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weirdowithaquill · 2 months ago

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Traintober 2024: Day 18 - Water

Duke Was Never the Same:

The lake was blue. It was very blue, as if someone had plucked the purest sapphire from the deepest mine in Australia and carefully placed it into the place where the Skarloey lake was meant to be. It shimmered in the sun, barely a single ripple in the surface to betray the mirror that the lake seemed to pretend to be. It was gorgeous, and yet Duke couldn’t help but avert his eyes.

Rheneas liked gazing out towards the lake. He claimed it healed something within himself, that it made him feel at harmony with the world. It was one of his favourite topics, when he got the chance to get a word in edgeways in between Duncan’s complaining and Peter Sam’s chirpiness. Rheneas seemed to think it was the water, as if it had bubbled up from the earth’s core purely to soothe his soul and bring peace and serenity to the world around it. And sure, it had done just that – Skarloey Lake was surrounded by the lushest greenery on Sodor, thick oaks and vibrant flowers blanketed the banks of the lake where humans hadn’t cut them away to dot their resorts and villages along its coastline. The lake was their lifeblood, it’s waters a siren luring tourists and locals alike up to gaze upon it.

And yet, Duke could barely look upon the lake without feeling like spitting out all his coals. He knew there was something wrong with that – something truly wrong with a steam engine disliking water. It singled him out in a way that just… wasn’t normal. At least the lake was crystal blue or aqua green, depending on the season. Such colours were bold, natural.

It was the inky blackness of the lake at night that made Duke feel truly ill. The darkness of the water, the way that it rippled just enough to remind him of that day. Duke would do whatever job was asked of him, of course, but he tried his absolute best to avoid being out past dusk. This worked out well for him – he got the morning train, when the rising sun would blind him and made it impossible to see the lake for the glare reflecting off it – and in return he was back before the sun had dipped beyond the horizon.

It wasn’t the lake itself that was the problem, no. It was the water. Duke was fine with winding rivers and rushing rapids – the Rheneas Waterfall was really quite beautiful when Duke saw it – but when water was still, it was wrong. It was uncomfortable, it drew memories up from deep under the surface, ripping them out from where they’d been shoved deep down between his boiler tubes and taking everything with them. Duke knew he needed water to run – he was not like Henry, with such an intense phobia that it blinded him from his duties like the rain blinded engines when they were forced to run in it. He was merely… uncomfortable with it.

A new boat was unveiled on the lake. It was a bright, eye-catching red. Duke instantly hated it – red and water did not mix well within his mind. Nothing good came of the two mixing. Red-painted metal was not meant to touch water, not meant to come into contact with the very substance that would corrode it into nothingness. Water was a powerful force, after all. It rusted and it eroded. It pulled entire embankments down when it so desired; it flooded the valleys and left people with nothing left but broken dreams and sodden houses.

It left Duke with nothing.

The boat was shiny – it was not quite the same colour as James, or even any of the other Skarloey Railway engines. It’s red was entirely different, in a way none of the others recognised. Of course Duke was the only one to make the connection, he was the only one who could have ever known. No one else was alive who could say the same thing, they’d all been buried deep under the earth or torn to pieces by scrappers long, long ago. Duke was the only one left, the only one cursed to bear the burden of knowing, of caring.

Peter Sam and Sir Handel liked the boat way too much. Said it was oddly familiar, in a way they just couldn’t quite place their buffers on. Duke hoped they would never remember – not that they would be able to, he had only really been a story and a small hole in a brick wall to them. They’d not been witness to any of the truth, not been around for what really happened. At one point, Peter Sam almost found out, but Duke had been able to redirect him, protect his young puffling from the ugliness of reality. Sure, Peter Sam had suffered in his life – but at least the images that haunted Duke’s nightmares were confined to him alone. Peter Sam could be free, could live his life without ever knowing.

They all could.

Only Duke remembered.

Only Duke knew.

The red boat was not as waterproof as its owners had intended. When the autumn storms rolled through the mountains, thunderclouds beating their chests and hurling rain and lightning down upon the railway and all it served, the rain got into the red boat. It hadn’t been roped to its jetty properly, and one evening it got loose, floating out into the lake as rain pounded it from all sides, tearing at it and trying to find a weak point.

Duke had been the one to find it, on his early morning train. It had capsized, revealing its hull as it smashed against the craggy rocks and sunk until only a small chunk remained visible. Duke had gone as white as a sheet, his eyes far away from the scene of destruction.

They’d had to hoist the red boat out with a crane. By then, the water had begun its natural process, ripping into the boat and rusting anything not waterproofed properly. It happened so fast, aided by the unnatural number of contaminants in the water from the harsh rains. Or maybe they were only seen by Duke, who wasn’t really seeing the red boat at all, but rather something else far, far away and a good fifty years ago. It was placed in the back of the yards, awaiting some unknown order to repair or dispose of it. Duke could only spare sympathy for the poor pleasure craft – the water had done it in.

Water was all too cruel.

The rains left great muddy puddles everywhere; Duke begged off mine duty, desperate to avoid the murky, dirty waters of the mine.

Desperate to avoid the memories.

Duke managed to get his way, taking trains anywhere but the mine. He did the army-camp trains, leaving loaded vans at the entrance to the formerly abandoned slate quarry and picking up empty ones in their place. One time, he was even directed into the slate quarry when the little WD ‘Beetle’ broke down, steaming into a military camp and being oh so thankful for the huge tarps that were strategically hung to keep as much of the camp as possible dry, directing the rain to distant, out of sight drains.

Duke had never been allowed back inside that camp though, not that he wanted to after he spotted an old steam boiler in the corner of his eye and been punched out of his own mind and into memories he was trying to avoid.

Still, the rains continued. The red boat was taken away, and never returned. Scrapped, or so Skarloey said. Peter Sam held out hope for its return, the optimist he was. Duke couldn’t find it in himself to do the same. Not when the red boat had been in such a sorry state, great gashes torn in it by the rocks and creeping rust beginning to form on its interior, now open to the world due to the way it had been tossed around and ripped apart.

Not when it was too similar to before.

The trains ground to a halt, tourists not wanting to venture far from their hotels and the mine not wanting to attempt any major work in the dangerously wet conditions. The entire railway slowed to only its most essential services, and only the fewest engines possible were called upon to handle the work. Duke was one of them, a fact he privately was thankful for – he couldn’t stand being inside the shed for too long, not when it would only ever remind him of those years spent underground, unable to see the outside world, confined to the darkness without even a hope or a prayer of rescue.

Instead, Duke handled the bulk of traffic along the Skarloey Railway’s ‘main line’ while Rusty handled trackwork and Ivo Hugh the few trains needed at the mine – mostly made of equipment runs and hauling away what amount of the rock had been dug out. It was not much, and Ivo Hugh got enough time in between his runs to help Duke out. Sandbags were supplied to the villages in danger of flooding – not that Duke thought they would. Duke knew flooding, and these were not the right conditions.

And Duke was right. The weather cleared up right before the river could burst its banks, leaving the valley to breathe a collective sigh of relief even as Duke kept his eyes determinedly on the way forwards.

The intervention of the rain had distracted Duke from the time of year, and by the time he remembered, it was already too late.

Duke started seeing him everywhere, in flashes of red that ensnared Duke’s attention and drew him in like a moth to the flame. Duke hated it. Duke hated the rain. Duke hated water. Duke hated knowing the truth and never being able to repeat it. Duke felt his boiler tighten with stress, the steel contracting even as his fire tried vainly to warm him through.

It was a losing battle.

And then finally, Duke simmered over. It was that day, after all. It was fifty years exactly. Duke said nothing as the day progressed, leaving the other engines worried for his health. And then he volunteered to pull the last freight of the day; a line of empty trucks for the mine. The others all were stunned. They couldn’t even find a way to voice their shock – or perhaps that was Duke being unable to hear them. He couldn’t hear anything over the scream that had rattled in his smokebox for fifty years, anything over the words that had haunted him since they’d been uttered.

The trip up was quiet. The afternoon was cooling into night, and the trees had only just finished having all their leaves turn brown and red. Within the week, they’d be barren – but for now it was a festival of colour that broke up the traditionally green landscape. The river babbled along by the line on one side while a few cars rumbled by on the other, racing to get home for the end of the day. Only Duke seemed to know what day it was. Only Duke seemed to care what day it was.

Then again, only Duke knew what happened. Only Duke every truly saw it.

Duke slowed to a stop at the mine, shunting away the trucks. Dirty pools of water littered the lineside, him reflected in each. Of course he was – dirty water was what took him in the end. Duke waited until his driver had gone inside to log their arrival before creeping forwards to the beginning of the mine itself.

There were two entrances to this mine: one was a large vertical shaft with elevator that hurtled down deep into the earth, while the other was a long, twisting tunnel dating back centuries. The tunnel was just slightly too small to fit Duke, but the perfect size to push long lines of trucks in. Once upon a time, horses would have hauled the trucks from deep in the mines, but now a conveyer belt ferried everything up to the surface elsewhere.

Duke gazed down the tunnel, and sighed. Fifty years truly did go by fast, and it was everything he could do not to cry.

“I’m… sorry. Stanley.”

***

Once upon a time, there was a little engine named after His Grace, the Duke of Sodor. The little engine worked hard, and kept his little railway in order – but it was clear to all he needed help.

The engine they brought was named Stanley, not that many used his name. To the manager and his crew, he was simply “Number Two”, a rough-riding scoundrel of an engine who never really did anything but derail. Stanley and Duke knew better – they knew something had gone wrong when Stanley had been regauged to work on the little line.

Despite their worries and pleas, nothing was done and Stanley’s condition deteriorated. Crashes and derailments became more common, and Stanley lashed out at Duke in frustration. He hadn’t meant to – goodness, even Duke knew that! But the manager didn’t, and he didn’t care. To him, Stanley had simply been a nuisance who needed to be dealt with. And when Duke tried to keep them from selling Stanley off, they got creative.

Stanley was locked away behind the shed as a pumping engine, Duke spent a year without a new coat of paint – and then the old engine had a pair of new younglings dumped on him. They were so young, and so eager, and so good, but Duke feared for them. He feared what would happen if they too acted like Stanley or even showed a hint of being incapable.

So he went to Stanley, and the pair made up their story.

It worked – Stuart and Falcon behaved impeccably, and all was peaceful on the little railway. Duke and Stanley breathed a sigh of relief, and life settled into place. Sometimes, when the young engines slept, Duke would creep around the back to spend time chatting with his less fortunate friend. He did his best to hide these visits, both Duke and Stanley afraid of what wrath the manager would bring on them if he discovered that they were fraternising.

And for a time, all seemed well. But fate is not that kind.

The pair were discovered one evening during the war, when the manager came out late one evening to warn them of the increasing workload. His punishment was swift and harsh – he made Duke unearth Stanley in the middle of the night and cart him down the line to the biggest mine on the little railway, where they needed a new pumping engine to look after the water in the deepest parts of the mine.

Duke was forced to watch as Stanley was lowered down, down, deep into the mine where he would be run forever more.

Time continued on. The new pumping engine helped the mine reach a new vein deep underground – however to do so they had to constantly pump away a ruptured spring which gushed water constantly. The river the railway ran alongside grew weaker above where the mine’s outflow pipe dumped gallons of water into its rapids; Duke feared that the spring the miners had hit was really the source of the river, though he was unable to voice his concerns.

Duke would never forget his friend, buried alive in the deepest depths of the mine and unable to call for help. The manager made sure of it too – he put Duke on all the trains heading up to the mine, no matter how busy his schedule was. Duke took it all on without complaint – he could see the direction the wind was blowing. When His Grace returned from the war, Duke would plead his case, try and rescue Stanley and the two young engines he’d come to see as his own and make a run for it – maybe get His Grace to transfer them as far from the little railway and its sadistic manager as possible.

Life was not fair though.

It was a cold morning when Duke arrived to chaos.

“There’s something wrong with the pumping engine!” bellowed a miner, sprinting across the yard. “It’s gonna blow!” Then came the scream. It was guttural, full of agony and completely unlike anything Duke had ever been forced to hear before. It echoed through the mine, stunning the men into silence. A thick cloud of smoke belched out of the tunnels all at once, followed by miners running for their lives while hacking and coughing.

The smoke was blown away by the wind, and Duke peered into the mine. He wanted to venture in, to try and find his friend and save him from what he knew to be coming next.

The water that Stanley had been dutifully pumping flooded the mine in a great gushing wave. It’s force caused the entire yard to tremble, and Duke was forced away from the entrance to the mine in fear of it all collapsing. Duke watched on in horror as the mine flooded right the way to the top, the second pumping machine breaking under the strain. Dirty, sludge-filled water began to trickle out of the mine’s entrances, revealing tools, equipment… and one dirty, grime-ridden nameplate.

Stanley’s nameplate.

Duke felt a sob break free. He couldn’t let his youngsters see this. He couldn’t let them see the damage, see what had become of Stanley.

But worse was to come.

Two weeks later, the water level dropped, the spring flushing back out into the river and draining out of the mine. Duke brought a flatbed up, confused.

“Sir? What’s this for?” he asked the manager carefully. The manager didn’t answer. Instead, he simply nodded to several miners. A large crane winch was lowered into the mine, and attached to something.

The crane heaved with all its might, and the something was lifted up into the dusk light. It was what remained of Stanley. His dusty red paint had been washed clean by the surging water – but that same water had also rusted poor Stanley right through. And then Duke saw it. Stanley’s firebox had been blown clean off when he’d broken down, pipes mangled and sticking up at jarring angles. Poor Stanley’s boiler had exploded from the pressure, the dome flying off and his firebox blowing out. He’d been in agony, and then the water had come rushing in.

The water had drowned him slowly, then rusted away at what had been left.

Duke was forced to drag Stanley’s remains to a scrap merchant’s barge at the harbour; thankfully neither Stuart nor Falcon saw him. He wouldn’t have been able to survive them seeing his face twisted in pure sorrow, sobbing as he brought Stanley’s remains to the harbour and watched as they were taken away.

Duke was never quite the same since. He’d been even more protective of those he had left, running himself into the ground for Stuart and Falcon. He’d watched them get sold off, then watched as the world was reduced to a small shed and nothing more.

Stanley never got the recognition he deserved, the manager saw to that. He embellished the story Duke had told Stuart and Falcon and ensured the Reverend heard it. Stanley’s name was forever tarnished, and Duke was left with the guilt.

Duke wasn’t sure if he would ever stop seeing Stanley’s twisted remains and haunted expression gazing up at him from in the water.

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#weirdowithaquill #fanfiction writer #railway series #thomas the tank engine #traintober #traintober 2024 #ao3 link #cw character death #tw engine death #ttte duke #ttte stanley #prompt: water #short version

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