in return for access to our works and engineers at a discounted price, they've agreed to let us use the engines for the summer season, so I can relieve you all of some of your work."

The announcement was met with great excitement!

"Wha's coming?" asked Donald. "An whit part o the railway will they be workin' on?"
"I have gotten confirmation that Bahamas the Jubilee will be coming to help on the mainline, Repton the Schools class will be coming to help on Edward's branch, Robert the Austerity will be coming to help out on Thomas' branchline and one other special guest will be arriving soon to help on the Little Western. Bahamas will arrive first, and will be here on Tuesday."

There was a short pause.
"Who's coming to the Little Western?" asked Duck eventually. The other engines had begun chatting excitedly about meeting faces new and old - but the Little Western engines were left wondering just who was coming to join them for the summer.
"It's a surprise," grinned the Fat Controller, easing himself up again. His age was finally beginning to show, slowing the man who had for decades run the railway with his brightness and energy.

"Is it a good surprise or a bad surprise?" Duck tried, looking a little nervous. "Last time you said 'it is a surprise', it turned out to be that one insane Class 42 who babbled on about a magical purple industrial engine and destroyed the coal hopper in the yards."

Sir Stephen winced, remembering that particular incident.
"I promise that engine is not returning," he said. "Have some faith, alright?"

Duck - being an old engine - did not have much faith at all. Donald and Douglas, being far older than Duck, just grinned. No matter what happened, it would be interesting!

Duck fretted all through the next couple days. He missed Bahamas' arrival on Tuesday, then Robert's arrival two days later. Percy was happy for the help at least.

"Oh, Rob's a dear," Percy hummed, sitting with Duck at the water column. "He actually cares about something that isn't his own paintwork! I tell you - sharing a shed with Thomas and Daisy, you'd think the sheen on your buffers was the only thing that mattered!"
"That's nice, Percy," Duck replied, a little distracted. He was too busy thinking about who would be sent to help him. Maybe the surprise was Percy? The little green tank engine had been around the Big Station more and more often ever since Robert arrived.

"It is!" beamed Percy. "Rob's even started taking the milk when Daisy refuses to, which gives me some extra rest after my post run! He did get into a tiff with Mavis though - all three of us are ex-industrials, you see. And we all— Duck? Duck you are listening, aren't you?"

Duck blinked.
"Er… yes, Percy. Rob's a right dear, and Thomas is complaining about Mavis again." Percy scowled.
"That's not it at all!"
"So Rob isn't a right dear?" Duck managed a smirk at that, knowing he was just pushing his friend's buttons.
"Duck! I've been your friend for over sixty years now - I know you. You're just worried about who's coming to join you, because if they're not up to your standards, they'll just mess your whole system up. I get it! Still, it's no use worrying over things you can't change."

Duck snorted.
"That doesn't change things," he huffed petulantly. Percy just laughed.

Duck's mood did not improve when Repton arrived the next day, only spotting the Southern Railway engine for a couple minutes before he was whisked away to Edward's branchline and Duck headed back up to Arlesburgh, rushed off his wheels with passenger trains.

With the amount of work that needed doing, Duck was just about ready to ask for anyone to help out - well, anyone but the insane Class 42. That engine would never be welcome back to the Little Western, or indeed any part of Sodor.

Even if Ms Britt Allcroft had fashioned a character out of them.

That evening, Duck spotted Sir Stephen as the Fat Controller left his office, and decided to inquire about the engine coming to help out.
"Sir! Sir!"
"Good evening, Duck. It's a lovely night, isn't it?"
"It is for some," Duck muttered. Sir Stephen frowned, and sat atop a porter's trolley. The porter blinked, raised his hand to say something, then sighed and went to find another trolley.

"What's the matter, Duck?" asked Sir Stephen.
"It's just how busy we've been," Duck replied. "Donald, Douglas, Oliver and I aren't afraid of hard work - no not at all, we always enjoy the challenge… but, well, sir…"
"You can't work miracles," Sir Stephen finished kindly. Duck blushed.
"Well… no, sir."

Sir Stephen smiled kindly, and stretched, nearly knocking a suitcase over beside him.
"It's alright Duck, I understand completely. You will be very pleased to know that the engine assigned to help you out will be arriving tomorrow."
"Oh, that is a great relief sir!" beamed Duck. Sir Stephen chuckled.
"I can imagine it is - now you can stop worrying about who they are."

Duck blinked.
"I - sir, how did you know?" Sir Stephen laughed, and stood up. The porter, who had just found another trolley, suppressed a scream and went to put the new trolley away.
"I've been your controller for long enough to know your real feelings on surprises," he said with a grin. "Have a good night, Duck." With that, Sir Stephen tipped his hat and strode away.

Duck headed back to the sheds feeling much better about things, even if the identity of the surprise engine was still a mystery to him.

Duck slept the best he had in weeks, and woke up feeling quite a bit more refreshed. He steamed well, and collected his coaches smoothly. The Fat Controller had reshuffled the timetable to accommodate the extra engine, giving all the engines on the Little Western some more time between trains.

"Whoever this visiting engine is," mused Oliver, "he's got to be a right firecracker - to keep up such timings!" Duck raised an eyebrow, and checked over the new schedule again.
"It's not impossible - those're London timings, sure, but not difficult—"

Realisation struck Duck right as the signal dropped, and from far away an engine whistled. A gleam of yellow shone through the tunnel.
"It's Stepney!" he exclaimed, right as Stepeny proudly steamed out into the Big Yards, crossing under the signal gantry and into the platform next to the two Little Western engines.

"Hullo Duck!" Stepney greeted excitedly, face flushed from his fast run. "It's been too long!" Duck was gobsmacked!
"Stepeny! You're our surprise?"
"More your surprise, Duck! I've been at your works, getting a full overhaul. I feel better than I have in years!"
"I'm so excited to see you!" beamed Duck. "I have so much to tell you - and you probably do too, and that explains why Sir Stephen kept you a secret - that was so mean of him! But you're really here! I didn't think you were able to."

Stepney laughed heartily, while Oliver just looked amazed.
"I've never heard you say so much at once!" the Little Western engine joked. Duck frowned.
"I am not rambling! I'm just a little surprised - Sir Stephen should've told me, then I'd be more prepared - look at my paint! It's so shoddy, I'd have asked for a new coat if I'd've known. I'm so sorry, Stepney! Here we are, having a reunion, and I've forgotten to do the Great Western thing! Let me introduce you to Oliver."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Oliver," Stepney said with a chuckle. "I've heard a bit about you."
"All grand, I hope."
"And all of it true, too," murmured Duck with a grin. Oliver rolled his eyes, but kept smiling.

Stepney was quick to get to work. The mechanics at Crovan's Gate had done a splendid job repairing him, and he proved it!

"I feel lighter than I have in years!" Stepney exclaimed at he sped along, hauling passengers and light freight trains along the Little Western. Percy was ecstatic to see Stepney too, and the three of them, Duck, Percy and Stepney, wasted many hours away in the sheds catching up.

Gordon ended up kicking them out after the fourth night!

"I'm overjoyed to be back," Stepney admitted the evening before he left, summer finally over. "I've been just sitting around back home - they've not really had the funds to repair me, what with the newbuild, so it's great to be back to work. It's what an engine loves." Duck couldn't agree more! "Still," Stepney went on, "it'll be hard to go home again. You Sodor engines are so lucky - your railway is popular, and you have both passengers and trucks to keep you busy! Even if the summer rush has my wheels aching, it's so satisfying knowing I'm doing real, proper work."

Duck sighed, feeling very bad for his old friend. Sometimes, Stepney would tell stories from the 1870s and 1880s, long before even Edward had been built. They were stories from London, and painted a very different portrait of the city to what Duck remembered from his youth at Paddington. Stepney loved to work, and Duck wondered if there was a way to help out.

An idea floated through his funnel, and Duck grinned softly to himself. Yes, he'd have to speak to the Fat Controller, but it could work.

The next summer, Stepney was back. And the next, and the next. Stepney always had the season to look forward to, being able to go up to the Island of Sodor to enjoy a summer with his friend Duck.

And Duck didn't have to think about a huge reunion with Stepney, as Stepney was around often enough to be practically thought of as a Sodor engine!

Chapter Text

There was a visiting engine at Vicarstown. She stood on the points, staring out down the North Western Railway mainline.
"What a sad little railway," sneered the engine. Gordon, who was waiting to take his return express but had been halted by a faulty signal, looked over with a glare.
"I beg your pardon?" the big blue engine snapped.
"I said," repeated the visiting engine haughtily, "that this is a sad little railway. Look at it - dilapidated sheds, rusting rails - what is the point of it."
"This isn't the terminus," sniffed Gordon crossly. The visiting engine just rolled her eyes.

Gordon looked a little closer. The engine had a large, impressive nameplate on her middle driving wheel splasher - and the name stenciled onto it made Gordon wince.

"Princess Louise, I take it?" he said.
"Yes, I am," came the snooty reply. "Princess Louise of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, first of the name, honoured to hold the title gifted unto me by the great Princess Louise herself—"
"How'd you end up here?" Gordon interrupted. "You're too fat for the line from Carnforth." Princess Louise nearly burst a safety valve!
"I BEG YOUR PARDON!" she screeched, steam hissing everywhere. "I'll have you know I got diverted - it was the signalman's fault. Normally, I know my way by instinct."

Gordon tried not to snort, remembering saying that himself a decade prior.

"Well," Gordon hummed. "Instinct ought to get you back to the LMS, oughtn't it?" He smirked as the young express engine huffed and puffed, very flustered.
"I am the most modern express engine in Britain, how dare you speak to me in such a way!"
"Easily - I am the finest express engine in Britain, if not the world. I am Gresley's prototype!"
"Oh, I've heard of you," sneered Princess Louise. "The engine Gresley rejected to a sleepy little island. I bet you are bored out of your mind. Nothing challenging at all on this island - we have the Shap and Beattock Summits on our line."

She looked over at Gordon with a smirk. "Those are the two highest railway points in England and Wales, you know. Your silly little faux-mainline could not compete."

Just then, the stationmaster walked over, holding a note in his hand.
"Gordon, leave your coaches please. The Board of Directors has gotten stuck in Leeds due to a rail accident, and they want you to go rescue them. Princess Louise, the LMS has graciously allowed us to borrow you to finish the express run. You'll take the evening express out, and meet Gordon at Barrow."

Princess Louise grinned.
"I'll see you tonight then," she said to Gordon. "I just know that this little railway and its silly little express will give me no trouble at all." Gordon just snorted, and uncoupled from his train.

Princess Louise had a fast run to The Works Station, meeting a clanking old narrow gauge engine called Rheneas with his little train, and finding it thoroughly underwhelming.
"I'm a guaranteed connection for you?" she snorted, staring at the little red engine. "No wonder this island is so sad, you look like you belong in a cutter's yard, not leaking steam all over the platform."

The passengers were horrified, and the coaches were furious. All engines and rollingstock had a great respect for Rheneas, who worked very hard to keep his railway running. The coaches began to form a plan.

From the Works Station to Maron, the line climbs continuously. It is one of the longest continual climbs on any railway in Britain, lasting over twenty miles. Gordon was used to this, and always built up steam at the Works Station while waiting for Rheneas. Princess Louise did no such thing.

The coaches dragged over the long, long climb. Princess Louise, to her own horror, found herself beginning to pant!
"I am the finest of the LMS!" she exclaimed furiously, thundering along. "I will not be defeated by some piddly little railway in the middle of nowhere!" She huffed and puffed, and made it to the top of Gordon's Hill.

"I've done it!" cheered Princess Louise, feeling the line even out. She barely took notice of the grade as she rushed down through Edward's Station, whistling fit to burst. She saw an ancient Furness K2 out of the corner of her eye, but ignored the old engine as she sped all the way to the Big Station.

There was a blue tank engine waiting impatiently. When Princess Louise thundered in, he took one look at the clock and glared.
"You're late," he snapped. "Twenty minutes behind! What would my passengers say?" He shunted back crossly, and grabbed his special coach off the end of the express. "You've made me late, and you've ruined Percy's schedule too. Gordon wouldn't do this." And with that, he coupled the special coach to his coaches and steamed furiously back around to wait for the guard's whistle.

Princess Louise was speechless!

"I— I—"
"I haven't time for you," sniffed the blue tank engine, as the guard blew his whistle. "I am a proper engine, who likes to keep to his schedule." And he steamed away importantly. Princess Louise watched him leave, then uncoupled from the coaches and ran round to the sheds, finding a coal loader and a water tower. She watched, intrigued, as a little green engine came and collected the coach before moving them away. He worked very hard, this little green station pilot, until finally he made his way over.

"You, what is your name, little one?" quizzed Princess Louise.
"Oh, hullo! You're not Gordon," grinned the green engine. "I'm Percy, who're you?"
"I am Princess Louise of the LMS," replied Princess Louise grandly.

To her surprise, Percy began to laugh.

"Oh, that's a good one! A princess! Where's your tiara, oh Princess? It's ok, you can tell me your real name, I know the big railways over on the Mainland love pretentious names - but you're quite alright here."
"No, I am Princess Louise - that is my name. It was given to me by the LMS to honour a real princess."
"So you're not a princess."
"I am! I am a member of the Princess Royal class!"
"And I'm named after the Dukes of Northumberland," joked Percy. "Doesn't mean anything though, does it?"

Princess Louise was outraged!

"Impudent lump!" she snapped crossly. "I am a glorious express engine, and you are a shunting whelp. If we were on my railway—"
"But we're not, and I'm not an LMS sadsack like you—"
"SADSACK?!"
"Shame I can't talk any longer," Percy went on, interrupting Princess Louise again, "but I have real work to do, not like you slow express engines. Twenty minutes late, was it? Gordon's never been twenty minutes late." And with that, Percy steamed away laughing.

Princess Louise decided to sleep the afternoon away, hoping that when she woke, she would be able to prove her point and get off the silly little island.

Engines came and went; Princess Louise heard an engine called 'Edward' chat to an engine called 'James' about their trains, as well as engine named 'Henry' rumble through with a heavy freight train. Several freight engines from the LMS came and went as well, bringing freight to Tidmouth harbour.

She was altogether extremely underwhelmed.
"Apart from Gordon, this railway barely has engines suited to any of their jobs. It's a little pathetic," she said to her driver. "I cannot wait to be off this island."
"Now, now," soothed her driver. "We just have to take the 6:25 express back, and we won't have to be here any longer."

That made Princess Louise feel better.

Night slowly fell. Princess Louise rumbled over to the station, prepped and ready for her fast run back. The old K2 was in the next platform over, his own coaches waiting behind him.
"Oh, one of you survived," sniffed Princess Louise. "I heard from my predecessors that all your kind had been snuffed out."
"Hello, I'm Edward," came the overly cheerful reply. "That's normally how you begin a conversation, anyway."
"I'm not here to converse with a relic, I'm here to prove my superiority in comparison to that great blue sausage you call an express engine." She sneered down at Edward. "You belong in a museum, no, worse - a scrapyard."

The coaches were horrified! Edward just sighed.

"You're not exactly a charmer, are you?" he mused, still beaming. "It's alright, you'll learn. All engines do eventually."
"I am a Princess Royal! There is no learning, there is doing, there is my superiority. I am of a line of the greatest express engines in Britain!"

Edward just chuckled softly.
"You sound like Gordon did, when he first arrived. I'll let you in on a secret, Ms Princess Royal - technology evolves. We are never at the top for too long, as our designers work to to make engines faster and stronger. You just wait."
"You're senile!" snapped Princess Louise furiously. "Lunatic! Completely lost to your age! Begone, and take your stupid rambling with you." At that moment, the guard blew his whistle and Princess Louise started with a will, as if excited to get off the island.

Now, the evening express is always the heaviest. More often than not, it carries mail vans, as well as a dedicated buffet carriage and extra luggage wagons not offered on the morning or midday trains. To make things even more difficult, on this night in particular, the train had three vans full of money being moved to London in the run up to the upcoming Bank Holiday. It made for a very long and heavy express. Princess Louise didn't mind at first - the line was clear, and she was able to really open her regulator, thundering along at a right speed.

"I'll show them, I'll show them!" she exclaimed. "Fastest and best in the country, that's who I am!" She burnt through her steam as fast as her boiler could produce it, saving absolutely none for what lay ahead.

Princess Louise and her crew had forgotten all about Gordon's Hill.

They clattered through Edward's Station at a right rate, and then the line began to climb. The coaches, who had heard Princess Louise insult not only Rheneas, but Edward and every other engine on their railway too, had had enough. Their chance for revenge had come.
"Now!" they cried, and all began to hold back. "Hold back! Hold back!" they chanted in unison. Princess Louise had not been saving up steam for the steep climb. She tried and tried to pump her pistons and force her way up the grade, but it didn't work. She slipped, her wheels spun, and she ran right out of steam, halfway up the climb.

"I… I… what is this hill?" she spluttered, glaring at the rails. "And you lot! How dare you hold the express back so!"
"We," snapped one coach, "won't have you desecrate our friends."
"Desecrate?!"
"You deserve this," agreed another coach. "We won't let you move!" The coaches stood firm. Passengers began to lean out of their windows, wondering what was going on. The guard came jogging up.
"What's the hold up?" he asked. "Isn't your fancy Midland engine supposed to be good at hills?" The driver and fireman went red in the face. Princess Louise seethed silently.

James and Edward both had to be brought to coax the coaches into releasing their brakes and starting the train anew - and both of them had to pull the train, as Princess Louise was so sulky that she just wouldn't raise any more steam. All she did was leak steam everywhere.

When they reached Crovan's Gate, Rheneas laughed until his siderods ached!

"No wonder the Mainland is so sad!" he joked. "When it's engines are always late and leaking steam all over the place!" Princess Louise was outraged.

And when Gordon saw them arrive, he could only watch. There was James, leading Princess Louise into the platform, with Edward banking behind.
"One express!" chortled James. "And not too late either considering!"
"Well," hummed Gordon, "it looks like Sodor's mainline defeated the very best of the LMS."

Princess Louise left the island with a lot to think about.

Chapter Text

It began with Thomas. Well no, if Glynn was perfectly honest, it began long before the blue tank engine was a speck in his designer's eye.

It really began with the unification project.

"We'll be building our line out towards Wellsworth," the manager explained simply, talking to his engines. "Glynn, you'll be in charge of the construction work. Once our two railways meet, we'll be unifying into a single railway. We hope to finish soon - if the tensions aboard flare, we may lose funding."

Of course, funding was a buzzword to businessmen. It was one of the four words they lived by: funding, profit, deficit and money. All that the manager, the board and the quarry owner cared about at the end of the day was that money kept appearing in their bank accounts, that the railway continued to produce profits for them.

As an engine on an industrial tramway, Glynn knew that better than most engines.

The route to Wellsworth was not easy - to leave Knapford and reach Crosby, the line had to cut through a deep tunnel, and then from Crosby to Wellsworth there were two rivers that needed to be bridged. Glynn found that much of his day's work involved sitting around in sidings as refuse from the tunnel was loaded into his trucks to be hauled away. It was a tedious job, and one that the owner watched with a close eye.

The railway sold the refuse on to fill in an embankment somewhere on the Mainland, the board of directors squeezing the entire project for as many pennies as they could get out of it.

Still, they made good progress, getting very lucky. The rock was good for tunneling, causing the men little trouble as they dug their way through. Rails were laid through the tunnel just before the first winter frost, allowing Glynn the chance to see the island beyond his little tramway for the first time.

He could not have known then how much this tunnel, opening his world up, would also bring about the enclosing of his world down to a single siding?

** ** **

Glynn sometimes pulled enthusiasts' trains through the tunnel. He always held a moment's silence, thinking about how much the completion of the link to Wellsworth had changed his life.

Stephen understood, Glynn thought. Stephen understood the pain of being so proud of something built with his own buffers but destined to ruin him. Of all engines in the world, Glynn mused, Stephen might know best.

** ** **

The tunnel allowed the former Wellsworth & Suddery engines to puff into the Big Port, and onto their little tramway. These engines were bigger than Glynn and his siblings, having six coupled axles and coaches with bogie wheels as opposed to the few hastily converted cattle trucks that their tramway boasted.

"We'll have much to do," murmured one, looking down at Glynn.
"Much to do indeed," agreed another.
"Oi!" huffed Glynn. "I may not be all that big, but I'm still really useful."

The two smiled at Glynn, a pitying sort of smile.
"Oh of course," the first one said. "We don't mean to doubt your usefulness, merely…"
"Your size won't make it economical to pull trains all the way along our line," the other finished.

Glynn did not rise to the bait, simply huffing away. He knew the pair were correct - the Wellsworth & Suddery had brought four working engines into the merger, while their industrial tramway had only had three. Three coffeepots at that, while the Wellsworth & Suddery engines had been built to handle actual work.

There was further talk on the air of tensions on the continent, and of the Admiralty getting involved with the other railway, on the far side of the island.

"Oh, they'll have to," one of the former Wellsworth & Suddery engines said, when Glynn asked. "They say the Sodor & Mainland has gone bankrupt - the Admiralty is likely to buy the whole thing up and extend it to be ready for if war breaks out."

Ah, bankruptcy. Another word the businessman knew well, though not one he loved in the same way he loved other financial words. Bankruptcy meant job loss, capital loss, money down the drain.

No businessman liked that. They liked to find ways to avoid it, be it through staff cuts or engines cuts or track cuts. Already the original plan to extend the tramway up towards Hackenbeck had been stalled thrice by fears of extra costs, despite there being whispers of exceptionally good lead and stone up near the village.

The same was true of the extension to Arlesburgh and the railway that was said to exist up there, also curtailed by fears of the cost.

It had hemmed the railway in, keeping them from expanding along the cost or inland. And in the other direction, the sharp gradient up towards Maron too kept the directors from considering the opportunities.

Glynn didn't mind. His siblings had been spread out across the network to shunt while the former Wellsworth & Suddery engines handled the mainline, and he got the industrial line to the lead mines. And for a short time, all was well.

For a short time.

Then, the feared war came. It ravaged the continent beyond the Mainland, and Sodor too saw its world change. As the W&S engine had predicted, the Admiralty bought the old Sodor & Mainland Railway, hoping to access the prime copper and roofing slate deposits on the Skarloey Railway. Moreover, they wanted defensive railway lines, and began expanding the S&MR rapidly across the island.

What no one had expected was that the Admiralty would buy up the merged Tidmouth, Wellsworth & Suddery Railway too. Nor had they predicted that the entire south of the island, a route from Arlesburgh all the way to Barrow-in-Furness, would be connected by steel rails.

Engines poured onto Sodor, all being loans from the Admiralty. They were Robinsons and old Furness engines, and LNWR locomotives and Midland chaps, and they all took the majority of the work.

Glynn found himself being used less and less. He met Edward for the first time, and learnt about his home railway, and how it connected the largest steelworks in the world to the rest of Britain, making sure there was always more steel for rails.

And then, engines began to be withdrawn. First it was his siblings, then the other TW&S engines. Until only he remained.

Glynn watched, quietly, as the world around him changed drastically. The war took almost everything from Sodor, but it also gave the island an engine who would one day take the branchline from Glynn permanently.

Glynn had no idea of this engine's presence though, for the aftermath of the war brought with it the lump of money the Admiralty gave the railway and the desires of the quarry owner in Ffarquhar.

Glynn went back to spending the majority of his day's work in sidings collecting refuse as the branchline was extending up into the hinterland of Sodor, beyond Elsbridge to Hackenbeck, then to Ffarquhar, and finally to the quarry.

Glynn enjoyed puffing along the new stretch of line, seeing the view from up on the quarry tramway gazing back over the island. It was gorgeous.

It was the last view Glynn got to enjoy for a long time.

** ** **

Glynn did not hold Thomas responsible for what came next. He was a knowledgeable engine; he knew how businessmen worked. He knew that the Fat Director would find an engine more suitable to the branchline than he was, an engine who could haul the stone trucks with less fear of running loose.

That didn't stop Glynn from feeling a little hurt by the arrival of the blue tank engine.

** ** **

Thomas was a tank engine. He had six small wheels, a short stumpy funnel, a short stumpy boiler and a short stumpy dome. He was a fussy little engine, always pulling trucks and coaches about while loudly telling anyone and everyone who would listen about how the Fat Director had given him his own branchline because of how hard he worked.

For Glynn, now confined to a shed in case a relief engine was needed, Thomas was more akin to a grim reaper than a bubbly new engine.

Glynn had worked hard for decades; did he not deserve a home of his own?

Well, no. That was not how economics worked, was it? Glynn knew better - he always had. Thomas could work as hard or as little as he liked, he was always going to get the branchline. They needed a stronger engine, and Thomas was that engine. He was bigger, stronger, and he even had an air pump fitted so he could pull more modern rollingstock.

In the world of business, the old simply had to be thrown out. It was uneconomical to keep Glynn in steam, when Glynn couldn't maximise shareholder value. He had heard it all before, said in the Boardroom of the railway in the Big Station.

Glynn was surplus to requirements, and he would be cut up to make some money out of him.

** ** **

When Glynn had first seen Sodor again, he had been stunned.

"Sir, why're all the old engines still working? I saw an ex-Sodor & Mainland engine while being overhauled - surely he isn't making the shareholders any money?"
"Where'd you learn language like that?" asked the Earl, looking quite surprised.
"Sir, I worked on an industrial railway which fed Britain with lead. I used to listen to the managers all talking about their profit margins in their board room. I learnt business from them, and I know that us expensive old engines don't fit their ideal when it comes to making money."

Sir Robert Norramby sighed, and stepped around to face Glynn.
"There is value in you older engines - you'll see."

Glynn got the feeling he never really would.

Stephen taught him better. 

** ** **

Initially, Glynn was moved out of the shed and onto a siding. But that siding became the spur for the new Dairy, so he was moved to a different siding, one further up the line. It was one of the sidings he'd once spent all day waiting in while the gangers prepared the line.

The irony was not lost on Glynn.

But then that siding too became needed, for a new farm being built. So Glynn was moved again, this time to a lonely siding in the middle of nowhere. It was separated from the branchline by a thick wall of trees and shrubs, and its rails were already rusting, even though Glynn had helped lay them himself, less than three years prior.

Glynn was pushed there by an unfamiliar engine, who simply looked at Glynn like he was unimportant.

And he was left.

Years passed. Rain turned bright red paintwork to rust. Vines grew in great tendrils all around, as if trying to drag Glynn into the dirt and earth, bury him under the rails. Leaves turned to mush, then to mulch on his footplate. A family of squirrels made their home in his firebox, and a thrush made it's nest in his funnel. The siding was hidden behind thick, gnarled trees that grew in front, behind, all around, blocking out the world around.

Glynn tried to sleep for much of it, but that was near impossible. He was close enough to the branchline to hear the cheerful whistle of his replacement from his siding, and it woke him up every time he got close to sleeping.

One of his wheels began to grind, the spokes disintegrating slowly. A spring snapped, and Glynn rocked violently to one side, startling the looseleaf off of his footplate and sending a wild badger scampering off into the woods. The vines twisted around his form once more, keeping him in place.

There was a new whistle which joined Thomas' - a new engine. No, two new engines. One had a bell.

Glynn wondered if Thomas was about to be replaced. He wasn't entirely sure how many years had passed since he'd first been shoved callously into the siding and left. His red paint was completely gone, and one of his axles had rusted through, snapping in half in the middle of a particularly cold winter night. Glynn had fallen backwards, now sitting at a particularly jaunty angle which did little to give him comfort.

A new sound was heard, one soft spring day. It was not the whistle of a steam engine, but a weird rumbling sound, a bit like an early car engine, but louder. It came with a… honking sound. Glynn had never heard anything like it - but he still had his mind, even after so long. It was clear that Thomas had finally been replaced, that the railway had found a more useful, modern and economical option for the branchline, and Thomas' cheerful whistle would no longer echo through the valley.

The other two engines seemed to still be around, but that was all.

Until Thomas returned. Glynn was surprised. He hadn't expected for Thomas to work alongside the new engine, the one who sounded like a particularly large car. The animals seemed to agree, often crowding around Glynn and chittering as they did their best to transform him into their new home.

The winter came again; this time it came down with a vengeance. Glynn got the awful feeling that this would be his last winter.

It was a sobering thought, knowing how close to an end an engine was. The way the rust had spread across his boiler to creep its way up his brass. The way the vines now held Glynn up as much as they kept him down. Quietly, Glynn hoped it would come sooner rather than later.

"I've been given a stay… of life…" Glynn murmured to a sparrow as it landed on his lampiron. "But I think I'd… have rathered the wrecker's yard…" The lampiron disintegrated under the sparrow, and the bird took flight again, startled.

Glynn thought the sparrow was just startled by the lampiron, until he heard another sound.

Laughter.

"On! On! On!" Glynn blinked, too tired to truly put thoughts together. That was the sound of trucks - troublesome trucks. He'd known that sound well, a lifetime ago.
"Faster! Faster! We've broken away, we've broken away!" They sounded to be getting closer - any moment, they'd roar by on the other side of Glynn's isolated siding, and be gone. The most noise he'd heard from the railway in decades, been and gone in—

The trucks came smashing through the trees, the branches slowing them until they screeched to a stop, inches from Glynn's buffers. Several were derailed, having been knocked off the rails by branches and the build up of leaves and dirt on the rails.

"Oh… we've stopped," groaned a truck. Glynn blinked - he was awake now!
"Trucks?"
"An engine?"
"A weird rusty engine!" the lead truck confirmed, looking at Glynn. "It looks ancient!"
"What colour is it?" demanded a truck from the end of the runaway train.
"Rusty, I just said!" snapped the lead truck in reply.
"I do have a name, you know," huffed Glynn.

The trucks went silent; Glynn got the uncomfortable feeling that he was being judged.

"Well how am I supposed to know your name if you won't introduce yourself?" demanded the lead truck.
"You intruded, you give your name first," huffed Glynn, not really wanting his first interaction with something that wasn't furry or feathered to end too quickly. The trucks murmured amongst themselves.
"We're trucks! What are you?"
"I'm Glynn, and I'm an engine."

The trucks murmured again.
"You don't look like any engine I've seen," mused the lead truck. "Are you a failed experiment?"
"Ah, no," Glynn replied. "I'm a coffeepot. I ran the branchline back before Thomas… Thomas is still working, right?"

The trucks seemed very confused now.

"Before Thomas? You are old!" one exclaimed.
"Ancient!" agreed another.
"And yes, the blue puffball is still working," the lead truck finished.

At that moment, there was a whistle. Glynn couldn't see the engine for the trees, but the whistle sounded like one of the steam engines who'd come to help Thomas.
"You silly trucks!" exclaimed the engine. "You could've caused a nasty accident! Now we'll have to get you out." Moments later, people stumbled down the siding. They got to about the lead truck before stopping and staring.

"It's an engine!"
"What's it doing here?"
"We'll have to tell the Fat Controller!"

Glynn wondered if 'Controller' was a new word for 'Director'.
"Sirs," he murmured softly. "Who is the Fat Director today?"

There was a stunned silence.

"We haven't had a Fat Director since the 40s," the driver said slowly. "How long have you been down here?!"
"I'm… not sure, sirs," admitted Glynn. "I was moved in… uh… 1925, I believe? Not long after Thomas started."

The two men shared a look.
"We will be right back," they said together.

Glynn wasn't sure what was going on. Within minutes, the entire forest was abuzz! The trucks were carefully removed, while workmen - and workwomen, Glynn had never seen those before - carefully assessed him.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed a voice. Glynn looked up. Standing in front of him was a man who looked a lot like the Fat Director, only he seemed a lot more jovial. "Look what we have here! Who're you?"
"I'm Glynn, sir. Are you related to the Fat Director?" The man laughed.
"I'm Sir Topham Hatt's son, Sir Charles Hatt. And you must be the missing engine!"

Glynn was very confused.
"Who, sir?"
"The missing engine! You've been on our books for decades, but no one could find you - no wonder, with you being hidden down here." Glynn hummed along, not quite sure what to think. The woods were cut down on one side, revealing the branchline to the siding for the first time in decades.

Decades. It was a number that made Glynn balk.

The Fat Controller brought in a flatbed, and a crane, and a heap of specialists who very carefully loaded him onto the flatbed.
"Sir, am I finally going to meet the cutter's torch?" asked Glynn softly. Sir Charles Hatt seemed very surprised.
"No, Glynn. You will be going to the Works and mended."
"Oh, that's nice…" murmured Glynn softly.

And as he finally left the siding that had ensnared him in its grasp for nearly fifty years, Glynn finally fell blissfully asleep.

Chapter Text

The shed was small. Falcon — no, Sir Handel felt almost as though the walls were closing in, his eyes constantly darting about. Back at the Aluminium Works, there had been no shed - Fal — no, Sir Handel and Stuart — no, Peter Sam, had slept in the main warehouse, two tiny engines dwarfed by the machinery around them. Back then, Sir Handel had been unable to sleep for how massive the space was, how easy it would be for one of the huge aluminium crushers to tumble sideways and crush him in an instant.

In these new sheds, however, the opposite was true. The benchtop was so close to Sir Handel's saddle tank that he could feel the splinters flaking off the aged wood. A tool could be bounced off by a passing train on the big railway, and fall right into his motion. It was all too claustrophobia.

There was no Granpuff to save him then, and there was no Granpuff to save him now.

Sir Handel looked around again. Stuart - no, Peter Sam - was dozing lightly - of course he was. Peter Sam had always been such a people pleaser. Always happy to smile and do whatever it took to keep water in his tank and coal in his bunker.

He'd been like that on the Mid Sodor, near the end. Always smiling like it was the only thing he could do, even as Granpuff was ripped away from them and they were sent away into a world they had never known.

He'd not been like that before, back when the railway was in it's golden age. Maybe it was a new coping mechanism, buried into his brain deep by a crew who whispered false promises of salvation into his ears.

Peter Sam wanted to tell the Thin Controller about Duke, to convince him to go and find their beloved Granpuff. Falc— NO, SIR HANDEL - knew better. Sir Handel knew better. He did. The Thin Controller would not restore Duke like he was Rheneas and Skarloey. He would scrap Duke. He only kept Skarloey and Rheneas around because he was emotionally attached to them, unable to let them go.

He had no connection to Sir Handel or Peter Sam, he would not care about their sob story. Sir Handel and Peter Sam were only here to fulfill a gap in the engine roster until Rheneas returned.

Sir Handel knew this.

He did.

Their third home was only temporary, in the same way their second home was, in the same way their first home - their true home - was not meant to be, and yet was. Still, Sir Handel remembered the good times, back before it all went downhill so fast.

Back when he was Falcon, when Peter Sam was Stuart. Back before Peter Sam began blindly agreeing to everything in the hopes it would get him what he wanted, back before Sir Handel became aware of how awful the world truly was.

Back when Falcon had Granpuff, the older engine had always stood between them and the world, hackles raised against any threat like his Bulldog namesake. He had stood firm, unwavering, powerful. He had fought for their survival when the manager had considered selling him and Stuart off to keep costs low in the early 1930s, when the Great Depression had rocked everything.

The manager had spent days arguing it over with Duke, and in the end they had lost the nicest of the coaches, but Stuart and Falcon had remained.

Granpuff had always done his level-headed best to protect them, even going so far as to pile extra work onto himself in the last few years, intentionally worsening his health to ensure his youngsters stayed in good condition, just in case a buyer was found to save them.

Duke's gambit had worked, at the cost of draining away any chance of his being bought.

Sir Handel's reminiscing was broken by another train passing by on the big railway. That was another thing that was different. At almost all hours of the day, a big engine grunted past with a big train. Sir Handel had met Gordon - had bested Gordon before the bigger engine could get a word in edgeways, ensuring that their future interactions would be on his terms. But there were several others, all hulking giants with trains longer than the horizon. Many of them did not even stop to talk to the Skarloey Railway engines, instead whistling loudly until their signals turned green and they could continued onwards.

Sir Handel missed the peace and tranquility of his home - his real home. At the very least, the Aluminium Works had been silent after the day's work was done. Here, there was no respite.

Sir Handel missed his home.

Reminiscing did little to assuage the pain and loss. There was nothing that could fix the feeling that was boiling deep in Sir Handel's boiler.

He hated how different everything felt. He hated how little he could trust the world, how little protection he had against those who wished to smash him up, tear him apart. He needed to protect Peter Sam, who was too naive to protect himself, and he needed to hold firm until there was a time he could bring Granpuff back.

Sir Handel was not going to let this new railway take away his memories of his old home.