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sudriantraveler · 22 days ago

Text

Christmas Story

The letters continued...

Threats were issued:

“He’s dead if I ever see him.”

“-and if he ever shows his face around my shed, he’s a dead engine.”

“HIS COMPONENT PARTS WILL REGRET BEING ATTACHED TO HIM.”

“I’ll show him exactly what kind of a terror us diesels can be.”

“Personally, I’d have introduced his teeth to his superheater…”

And welcomes were given.

“I suppose this makes you one of ours now.”

“It’s nice to increase the ranks for once.”

“Can we keep you and trade Mallard to the Western?”

“I, for one, welcome you with smooth rails and green signals.”

“-and don’t worry! You’ll fit in just fine!”

Forgiveness was given, despite not being asked for.

“We have heard about your recent change in “livery” and we understand.”

“Considering what’s happened I don’t blame you for tossing us into the bin.”

“-I’ve heard talk that some engines are quite taken with what you’ve done. Might be a trend!”

“Usually, old allegiances die hard. In your case, I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did.”

“Perhaps some day we can dispense with the old rivalries altogether…”

“YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN US.”

And declarations were made.

“ - you will always be one of us, and we love you.”

“I can’t wait to see you at the next gala!”

“YOU’LL LOOK GOOD IN BLUE, I GUARANTEE IT.”

“Keep us in your memories, but go wherever your heart takes you.”

“Don’t let engines like him keep you in a bad place, okay?”

Then there were the signatures.

Your Brother

Your Sister

Your Friend

Your Compatriot

YOUR FELLOW WESTERNER

Your Eastern Acquaintance,

Caerphilly Castle

Evening Star

Deltic

Flying Scotsman

King George V

PENDENNIS CASTLE

№1306 Mayflower

D7017

D7018

D7026

D7076

Western Prince

Black Prince (92203)

Mallard [Who is writing this under duress]

Aerolite

26000 (Tommy)

№ 1420

D9500 & D9531

Lode Star

Green Arrow

№ 4498 Sir Nigel Gresley

The Engines of the Vale of Rheidol Railway

D821, D818, and D832

Blue Peter

55 022 (Royal Scots Grey)

Tuylar

Dominion of Canada

Dwight D. Eisenhower

Bittern

92212

Western Ranger

55 016

№4588

Alycidon (D9009)

№ 65462

Western Champion

Bradley Manor

7819 Hinton Manor

D9002

Royal Highland Fusilier (D9019)

№ 6412

Clun Castle

6990 Witherslack Hall

Sir Hadyn and Edward Thomas

№ 18000 (Kerosene Castle)

4488 (Union of South Africa)

Morayshire

Olton Hall

Hagley Hall

55 021

King Edward I

King Edward II

Western Courier

Western Lady

D9534

№ 7293

Western Campaigner

----------------------

Then they opened the boxes.

The small ones were addressed to Duck and Oliver. The first few were opened up, revealing, “Name plates? Why name plates?”

“Well, hang on a minute, these don’t look like any name plates I’ve seen before.”

“Ah, wait, that’s it. They’re usually curved, to go over the splashers.”

“And they’re not red.”

“Well, they are if… ooooh.”

“What?”

“They’re Eastern. With the red backing. These’re LNER plates.”

Oliver stared at Duck, ignoring how the men were opening up a separate box with a similar return address.

“It’s a builder’s plate?!”

“It’s an LNER builder’s plate, see the shape?”

“Forget the shape, it says London and North Eastern on it.”

“Oh gosh, this is serious, innit?”

“That’s borderline sacreligious is what it is. Lookit that! It says Swindon on it!”

“Gordon is going to be insufferable about this, I just don’t know how.”

There was an identical plate for Duck, and… glory be, it really was an LNER-styled builder’s plate, made out with his information. They even found out his original works number.

He breathed in deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He mattered to them, in a way that felt just as, if not more personal than the pile of letters on the floor. Maybe it was the shock, the lingering feelings from hearing Truro’s unhinged rant in the cold December air.

“I think,” he looked between the plate, and Oliver. “That we’re at a moment in our lives that we can’t go back from.”

-----------

The boxes addressed to Bear were much larger, and were in greater quantities.

“Oh look, this one’s a headboard!” exclaimed his driver.

Bear’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he saw that it said THE FLYING SCOTSMAN on it.

The note attached was short, but sweet. “‘Tis nice to have another Eastern Diesel. Mayhaps someday this shall be used again in anger.” It was signed “Royal Scots Grey”.

The next one had the GWR crest burned into the surface of the crate. Opening it revealed a rather lengthy nameplate wrapped in cloth. A note was tied around it.

“Dearest Bear,” it read. “He’s done, even if he doesn’t know it yet. This raises an issue - we do need a “City” in our ranks. We think you can take up that role.”

The wrapping was undone, and Bear could feel a shocked tear build up in his eye.

The words CITY OF TIDMOUTH glinted in the lights of the shed, the letters done in shining brass, just like the steam engines of old.

Another package, this one from an address that he vaguely remembered as being an old Eastern Region TMD, contained a host of plates both large and small. The largest of them was a bright red rectangle, with silver letters that read BEAR. After looking it over, his crew deemed it to be a dead ringer for the name boards on Eastern Region diesels.

“Which means…” said his driver, rifling through the smaller plates, each the size of a medallion. “That these must be from all the different Depots. Yeah, yeah, look. This one’s Stratford, and here’s York. Blimey, I didn’t know that anyone had a Colchester one.”

This went on for several minutes, as plates from seemingly every Eastern Region TMD were removed from the box. Bear’s eyebrows rose until they could go no higher.

The next morning, his crew busied themselves with attaching several of the plates to his sides. There was some argument as to where they should be placed, and how to avoid making Bear look like “he was covered in fridge magnets.”

Said argument was still ongoing as Gordon rolled by. His suddenly-wide eyes went from the Eastern Region name plate to THE FLYING SCOTSMAN headboard in shock.

Bear ignored his crew, who were intently measuring the “CITY OF TIDMOUTH” nameplate like it may suddenly change size, and fixed Gordon with an intent look. “This is unequivocally your fault,” he said, keeping his tone serious even as he started to smile. “Thank you.”

----------

A few days later, as the mail started to peter off, a deeply overstuffed document mailer ended up at the shed in Arlesburgh, addressed to Oliver and Duck collectively.

It was a long and dry letter, filled with passages about duty and honor, dictated by King George V, the “self-proclaimed pro tempore leader of our kind, now that Truro is out.”

Naturally, Duck found it fascinating, while Oliver would rather gnaw off his own buffers. It grew so dull that eventually the stationmaster got bored of reading Duck’s copy of the pair of identical letters aloud, and fetched a sheet music stand from the station, placing the type-written pages across it for the two engines to read at their own pace before leaving for the station.

Oliver’s pace was “no, thank you, but I’d really rather skip to the end,” but Duck was insistent on reading the entire letter aloud.

“-I humbly ask you as a fellow Westerner, free of all but our Swindon metal, do you have any interest…” Duck abruptly trailed off.

“Hm?” Oliver said, blinking himself to attention. “Interest in what? Don’t tell me you’ve gotten bored now?”

Duck ignored him. “They can’t really-”

“Really what? Out with it!”

“Look!” Duck yelped. “It’s right there, on the fifth page, towards the bottom.”

Oliver rolled his eyes, but eventually found the sentence. “-any interest in becoming the new figurehead of the Great Western? What?” He squeaked in surprise, eyes skimming the preceding paragraphs to see what in the world they were on about.

“-perhaps the most unfortunate part of Truro’s fall from grace is that he is - or perhaps was - the most recognizable member of our lineage by a wide margin. While it remains true that the enthusiast may recognize myself or Caerphilly, the general public likely knows Truro for the same reason that they know Flying Scotsman. The name Great Western, and what it stands for, is vestigial at best.

That being said, a new opportunity has presented itself. As I am sure you are aware, the books by the Reverend Awdry featuring you and Oliver have spawned a television show, which has in turn re-ignited popularity in the books. Already I have had to field queries about your Island from children clutching copies of “Duck and the Diesel Engine.” Many who have no other knowledge of our ways have nonetheless made the connection that we Westerners all know each other, and have asked me about you and Oliver. Strangely, none have asked about Truro; in fact, one child, who I have been assured does not yet know how to read, mistook me for Truro, and asked me what visiting Sodor was like. (I did not dissuade him of this view. I hope that I was correct in my assumption that Sodor is very pleasant in the summer.)

I’m sure that you can see the common thread here. You and Oliver will have an uncommon familiarity with the next generation, and possibly many more beyond. While I, Caerphilly, and the rest sit quietly behind ropes, you will continue as a working engine, adding to our common lore, and preaching our gospel. You are the highest ranking Paddie Shunter to survive the purges of Modernization, and you know more of Our Ways than even I do.

With this in mind - and please do not take this as an obligation, a chore, a weight against your buffers - I humbly ask you as a fellow Westerner, free of all but our Swindon metal, do you have any interest in becoming the new figurehead of the Great Western Railway?”

Neither engine got any sleep that night, and it was a very bleary Duck that took the first train into Tidmouth the next day.

“You look terrible,” Gordon sniffed unthinkingly. “Do you not sleep at night? Too much rearranging of your goods yard, perhaps?”

“Gordon, please-”

On the road opposite Duck, Bear raised an eyebrow. “It’s too early in the morning for either of you to start.”

“Oh fine,” Gordon huffed as the last of the passengers flooded into the express. “But it’s rather undignified for an Easterner to be so disheveled. Just look at us for an example, Duck!”

Point made, he set off with a whoosh of steam, and within a minute the train’s rear lamp was fading into the distance.

Bear didn’t say anything for a long while. Duck wondered if the diesel wasn’t saying anything because Gordon was right - compared to Bear’s mirror-shine paint and Gordon’s polished brass, he looked awful.

Or, the vicious little voice in the back of his mind piped up. He still doesn’t want to talk to you. Considering how you sided with Truro over-

“So, I got a letter yesterday.” Bear said, apropos of nothing. “From King George V herself.”

“Oh?” Duck seized the chance to get out of his own mind. “What about?”

“Seems like the Great Western needs a new figurehead, considering that somebody has lost all his prestige.”

“O-oh…” Duck warbled. “You got that too?”

“Mmhmm.” Bear wasn’t looking at anything in particular. “Apparently the television show is driving people to the books; people seem to like conflict in their children’s books. Something about being able to show right from wrong.”

“Do they now?” Oh, if only the rails could swallow him whole at this moment.

“Oh yes.” Bear looked contemplative. “It also helps that nobody really likes diesels. Smelly, underhanded things. It’s quite nice to be able to have one cause trouble and then get sent away for doing that in one single book.”

“Yes, I-I’m quite aware of what happened…” Maybe his boiler could explode. That might fix things.

“And everybody loves a runaway train.”

“Well, I -uh, I wouldn’t- um…”

Bear smirked. “Obviously I don’t include you in that.”

“W-w-well of course, I-”

Bear didn’t say anything for a second, and Duck continued to trip over his own tongue, until:

“She’s right, you know.”

“Wh-what?”

“King George. She’s right about you. Every child in the country is going to know your name someday, especially if they put you on the telly. And there’s not another engine alive who knows all of the history that you do.”

“Bear,” Duck finally managed to find his voice. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Duck was floored. “Bear, you were there! I just followed along behind him, doing whatever he said to-”

“Duck,” Bear cut him off and looked him straight in the eyes. “He was City of Truro. Who would have expected that out of any engine, let alone one of his stature?”

“But - but - but I-”

“Acted childish, perhaps,” Bear continued, gently. “But he revealed himself to you at the same time he did everyone. Even I didn’t think he’d hurt me on purpose!”

“But I should have noticed!” Duck cried. “And I didn’t! What sort of leader would I be?”

Bear was unmoved. “It’s true that you didn’t notice then, but look at what you’re doing right now.”

“What?”

Bear smiled gently, his new nameplates gleaming in the station lights. “You’re giving yourself the third degree over this. It’s been six months, Duck! Even I’ve moved on from that, or I would, if you’d let me. Truro’s got his just desserts, I’ve found that more engines care about me than I previously thought possible, and Oliver… is Oliver-ing along like nothing ever happened. It’s just you who hasn’t moved on from this yet, and that is the true mark of a leader.”

“No, Bear,” Duck started to stammer. “But-I can’t. Surely-”

“The only sure thing is that you’d do a good job.” Bear said as the last of his passengers boarded. “Besides, if you do badly enough…” The guard blew the whistle, and waved the green flag. “You’ll look really good in garter blue!”

And then he was off, engine roaring. The train sparkled against the early summer sun as it left, and Duck was suddenly alone at the platform.

“He does make a good point,” Well, he was almost alone. He was still coupled to Alice and Mirabel. “What do you want to do?”

Duck didn’t say anything for a long while.

He had a lot to think about.

#reblog #ttte #rws #ttte fic #ttte duck #ttte oliver #ttte bear #christmas story #sodor shenangians #very well done #it's really neat to get a look at the wider engine community

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sudriantraveler · 22 days ago

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Out With The Old

The great pacific stood in the center of the works. Parts were laid about on the floor, and pieces of his sleek, streamlined cladding had been removed.

His eyes scanned the room, a haughty, judgemental look to them as he watched the men carrying out his restoration.

He had high standards, and he expected them to be met.

His new owners were a duke and duchess after all. Though even if they hadn’t been, the big express engine considered himself to be no less than nobility regardless.

Still, even as he demanded perfection, his impatience with the proceedings grew.

Gresley’s finest was never meant to be seen in such an unkempt state after all.

He shuddered at the thought, though he tried to hide it.

As he mulled over what work was left to be done, his attention was drawn to the opening of one of the side doors to the shop floor. A man stepped into the room, carrying a wrapped bundle of objects, which the engine assumed were tools, or perhaps some new parts.

He recognized the man as the one the Duke and Duchess had hired to oversee his restoration.

The big engine judged him to be suitable enough for the task. He did indeed have a keen eye for details, and thoroughly knew his way around engines.

He had however, once worked as a steam mechanic for the National Coal Board, and the express engine balked at the idea of being treated like one of the grubby industrials the man was familiar with. Especially as he seemed to still hold an inexplicable fondness for the… what were they called?... Austerities which had been his previous patients.

Still though, he was good at what he did, and the big engine was satisfied to see that the man was smart enough to give his current project the respect a Streak deserved.

“Morning Old Boy,” the man said cheerily.

The engine yawned dismissively, but he still managed to respond with some grace.

“Good morning Sir”. He eyed the long bundle being carried over the man’s shoulder. “What have you got there?”

“Well, that’s just what I came here to show you”. The man was beaming. Clearly he was excited about whatever it was he had brought, and expected the streak to be enthused as well.

The big engine watched as the objects were placed on the ground in front of him, and the cloth wrapping was removed.

His eyes went wide.

Placed before him were a pair of shining brass nameplates.

His nameplates.

“It took some effort,” said the man, evidently proud of the fact, “But we managed to find these at last. I gave them a good polish. Figured you’d-”

“Get rid of them!”

The man blinked, stunned into silence for a few moments. “I… I’m sorry?” he said at last.

“You heard me” The big engine huffed. Don’t question me, just do it. “Get rid of them”.

The man was puzzled. He couldn’t understand what he had just heard, but the big engine's angry scowl told him he ought to figure it out quickly.

“Are you… su-”

“That engine is gone” hissed the pacific. He was a failure. He was cast aside and forgotten. “I am not him”.

The man stared at him. “R-right” he stammered, “Well… What do you want me to do with these then?”

The engine glared at him. Despite not being in steam, the man swore he could see fire glowing behind his eyes.

“Throw them out, run them over, I don’t care. Just get rid of them!” The big engine scanned his surroundings, until his sight landed on something at the other end of the workshop.

“Actually…” he said slowly, “You see that smelting pot? Toss them in there”.

The man balked at this request. “Wha… Even if you don’t want them, these are still valuable artif-”

“I want them Destroyed!” The pacific bellowed with furry. Don’t make me tell you again.

The man stuttered for a bit longer, trying to find his voice. But the furious glare of the massive engine towering over him made it clear that there would be no arguments.

Eventually, he gave in, and walked slowly towards the red hot, boiling smelting pot. The big engine's eyes remained locked on him the whole way.

The man gave a heavy sigh. Then, he hefted the still gleaming nameplates into the pot.

The big engine watched, his face creased in anger, as flames leapt up from the bubbling mass, the shining plates sinking slowly into the molten, swirling metals of the giant cauldron.

He didn’t look away until the once magnificent nameplates had been fully submerged and melted away into nothing.

Once that was done… He smiled.

“So…” the man sighed, “I suppose we’ll have to give you a new name then”.

The engine hardly bothered to look at him. He was too engrossed in his own mind, a deep feeling of satisfaction washing over him.

“I’ll get back to you on that” he said, with a slight chuckle. “We’ll workshop something suitable I’m sure”.

A month later, the streamlined pacific had his new name.

He beamed as the freshly cast plates were bolted to his side. They glistened marvelously in the sunlight, practically glowed even, and they complimented his new silver paint immaculately.

Their lettering spelled out for all the world the new name of Gresley’s finest.

‘Spencer’.

#ttte #rws #ttte fic #ttte art #ttte spencer #one more bit of drawing and writing before the new year #I'll probably do some more stories relating to this eventually #Spencer spent some time in a scrapyard and it made him worse

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sudriantraveler · 26 days ago

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Christmas Story

Tidmouth Station - December 27, 1984 - 10:00 AM

City of Truro was roused from his cold and uncomfortable slumber by the movement of his wheels. He opened his eyes to find that he’d been attached to a goods train. He was facing rearwards still, and a sea of hostile looking trucks and vans stared back at him. He stared back, not about to be scared by a group of lesser creatures.

Presently, there was a whistle, and another green engine rolled past him, a single flatbed truck behind him. “Good morning!” the engine said cheerfully. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up.”

Truro blinked, unused to common courtesy after the savage treatment he’d endured. “Yes, I am now awake,” he said slowly. “Where are we going?”

“To the mainland - well, that’s where I’m going at least,” the engine prattled on as he was backed down onto the train. “I think you’re going beyond there.”

“My own fifteen guinea special, as it were,” Truro remarked blithely. “It seems that my loan here has fallen through.”

“Ah well,” the engine said - was he a Black Five? He seemed to have some Stanier in his design. Maybe a touch of Gresley too. “Not everything works out. I’m sure that the museum will have you back on display in no time.”

Truro had to avoid gritting his teeth. “Yes, I’m sure they will.”

The journey continued mostly uneventfully as the train continued down the line. Quite naturally, it was a slow pickup goods, and so there was plenty of time for this… LMS? engine to talk and talk and talk.

“-and so then I said- oh my goodness, what is he wearing?” The engine cut off as they rolled past a signal near some no-where station in the middle of the countryside.

Truro didn’t have to guess at who was coming the other way - the growling motor was obvious from a distance.

The two trains passed at a relatively slow pace - the horrid diesel growling away at a quiet roar. It said something to the engine pulling Truro along, and then was sliding away down the line, surely to ruin someone else’s day.

The green engine was silent.

“What was that about?” Truro hoped that he could perhaps find an ally against this backwards island with its diesel loving steam engines. “Did it-”

“Oh, nothing.” The green engine said. “I’ve just been in the works for a few months. I haven’t seen him since October and, well it seems like I’ve missed some things.”

“Like this monster…” The truck nearest to Truro whispered. Truro shot it an icy glare to make it subside.

“Oh goodness me,” Truro said with faux-drama. “I can only sympathize! I’ve been on this island a month and I wish that I’d been in the works the whole time!”

“Really?” the engine laughed. “Why’s that? I can say it’s not the picnic it used to be!”

“Oh, well, let’s just start with that blasted diesel that just passed us…” Truro launched into a… reasonably accurate tale of the last month, not noticing how quiet the engine in front got as he went on.

He pointedly ignored the deranged looking smiles on the faces of the trucks behind him.

----

Halfway to Kellsthorpe Road Station - December 27, 1984 - 1:35 PM

“Henry.” The Fat Controller didn’t even have the energy to be upset. “You have been out of the works for five hours.”

Henry was defiant. “Sir, I wish that someone had told me. I would have dealt with him in the yard.”

“That is not the right response.” Stephen Hatt called from where he was inspecting the p-way gang. They almost had a track open.

“With respect sir,” Henry said without a hint of shame. “But you’re not the Fat Controller yet.”

Charles Hatt inspected the gravel by his shoes, trying very hard to remember why he put up with these engines.

“-you dare lay your filthy hands upon me!” came a bellow from the lineside. The men were slipping cables around City of Truro’s battered form. “I am the Great Western, and you will all pay for this treachery!”

Ah yes, there it was.

Charles looked up at Henry. “Henry, the National Railway Museum and the Great Western Museum had to go through a great deal of trouble for him. There was some kind of an engine trade.”

“So?”

“Henry, we owe Swindon and York an engine now. The same engine.”

“He’s still in one piece.” There was a clunk. “Mostly. Say, if he’s in two pieces, he can-”

“An operating engine.”

There was a pause, as Henry thought something over. “Well I’m certainly not going.”

The Fat Controller felt exhausted. “Henry…”

“I won’t. He deserved it.”

A deep sigh escaped Charles. “I want you to know that I’m only agreeing to this because it will soon not be my problem.”

“Sir, you’re not retiring from the Hatt Locomotive Trust as well, are you?”

“Bollocks.”

--------------------------

The Museum of the Great Western Railway at Swindon - January 3, 1985 - Early in the morning.

“ATTENTION, BILGEWATER DRINKING WESTERNERS!” a voice rattled the walls of the museum, startling the exhibits awake.

“What in the world..?” Lode Star stammered as she blinked the sleep out of her eyes.

“I AM A REPRESENTATIVE OF A SUPERIOR RAILWAY, AND I HAVE JUDGED THIS FACILITY TO BE INFERIOR! YOU SHOULD BE FURIOUS AT THE SQUALOROUS CONDITIONS THEY HAVE FORCED YOU TO- what? No, I shall not be silent! Do you think I want to be here?! This is a ramshackle hovel! By an industrial park! You should be ashamed that you keep anything of value here, let alone locomotives!”

A blue tender was backing into the spot that Truro had vacated over a month prior. Complaints and whinges followed in its wake, finally resolving into the form of a 4-6-2 of distinctly eastern design.

“Who are you?” Lode Star asked, trying very hard to be imposing.

“I,” the big engine said imperiously, “am Gordon, first of the Gresleys and an honored member of the London and North Eastern Railway. I am here, however temporarily, as a “fill-in” for your most reviled member, City of Truro.” He said Truro’s name like it was a curse word.

“Whatever happened to Truro?” she asked, suddenly very concerned.

“You shall find out, in due time,” the blue engine said ominously.

--------

The National Railway Museum, York - April 25, 1985 - Midday

The engines in the Great Hall were abuzz with anticipation, although it couldn’t be said that it was pleasant. The train had been delayed by several hours, and this gave some engines time to request a move outside.

When the request had been denied, they stopped asking and started ordering.

“I’m going to give him one chance to explain himself.” Caerphilly Castle set her jaw, waiting for the train to come into view.

“I’m surprised you’re going to give him that much,” Evening Star said grimly.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Western Fusilier growled.

Evening Star eyed the big diesel-hydraulic. “Fuse, you shouldn’t be here. It’s not going to be healthy for you.”

“And I suppose that you possess a recently-discovered wellspring of calm?”

“Quiet, the lot of you!” Railcar 4 snapped. “We’re going to talk to him, and then-”

“We’re going to kill him,” Fusilier sniffed.

“No!”

Inside the doors to the Great Hall, a trio of Gresleys watched with varying levels of concern.

“I wish that they weren’t out there,” Green Arrow said quietly. “It’s not going to end well for them.”

“Oh, do give over.” Mallard sniffed. “What are they going to do? Yell him to death? Not a one of them can move under their own power!”

“You would be surprised at the power of words, cousin,” Gordon said quietly, watching the proceedings.

“I am well aware of the power of words, mister Representative Most Plenipotentiary.” The streamlined engine scoffed. “What exactly were you thinking with that? Letting some of them into our ranks?”

“Mal, I didn’t see you complaining when they tapped the shovel to your buffers.” Green Arrow raised an eyebrow.

“Why you-!”

“Quiet!” snapped Coppernob, from his place near the doors. “Do we want to hear this or not?”

The train slowly rolled into view, and the entire museum fell silent.

“Well cousin,” except for Mallard, of course. “You’ve certainly done it now.”

First along was Truro, who was being pushed into the yard by a diesel - oh goodness gracious it was Bear.

It didn’t look like Bear.

Then again it didn’t look like Truro either.

Bear, still unmistakably a Western Region diesel-hydraulic, was painted from buffer to buffer in LNER Express Apple Green. In an oval in the center of his bodywork, 7101 was spelled out in gold letters, while it was flanked by the letters LN ER. His wheels were rimmed in white, and he had traditional red bufferbeams, with № 35 102 painted on it. He practically sparkled in the sun, and there couldn’t have been a cleaner engine inside the museum.

And then there was Truro.

His GWR green was gone.

In its place was a very drab BR Black.

#reblog #ttte #rws #ttte fic #sodor shenangians #christmas story #ttte henry #ttte gordon #ttte city of truro #ttte bear #"Sir I wish that someone had told me. I would have dealt with him in the yard.”#Amazing

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sudriantraveler · 27 days ago

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Christmas Story

Merry Christmas you guys.

Christmas Day

Morning broke over one of the most subdued Christmases Tidmouth sheds had ever seen.

For most of the engines, it had started early:

Gordon had vanished before the sun, taking some morning train - which one it was, nobody was quite sure; the limited-service Christmas day timetable was a baffling mystery that only became clear on the day of.

Edward, who woke at five-thirty in the morning out of habit, had elected to leave the shed while silence still reigned. Whichever train Gordon didn’t take, he did.

James and Delta woke together as twilight began to dapple the sky, and slipped out of the shed with a bare minimum of noise or fuss. Where they went off to was anyone’s guess. Oliver, who missed their departure despite being awake, could only guess. They’d said something about the harbour?

That left just the three Westerners in the room. Oliver was the only one awake, and he regarded the scene with worried eyes. Bear and Duck hadn’t exchanged two words since Bear’s new “paint” had been applied, and he did not want to be around to hear what they said. Shortly before seven thirty, an inspector groused his way in, looking for an engine willing to run a P-Way service down the Little Western to finish up the various issues with the line, and Oliver jumped at the chance.

That left just two…

Bear awoke to the morning sun finally making an appearance. The shed appeared to be empty, but…

There was a quiet clatter to one side, and he lazily looked over to see Duck’s crew staring at each other in accusation while an oil can rolled on the ground.

Bear didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he particularly wanted to say.

“Um.” Unfortunately, Duck did. “Bear. About…”

“Duck.” Bear cut him off. “I understand your… position right now, or at least I think I do, but I don’t want to talk to you right now.” He sighed deeply. “Or perhaps for a while. Maybe you should try this again later.”

There was a quiet sniffle from the tank engine, who then departed with a minimum of noise or fuss.

Bear didn’t feel a bit of bother about how he made his fellow engine feel, and that bothered him more than anything else.

Eventually, a crew came for him. It was pushing ten in the morning, and he set off with a strange working: an empty coaching stock move all the way to Kirk Ronan.

“There’s a guaranteed connection with the ferry from France,” his driver explained. “Usually there’s another train, but not today.”

“Damned Christmas timetable…”

“You know,” the man continued. “It’s strange. Gordon was supposed to take this train, but he insisted on having you take it. Couldn’t begin to imagine why.”

Bear rolled his eyes. “It’s easy work. This is probably his idea of a Christmas present.”

“Who knows?”

Bear didn’t put any more thought into it, and brought the train into Kirk Ronan right on schedule.

The ferry, a big red and white one named Chartres, was already there, moored tightly to the dock, and absolutely festooned with lights and decorations. «Joyeux Noël, mon petit ami!» She boomed. “It is a time of joy and happiness, no? Where are all the decorations?”

Bear looked around; the ferry terminal was quite drab - he remembered hearing something about the snow being worse along the coast. Maybe they couldn’t decorate. “They must be saving them for next year!” he said, trying to seem upbeat.

The ferry made a noise of assent, and then any chance for further conversation was lost as a flood of passengers made their way down the boarding ramps and into the coaches. Soon afterwards, the train departed back the way it came, express service to Tidmouth station. The ferry heralded their departure with an earth-shaking foghorn blast, and then they were into the distance.

There were almost no other trains on the line, and Bear had plenty of time to think. Goodness me. It really is Christmas, isn’t it? I made it through the month, and all it cost me was one friend, most of my sanity, and my identity.

He laughed bitterly to himself. This is a terrible Christmas.

As he went further down the line, another thought came to him. I can’t believe I let them use this paint on me. I thought blue was too much? This itches!

The train arrived at Tidmouth a few minutes ahead of schedule, just as the clocks struck noon, and Bear was surprised to see that there was a “restricting-diverge” signal ahead of him. “They’re sending us around the loop?”

“The loop”, a section of line that Gordon had famously been mis-routed down once (James still needles him about it, once in a great while), was not actually a single line, but was rather a series of feeder tracks that connected the various dockside industries with the harbour itself, as well as the big station. In the early 1900s, some bright spark (probably Sir Topham Hatt, although the Dry family had significant involvement in the development of Tidmouth’s dockyards) had realized that making a full “loop” to connect both sides of the big station to the docks may be beneficial, and so many of the lightly built industrial spurs were connected into a rambling branch line that snaked through Tidmouth’s waterfront before ducking underneath the high street in a cutting, eventually meeting the Little Western just outside the station’s “rear”. Doing this added almost fifteen minutes to a journey, and so it was restricted to only the most dire of emergencies (or if you really irked the signalman).

As Bear trundled over, under, around, and through Tidmouth, he had the distinct feeling that he was being played with. There weren’t any signals out of order, he wondered. Why am I going this way?

He got his answer soon enough, as he eventually entered the station through the Little Western’s platforms, gliding to a stop about three-quarters of the way down the platform.

To his confusion, he was not the only engine there:

Duck and Oliver were face-to-face on the platform to his left, and each looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Gordon was parked directly in front, with a worryingly inscrutable grin on his face.

Toby was parked next to Gordon, and looked like he was only now understanding what was going on.

In the background, Truro had been pushed just inside the station’s glass canopy, clearly so that he could hear what was going on. Amusingly, he also wasn’t meant to interrupt whatever was going to occur, as there was a red-and-white checkered tablecloth shoved into his mouth to gag him. Even better, nobody had bothered to set or splint his nose at any point. It looked like it really hurt. Shame about that.

Alongside the porters and other staff meeting the train, there were several members of the station staff lining the platform, each in their “dress” uniforms, complete with shined shoes and buttons.

Finally, and perhaps most concerningly, the… Yugoslav-Mexican band that the Fat Controller had sourced was tuning their instruments on the platform next to Gordon.

“Do I even want to know?” he asked Gordon as the passengers poured out of the train.

“Just go along with it,” Toby said, looking resigned to whatever was about to happen.

“Brother Toby,” Gordon chided. “Is that really the tone you wish to take in front of the initiates?”

“Gordon,” Toby began. “You are treading upon a line that I didn’t even know existed three minutes ago. Get on with it.”

“In due time…” Gordon said beatifically. “Once we have privacy.”

And so they waited for another ten minutes while the passengers departed. Everybody except Gordon felt increasingly awkward as time stretched on, but eventually the last stragglers had made their way to the waiting room doors. Once they swung shut with a solid click that could be heard four platforms away, Gordon cleared his throat. “Let us begin.”

Bizarrely, the stationmaster then stepped forward. He was dressed up even more than the other station staff, and was wearing white tie, complete with a top hat. He was holding a pad of paper in his hands - while they’d been waiting, Bear had seen a glimpse of it, and it looked like it was some sort of speech- oh no.

“OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!” The stationmaster bellowed at the top of his voice, scaring everyone except Gordon and the band. “WE NOW CALL TO ORDER THIS EMERGENCY SESSION OF THE EXCEPTIONAL AND MOST RESPECTABLE GRAND OLD ORDER OF THE LONDON AND NORTH EASTERN RAILWAY!”

“The what.” Someone said. It might have been Bear.

“TO START THIS SESSION, WE TURN TO THE HONORABLE MEMBER FROM THE GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY, WHO HAS BEEN GRANTED POWERS PLENIPOTENTIARY DUE TO THE EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES!”

“Granted what.”

“From where.”

Gordon had the audacity to look like something normal was occurring. “Thank you, sir,” he said with remarkable aplomb. “Ordinarily, these sessions would begin with a great deal more pomp and circumstance, however in light of yesterday’s events, I have elected to set those aside in order to get down to business.”

He looked around the station, ignoring the absolutely baffled looks being sent his direction. “Since the year nineteen hundred and twenty three, the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern has claimed, in due time, every locomotive who has ever rolled out of one of our most esteemed workshops. Under the banner of the North Eastern, and our numerous predecessor railways, countless deeds of mechanical excellence have been performed. Mountains have been moved, cities have been evacuated, and nature herself has been tamed by our steel and metal, brick and stone.”

He paused his stentorian address for a second, again surveying the increasing bafflement, before continuing. “To serve under our flag was to commit yourself to greatness, in one form or another. And for the last sixty-one years, this has been enough; we have recognized greatness, and greatness has come unto us.”

“However!” he exclaimed with great drama. “Recent events have forced a change in our calculus. Before this day, we have only ever accepted locomotives from our own workshops into our ranks - our own kind. Before today, that was seen as sufficient. No more!”

He again surveyed the room, and Bear got the distinct feeling that Gordon wasn’t actually looking at faces at all. He tried to follow the gaze and found it lingering on the ‘GREAT WESTERN” insignia on Duck and Oliver’s sides, and the Western Region crest on his own, just visible under the paint.

He began to get an inkling of where this was going…

Gordon continued. “We had never felt the need to expand our own ranks before this day, because we had committed an act of hubris. We had assumed, like children, that all other railways within this great nation behaved in the same way as us! That they recognized greatness within their own ranks just as we did in our own.”

His face turned serious. “This was an error. One that we shall never make again.”

Behind him, behind all of them, City of Truro’s eyebrows began to knit together. Clearly Bear was not the only one thinking along these lines. Something was mumbled against the gag.

The next few sentences felt shouted, despite Gordon never raising his voice. “Over the month of December nineteen eighty-four, it has become known to us that City of Truro, the so-called “Greatest of all Westerners”, and the de facto leader of their kind, is nothing but a duplicitous charlatan! A murderous brute, who uses subterfuge and dirty tactics in ways not seen since modernization some twenty years past! He is no better than the worst examples of diesel-kind!”

There was a muffled shout from behind Gordon. It was ignored.

Gordon continued. “But lo! He is the public and private face of the Great Western! One hundred fifty years of history, resting squarely upon his deceptive and ill-tempered buffers! Truly he is the worst of us, and is unfit to lead his clan.”

There was yet another muffled noise. Truro might actually be biting on the tablecloth now.

“However, we are not in the position to make decisions for another railway, let alone one as ancient and prestigious as the Great Western.” Gordon intoned. Bear didn’t like the sparkle developing in the blue engine’s eyes. That could only mean trouble. “But, we can make amends in our own way!”

Bear’s train of thought screamed into the station, brake-blocks smoking. Oh he is going to, isn’t he?

“HONOR GUARD,” roared the stationmaster. “PRE-SENT!”

Someone had actually gone to the trouble of painting a coal shovel gold. Truro sounded like he was going to eat the tablecloth.

Then the band started playing. It was, after a moment of harmonizing, a very jaunty version of Pomp and Circumstance.

Bear was actually going to go insane.

He’s going to do it. He’s going to induct me into the damned LNER like it’s going to make things better.

The porter carrying the shovel turned on his heel and marched over to Duck and Oliver, marching like this was a drill exercise at a military academy. All three Western engines blinked.

“Now,” Gordon said. “With the aforementioned facts now known, I, as the most honorable member from the Great Northern Railway, do hereby nominate Oliver to be enjoined with our ranks, and formally inducted into the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern. Brother Toby, as the Right Honorable Member from the Great Eastern Railway, will you second this motion?”

“Gordon, I-”

“Will you second this motion?”

A sigh. “Yes, I will second this motion. As the… righteous and honorable member from the GER.”

“Thank you, Brother Toby. The motion has been seconded!”

“Gordon, I-”

“Thank you.”

Gordon turned his attention to the “honor guard”, who dropped to one knee next to Oliver’s buffers, and laid the shovel gently across the nearest one.

Bear momentarily managed to tear his eyes away from the spectacle, finding Toby in the sea of insanity. Is this happening? He mouthed.

Yes, this is actually happening. Came the response.

“Oliver!” Gordon boomed, snapping Bear’s gaze back to the insanity occurring in front of him. “Your years of loyalty and honorable service have not gone un-noticed! For too long you have labored away without reward, without the fruits of your own labours. For your tireless service to your railway, your own kind, and to yourself, you shall be honored. Do you Consent to be joined to the Order of the London and North Eastern? Do you Swear to follow and uphold their Ways, ahead of all others?”

Oliver looked absolutely dumbstruck. “Uhh… I, uh….”

“Say yes or we’ll never be done with it!” Toby hissed.

“Uh- YES!” Oliver squeaked, suddenly realizing that he wasn’t in a position to say no. “Yes I do!”

Gordon looked immensely pleased with himself. “Then I dub thee ‘Brother Oliver’, and formally induct you into the Order. Welcome.”

Oliver looked overwhelmed, a feeling that Bear mirrored, especially once the “honor guard” stood and marched over to Duck with precise marching steps that wouldn’t have been out of place in a military drill.

Duck looked… well he looked almost vacant, staring off into the middle distance as events happened around him. It took little intuition to figure out where he was looking: there, in the middle distance, was City of Truro, furiously raging behind the tablecloth.

The shovel was laid on Duck’s buffer, and the whole process began again. Gordon began an even longer and more pompous sounding prattle about Duck’s service at Paddington, how he’d dispatched Diesel, and how he’d managed the Little Western in the years since. There wasn’t a mention of how he’d acted during the last month, but even the most uncharitable part of Bear’s mind couldn’t really square a month’s worth of inaction against a half-century’s worth of work.

There is no way I can be agreeing with Gordon on this. The big diesel thought to himself. He’s insane. He’s trying to… show up Truro by ‘adopting’ us.

Gordon had launched into an identical spiel about “Consenting”, but Duck had barely let him get the word out before saying “Yes.” in a quiet but undeniably firm manner.

Gordon managed to keep his surprise contained to an upward quirk of his eyebrows, but everyone else, Bear included, were thoroughly shocked.

What? I would’ve thought that he wouldn’t… couldn’t… I mean, it’s the Great Western, that’s his life!

Duck didn’t take his eyes off of Truro the entire time. The forcefully silenced engine was turning a worrying shade of purple.

Bear had a sudden moment of understanding. But it’s his life… as defined by Truro.

He doesn’t want this anymore than I do. Truro isn’t god. He’s not Brunel.

But he is the Great Western.

He looked at Truro, who was again trying to eat or spit out the tablecloth. A group of porters carrying a ladder, a shunter's pole, and some amount of canvas were approaching him menacingly.

And if that’s the Great Western.

He looked at Gordon, who was finishing Duck’s “induction” with a mix of surprise, seriousness, and well-earned pomposity. And that’s the LNER…

Then… Maybe…

The “honor guard” turned to face him.

Gordon’s speech was shorter than his praise of Duck, but longer than Oliver’s. “Bear! Your continued service to this railway has not gone un-noticed! For over twenty years you have taken on every job asked of you with a dignity, grace, and competence that has made you not only a sterling member of this railway, but of your class as a whole. It would be my honor to induct you into the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern Railway! Do you Consent to be joined to the Order? Do you Swear to follow and uphold their Ways, ahead of all others?”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Yes, I do.”

----

Later that night

“I’m sorry,” Edward stared in a rare moment of bafflement. “The Grand Old Order of the what?”

“There’s no such thing.” James said firmly. “Do you think that he’d talk about anything else if there was?”

"I’m well aware of that," Edward said, still deeply confused. "The Southern and LMS had elite, secret brotherhoods, that's well known. I'd never heard anything about the LNER, and if Gordon hasn’t said anything before now…”

BoCo smiled faintly. "There might not have been one before last night," he said, "but if Gordon says there is one, then I think it exists now."

"That's rubbish," scoffed Delta. "How can you have an LNER order with Gordon, Duck, Oliver, Bear, and Toby? That’s over fifty percent Great Western."

"If Gordon's started it, every Eastern engine still around will hear and want to be in on it by the end of the month."

"Well, maybe so."

"Blimey.” James said, looking suddenly pensive.” This is going to be a whole thing, isn't it?"

“Oh yes,” Edward agreed. “In fact, I’d say that there’s a decent chance he’ll try to induct us next, so everyone be on your guard if you care about your old allegiances, or at least the appearance of them.

Bear listened to them with a raised eyebrow. “What do you mean? I thought he was trying to get back at Truro?”

The other engines looked at him funny.

“What?”

“Did you not get it?” Delta asked, in a tone that implied that she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “This isn’t about Truro, this is about Gordon.”

“What do you mean?”

The other engines looked at each other.

“Bear,” Edward began. “Gordon doesn’t care about Truro in that way. I can’t say his exact reasoning for letting him witness the whole event, but I daresay it wasn’t anything more than kicking an engine when he’s already down. That ceremony, on the other wheel… wasn’t about Truro at all.”

“Then what was it about?”

“You!” several voices said at once. The other engines looked at each other, before James of all engines spoke up.

“Bear, Gordon’s an idiot, but he’s our idiot. And he thinks, because he’s an idiot, that he can only care about someone if they’re…” he searched for the right word.

“Related?” BoCo said after a second.

“Not the word I was looking for but close enough.” James continued. “He doesn’t think he’s allowed to care about you unless you’re… related to him, somehow. Or at least that it’s not proper. Stupid Londoner nonsense if you ask me, but he tries to care anyways, which means that when someone like you gets bossed around and treated like yesterday’s ashes by the… what’s the word?”

“Embodiment?”

“Yep that’s it - the embodiment of your railway, he doesn’t think he can help because… “well that’s a Great Western issue”.” James could not imitate Gordon at all but he did it anyway. “And so when he has to do something - and trust me somebody was going to have to do something about that berk - he’s going to get…”

“Inventive?”

James glared at Edward, Delta, and BoCo. “Would you three like to say it?”

“No, I think you’re doing a fine job.”

“Nope.”

“You’ve got it under control.”

James sighed deeply, and opened his mouth to say something more, but was cut off by Bear. “So, wait. Gordon did all that because he… cares about me? Us?”

“If you must know,” Gordon’s voice rang out as he backed into the shed in a flurry of smoke and snowflakes. “I did it because you would otherwise be forever yoked to that infantile and childish railway and its monstrous figurehead. By “staking a claim” in you, for lack of a better phrase, you are once and forevermore freed of any association with that brutish monstrosity.”

“And the fact that you now have a guilt-free reason to be nice to him is just a perk, hm?” Delta said smugly.

“Delta,” Gordon said as he was turned on the turntable. “If you would like for me to have a ‘guilt free reason’ to be nice to you, all you have to do is ask.

“I like my heritage.” She said, all too quickly. “Really!”

Gordon laughed regally, and backed into the stall between Bear and Edward. “Yes, I’m sure. The offer will stand, however.”

His crew hopped down and began cleaning out his ashpan. Bear took the momentary clatter to whisper to Gordon. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know. I could’ve handled it.”

“I did have to, actually.” Gordon said just as quietly. “There is a time for passivity, and a time for action. The instant he laid buffer on you, the time for action was upon us.”

He said it so firmly, so utterly final, that Bear’s response died in his throat. Gordon looked at him for a second, before turning his attention to the other engines.

Bear sat there for a while, absorbing his words. My god. They do care about me.

#reblog #ttte #rws #ttte fic #sodor shenangians #christmas story #ttte bear #ttte gordon #ttte duck #ttte oliver #ttte city of truro #ttte toby #Welcome to the LNER Bear!#Bring out the apple green and garter blue!#Toby during the whole ceremony is so funny #He's been roped in as the only other LNER engine there and is just awkwardly resigned to going along with Gordon's antics #it's amazing

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sudriantraveler · 28 days ago

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merry christmas everyone!!!! everyone is happy and content in the sheds, enjoying the snowfall and the good company.

i hope everyone is having a lovely day whether they celebrate or not, and that everyone will also have a crackin good new year!!!

#reblog #ttte #ttte art #beautiful work!#merry christmas #happy holidays

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sudriantraveler · 28 days ago

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S1, Thomas and the Christmas Party

You could probably hide in one of their hats 👀

Merry Christmas🎄

#reblog #ttte #merry christmas #happy holidays

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sudriantraveler · 28 days ago

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Bleak Midwinter

Dear Friends, Skarloey and Rheneas have run their line for many years. They have seen it all, through good times and bad times. This is a story from when their railway was on its last wheels, and the hardships of winter were taking a toll on Rheneas in particular. The Author

I hope you all enjoy reading this. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Happy New Year.

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sudriantraveler · 28 days ago

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Christmas Story

So yeah, I really did drop a 15,427 word chapter on you guys last time. Hope you liked it.

The Fat Controller had to be summoned.

There had been, immediately following the shouting and the yelling and the shovel and the wrench, a near perfect silence as everyone tried to digest what had just happened. The snow had muffled a great deal of the natural sounds, and it amplified the quiet.

The silence that occurred after the Fat Controller finished roaring at Truro would have been as equally complete on a brisk summer’s day as it was on snowy Christmas Eve.

Not even the snow dared crunch under Charles Hatt’s feet as he walked away, then stopped and turned on the ball of his foot. He pointed at Truro, and the engine jumped slightly. “I expected better of you. I will not make that mistake again.”

He continued on his way back to the station. On the platform, the stationmaster, signalman, and yardmaster were staring in wide-eyed shock. “See to it that he is returned to his owners post haste.” The Fat Controller hissed as he walked by, not even turning to face them.

The doors to the waiting room opened and shut with a slam, and they were alone on the platform for a moment. Then the doors opened again, much more softly, revealing Stephen Hatt. He was calmer, but no less furious. “So, which one of you got his nose like that?”

The three men looked at each other. “Someone from the P-Way gang.” Said the stationmaster. “Don’t know his name.”

“An’ Ted, one of the drivers, got him with the shovel,” the signalman spoke up.

Charles didn’t say anything for a while, rummaging through his coat pockets for something, eventually fishing out a silver flask. “Tell them “well done”.” He said, popping the cap off and taking a long drink. “That one deserved it.”

-----

The news spread up and down the line like wildfire:

At Wellsworth, Edward was outraged, his smoke jagged and shaky as he fumed. “I cannot believe I didn’t notice!” he raged at himself.

BoCo, on the other buffer, was less upset. “I can’t believe they broke his nose. I wish I could’ve seen it. I hope they don’t fix it before I can see it.”

On Thomas’ branch line, the engines were horrified. “He did what?” Toby said, horrified and aghast. “Doesn’t he have any decency?”

“He thought he did,” Thomas said quietly. “It’s just that his version of decency is quite indecent to everyone else.”

“He’s a goddamned fundamentalist, is what he is,” Percy grunted. “They’re always trouble.”

“Forget him,” Daisy scoffed. “What about Bear? Has anyone told him?”

Bear smiled when the stationmaster told him. For reasons that he couldn’t properly express even to himself, he’d started sleeping out behind the shed in Barrow, and had planned on having a very lonely Christmas. “They roughed him up some?” He chuckled. “Well isn’t that the best present I could get. Warms me up a bit just thinking about it.”

“Yes, I imagine it would,” the stationmaster replied, keeping his uncharitable thoughts about Western steam engines to himself.

“Say, is there any way I could get back to Tidmouth sheds by tonight?”

“The Fat Controller already called. You’re on the next train out of here.”

In the sheds, there was a very distinct rumble of anger at Truro’s actions.

“Some icon he is,” James scoffed. “Let the mainland have him, I say!”

“I cannae believe that he’d stoop so low.” Douglas growled. “An’ do all that.”

“I coulda’ been killed!” Donald interjected.

“You and me both…” Oliver said, voice quiet. “I can’t believe that I didn’t see it.”

“None of us did,” Delta said. “I thought he was a run of the mill bastard, not… one of my siblings.”

There was a wave of agreement through the shed. “He really is a diesel, isn’t he?” James said. “In all the very worst ways. No offense.”

“None taken.” She mused. “I ought to adopt him. Lord knows we’ve lost enough of the ranks in the last few years.” A pause. “Oh he’d hate that, wouldn’t he? The idea that a diesel likes him.”

James and Oliver both snickered at the thought. “You should do that. He might melt his crown sheet.” “You can have him, I don’t imagine anyone else wants him.”

A little bit more laughter echoed across the diesel-steam divide before Delta rolled her eyes. “Gosh, that means I’d have to put up with him, wouldn’t I? Maybe not then.”

“Yeah, for the best.” “Probably.”

“What do you think, Gordon?” She looked over to where the big engine was uncharacteristically silent. “Anything?”

“Hmm?” Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t think I have anything productive to say right now.”

James raised an eyebrow, and barely managed to stop something insulting from coming out of his mouth. Gordon caught it anyway, but recognized the effort. “Truly, I don’t.” He paused, exhaling a deep breath.

James’ eyebrow was joined by one from Oliver.

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Oh fine. You want my piece?” He exhaled again. “There are lines that are created when you reach this stature, when you become the face of a railway. They exist for Flying Scotsman, they exist for Mallard, they exist for Duchess of Hamilton, and they exist for myself.” He looked deeply serious. “In time, I feel that they may come to exist for Thomas, even.” Another pause. “These lines are not… restrictions, but they are there, constantly. You are the icon of the railway - of your lineage. Your actions reflect upon everyone. To cross them, to break the norm, is a very serious thing indeed.”

There was a choked noise from the other end of the shed, and everybody looked over at Duck.

After the… event with Truro, the Fat Controller had cancelled the rest of the Little Western’s services for the day - Oliver needed to be checked for damage, and Duck (who had heard everything) refused to move under his own power. Donald had pulled them back to the big station, and pushed them into the sheds.

Duck hadn’t said a word since, and everyone had assumed he’d fallen asleep.

Whether he actually had was immaterial, because he was now awake and crying quietly.

Oliver and the others immediately tried to comfort him, and Gordon was left alone in the clamor. “It’s a serious thing,” He said, unheard by everyone. “Because you stop being an engine, and start being a legend.”

He watched as Duck wept silently. “And people put a great deal of faith into legends…”

--------

It is almost Christmas.

--------

At some point close to midnight, as the last passenger trains for the mainland slipped off into the distance, an inspector came to the sheds. Now that it’s quiet, he said. Someone needs to bring Truro up to the big station.

Gordon was still in steam, and volunteered before anyone else could say anything.

He went light engine, taking due care in the tunnel, Bulgy’s bridge, and the points outside Haultraugh station. How many hours, pounds, and men did it take to fix the problems caused by one engine? He thought as he made his way down the line.

The station at Arlesburgh was empty, with everything buttoned up tightly for the holiday. There was a sliver of light coming from inside the shed of the small railway, but everything else was lit only by the moon.

Truro sat by the shed, alone, cold, and forgotten about; his glossy paint, which usually reflected light back into the air, seemed to be absorbing it, leaving the area around him darker than the rest.

Silently, Gordon slipped into the goods yard, and retrieved two flatbeds and a brakevan. Nobody, engine or crew, wanted to be near the disgraced Westerner, and so the flatbeds acted as physical separation; the van was to make sure that they didn’t have to rely on Truro for any braking power.

The trucks watched silently as Gordon collected his train. “And they said tender engines don’t shunt.” one voice whispered from the sidings. Gordon didn’t dignify it with a response.

“Are we taking him to be someone else’s problem?” Toad asked as Gordon coupled up to him.

“We’re getting there.”

“Excellent.”

Truro finally seemed to realize what was happening as Gordon marshalled Toad and one of the flatbeds next to him. “Are you to ‘take me away’?” he asked, mockingly.

Gordon, Toad, and the trucks glared at him, but otherwise remained silent. They stayed silent as Gordon was turned on the turntable, the train was put together, and then set off for the big station.

As they left the yard, seemingly every truck in the yard called out "good riddance!”, breaking the silence for the first and only time.

Truro seemed unnerved by that for just a second, but the train had been oriented so nobody actually had to look at him, so it wasn’t a sure thing.

“What?” He asked as they rolled towards Haultraugh. “Not one word for the condemned? Are you all so poisoned by the soft thinkings of this island that I don’t even get a final goodbye?”

“City of Truro.” Gordon said finally. “I understand the things you went through. I went through many of them myself.”

“I don’t think that you di-”

“And I thought, perhaps naively, that you and I were similar.”

“Similar? Pah! Our similarities end at the coal that goes in our boilers!” Unseen by everyone, Truro was twisting up his face in bitter mockery, and making his already broken nose worse with each facial contortion.

“I know,” Gordon said as he negotiated the train through the temporarily-repaired switch at Haultraugh. “I assumed that our differences were the core of our similarities, Our roles as leaders of what was left of our lineages. I am the first Gresley, and spoken of in the same breath as Mallard and Flying Scotsman. You are the Greatest Westerner, and often come up in concert with Brunel himself.”

“Oh get on with whatever pretentious moral judgement you want to give me, and spare me the sermon.”

Gordon’s face twisted into a frown. “I assumed incorrectly, and it will not happen again. You are not like me, nor my brother. You are no luminary, no role model. You have a half-baked record to your name and little more. You are a disgrace to your railway and mine.”

Truro’s response was lost to the noise as the train entered the tunnel, and no more was said after that.

Gordon completed the trip in silence, and left Truro in the yard near the station, surrounded by empty tracks and a brick wall. He made sure to move Toad and the flatbeds before he left, and then sidled up next to him.

His crew jumped down, and began setting Truro’s handbrake and chocking his wheels. “I’m a disgrace?” Truro said, clearly trying to get the last word in. “It’s you who is-”

He was cut off, not by Gordon, but by the clocktower from the Catholic Cathedral. It bonged once, twice, eventually twelve times, and then launched into a deep, bass-y version of Carol of the Bells.

“Merry Christmas, City of Truro.” Gordon said as he steamed away. “I hope that you find happiness someday.”

A few minutes later, he arrived in the shed to find everyone sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. He noted with some joy that Bear was parked squarely between James and Delta, and was snoring away like nothing was wrong.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said as quietly as he could, while his crew banked his fire.

He didn’t go to sleep just yet, though. He had to think about something…

#reblog #ttte #rws #ttte fic #christmas story #sodor shenangians #ttte bear #ttte gordon #ttte duck #ttte oliver #ttte city of truro #ttte little western #Amazing work once again #It's always great to see the more mature side of Gordon #He may be pompous and have his own excessive pride #But he has a deep understanding of the responsibility an engine in his position has

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