#caerphilly castle

A few weeks later - Crovan’s Gate Works

Gordon was in what seemed like a thousand pieces, but he still had the energy to have poke fun at her. “Aren’t you all dressed up,” he said weakly. “One could be mistaken for thinking that there was royalty coming ‘round.”

Caerphilly snorted, careful not to disturb the workmen clambering all over her with pots of touch-up paint and cans of polish. “Well, the Little Western has made the effort to keep up the old stylings, so it feels only fair that I do the same.” 

She paused as a workman applied a mascara-coated brush to her eyebrows. “And for your information, I was royalty on the Western. It would be inappropriate for me to look anything else for my first visit.”

Gordon raised a weary eyebrow. “And here I thought that polite society had put the Great Western Way behind it…”

“Like many other institutions, we have been led astray by our previous leaders,” she said, tone almost curt, as the men applied elegant pinstripes to her frame. “If I must don my vestments and lead the flock back into the light, then so be it.”

There was a long pause, long enough for Caerphilly to wonder if she’d accidentally offended Gordon’s eastern sensibilities. 

“You and Duck are to become the greatest of allies, or the worst of enemies,” Gordon said at last. “I do hope it’s the former.”

“I am… well aware of his positions on the matter,” Caerphilly murmured. 

“You two know each other?” Gordon’s laugh sounded more like a wheeze. “Goodness, what a sight that must have been. Did he grovel at your wheels or was this a more recent development? I wish I could have seen that.”

“He and I have a past, one that is behind us… for better or for worse.”

“A past you say..?” Gordon tried to get more information out of Caerphilly, but she steadfastly ignored him until the paint had dried, and she was allowed to leave the shed. 

-

She steamed outside in a regal cloud of steam, looking every bit the Western Queen she once had been. 

“Well,” there was a wolf whistle from somewhere inside the cloud, and the steam dissipated to reveal a very bemused looking Bear. “Don’t you look like sex on wheels. Who’s the lucky fellow? Or lady?”

“That is the most vulgar thing I think I’ve ever heard you say.” Caerphilly glared at him. Inside the cab, her crew bit back laughter. 

“What can I say? Green engines wearing mascara are a particular weakness of mine.” His eyebrows bounced up and down in an ungentlemanly fashion. “And on that note, there is only one Railcar on this island who wears mascara for fun, and the Queen of the Castle is not it.”

His eyes traced up and down her paintwork with a critic's eye. “And even Daisy would think that this much filigree isn’t worth the effort.”

“I must look the part-” Caerphilly’s voice cracked and she squeaked a little. “It’s an official visit-”

“The last time there was an “official visit” to the Western, a certain engine caused over thirty thousand pounds worth of damage just to me, killed five vans, and made an attempt on Oliver’s life,” Bear deadpanned. “I think everyone would prefer you not leaning into the pageantry.” 

Caerphilly’s mouth dropped open, and Bear continued before she could muster up a counter to his logic. “And furthermore, your “official visit” is to cover for Oliver while he gets his firebox re-lined. There’s six other engines on the island whose job that is, and you aren’t one of them. In fact, your cover duty is sitting inside like a broken Meccano set, so I’ll ask again: who’s the lucky engine?”

Caerphilly blew steam at him, and once her crew had finished laughing themselves sick, set off in a huff. “You have completely misread the situation. Good day to you!” 

“I haven’t misread shit” came a voice from inside the cloud. “But I’ll wish you luck on your “state visit” regardless. Have a good time! Say hello to, oh I don’t know… Donald, perhaps? for me!” 

Caerphilly did her best not to scream as she collected a line of freshly painted coaches and set off down the line towards Arlesburgh. 

----

1932 - Old Oak Commons Depot, London

The Queen’s Quarters were located in a private shed, tucked in between the communal roads for engines visiting from other terminals, and the “Factory” - the great repair shop that worked day in, day out. 

Banquo steamed in, a picture of hushed professionalism. Behind him trailed a larger, younger engine, fresh faced but not dewy-eyed. There was a sense of determined skill behind the engine’s gaze. 

The Queen regarded the pair. “Ah yes, Banquo, my faithful valet. Is this your chosen successor?” 

The 2721-class puffed up with repressed pride. “Yes ma’am. May I present to you 5741, better known among us as Montague. He has performed well above the norm in every duty we have given him. He is truly worthy of this position.” 

Montague seemed to snap to attention when his name was recited. “Ma’am. It will be a pleasure serving you.” 

Yes, she imagined it would be. The tank engines held her in such reverence that she often doubted they had the capacity to feel anything negative at all. “Very well. You shall begin immediately, Montague.”

This was something she’d learned at the Empire Exhibition, from Flying Scotsman; those who are unworthy - the glory seekers and the idle fops - will chafe at the lack of ceremony. Those who aspire to the duty will not. 

Bemusingly, Montague was almost relieved. Most interesting. 

-------- 

1933 

“Montague, a word.” She stopped him as he was readying her coaches for the outbound Cheltenham Flyer. 

“Yes Ma’am?” 

“Why do the other engines insist on making bird noises as you go by them?” 

The tank engine stopped, and for a brief moment his composure broke. Embarrassment spread across his face, and he turned a deep red. “Ah- well, you see Ma’am, the others… they, um, they have decided that I…” 

“Yes?” she said, keeping a regal demeanour no matter how much she wanted to burst out laughing. 

“Well Ma’am, you see… it appears that I waddle from side to side,” he said at last, thoroughly red in the face. 

“You’re a pannier tank,” she said, raising a single eyebrow. “It is a known occurrence.” 

“Yes, well, you see, I don’t know why, but they have decided that I do so more than the rest, and so they have - well to answer your question they make bird calls because they have given me the nickname of 'Duck,' Ma’am.” It was a garbled mess of a sentence, but the last words hit her like an express train. 

“Ah. Yes. I see. Schoolyard name-calling. I apologize for asking.” Her sentences were short, clipped, trying desperately to keep the laughter inside.

“Oh, no no no, Ma’am!” He almost fell over himself trying to apologize. She must. Not. Laugh. “It’s fine! It’s fine! We all have these nicknames - it’s just that… well I don’t know why they’re doing this to me but it must be something innocent.” 

“I see,” she said with short syllables. “Thank you, Montague.” 

“Of course Ma’am. Um, if you wish, you can call me Duck too.” He looked relieved that the conversation was ending. 

“I will not.” 

“Of course Ma’am.”

She managed to hold it in for almost twenty minutes, until the Flyer was well out of Paddington and streaking towards Swindon. Then, she let the laughter out in one continuous cackling howl that lasted a full mile. 

Duck. What a silly name. 

-------

1935 

“Duck?”

“Yes Ma’am?” 

“If I may ask, is there a specific reason why you sleep amongst your fellows, and not in the quarters you have been provided here?” 

The Queen’s Quarters had a second road specifically for the Valet, directly underneath a reproduction of her official portrait, enlarged to be thrice its original size. Banquo had used it frequently, as had Lear before him. Both found the picture comforting, a reminder of their service. Duck had slept here for the first few months, but had stopped at some point before the year’s end. Caerphilly wondered if he found the portrait as unsettling as she did - a cold, emotionless version of herself staring down from the wall at almost life size.

Duck didn’t even pause to think about it, and to her surprise the portrait never came up. “The other engines found it unfair that I get special treatment, Ma’am. I’m inclined to agree - if I hadn’t been selected, I’d be out there with them, and that’s not fair at all.” 

It actually was quite fair in her mind - he had a special job with special skills, and was awarded as such; but knowing the mind of the rank and file was something she always struggled with, and mayhaps they had a point. 

She dismissed him to shunt her next train, thoughts swirling in her smokebox. 

--

The next night, some of Duck’s fellows were chortling around the back of the coaling stage. Capulet, Mercutio, Tybalt - all 5700s, were laughing with each other at some great joke. Ignored on one side was a larger engine, a dirty 3000-Class 2-8-0 dating to the Great War. The filth clung to him like a cloak, covering his green paint and brass nameplates. A rag laid carelessly over the one facing outwards, and the engine’s name of “Celestine I” was completely obscured. He listened closely, making excellent mental notes of not only their words but their responses to those of others. After a short while, 5741 himself pulled up to the stage, heralded by a chorus of quacks and other bird calls. While appearing friendly, the big engine made a note of their facial expressions; none were jocular, and they all had unkind glints in their eyes. 

This went on for a while, until Benvolio arrived. Whistling gaily, he put himself between his brother and the rest of the engines and proceeded to make a spectacle of himself so ridiculous that the others could not help but turn their mockery on him. 

The 2-8-0 decided to take his leave at this time. He had other sources of information to find. 

--

The meeting occurred late the next morning, near the same coaling stage. The engine was cleaner, and looked far more respectable than he had last night. His paint had been polished and his nameplates shone. Tybalt, Mercutio, and the others chuffed right past him without a second look. 

“Well?” the Queen said simply. 

“It’s jealousy and idolatry,” said her spymaster. “There is such a separation between the nobles and the commoners that they view you as untouchable. Anyone granted entry to your private chambers is ipso facto better than the rest. To sleep in such quarters…?” He trailed off. “He would be barred from his life by his friends and his family. You recall Lear and Banquo? How they devoted their lives to you? It might have been by choice, but only at first. Tall poppies are the first to be cut down.”

“I had no idea…” The queen’s eye trembled, the mask slipping just so.

“Few do,” he consoled. “They talk often, but say little. One must hold an ear to the rails and keep both eyes open to learn what I have.”

“So how do I fix it?” she asked, with the hopeless optimism of an engine that hadn’t been subjected to the horrors of the western front. 

“Fix?” He bit back a chuckle. “There is no fix. This is a mania that stretches back to Brunel himself. The only way to fix this is to destroy our society, including us, and then start anew.”

“Then what do I do?” The hopeless optimism continued. 

“Well,” he said, keeping his voice level even as he wanted to talk some sense into her. “If you must have your valet by your side even as you sleep, then he must be chosen by a higher power. The others may not like it, but they shall respect it. It is, after all, a Queen’s duty to place him in this position of peril.” 

The Gilbert and Sullivan quote was not well received. “Peril, Celestine?” 

The 2-8-0 remained steadfast. “Some may claim that he was given a choice. They may appeal to him as an equal, despite his position. He will most likely chafe against the realization that he is not an equal. Even if you press-ganged him in broad daylight, some may claim that he still holds a favoured rank, and hate him for it.”

“You provided me with such good options.” She said in a flat tone. “One would almost think that the correct choice is to do nothing.”

“The only way to know is hindsight, and the only way to achieve hindsight is to act.” He said simply. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

She did not respond, and he took his leave. 

------

Her time came several nights later. That night’s performance of Utopia, Limited was particularly ennobled, with multiple Kings, Saints, Stars, Manors, and Halls performing alongside the usual assortment of Bulldogs, Dukes, Dukedogs, Birds, and of course, the Queen and her retinue of Castles. The merriment went long into evening, before the engines eventually broke away for the many night trains that befitted their stations in life. 

The Queen had no duties that evening, and stood in the center of the yard, waiting for the rush of engines and trains to pass around her. Royalty or otherwise, light engine moves were at the bottom of the signaller’s priority list. 

She moved slowly, on a winding route that circumnavigated the great shed with its four turntables. Even at the late hour, trains streamed by in all directions. A single stationary shape caught her eye. 

It was him, asleep on a siding, snoring away. His fellows were nearby, making rude comments to each other. 

She acted with as much speed as she could muster, given the circumstances. Slowly, she drew onto the road that went past him. Stopping before the switch, it was a matter of moments for her driver to change the points. 

The snickering and laughing from Capulet and the rest stopped the moment they saw her. They stayed silent as the Queen coupled up to him, and slowly pulled him away. 

---

Later, they were safely ensconced in the royal sheds. He was beside her, and she felt somewhat… at peace. Perhaps she liked having a second presence in the opulent quarters. 

“You didn’t have to do that Ma’am.” He said sleepily. 

“I did.” Caerphilly murmured. “They would have given you no peace any other way.”

“I hope you’re right, Ma’am.” he said, before falling back asleep. 

“I hope so too…” She whispered.

-------

1937

The workers had arranged the books in sequence, and then taken their leave. On one buffer, the Queen was most pleased - it would be most unbecoming for her weaknesses to be shown in public like this. On the other, Caerphilly Castle would really like to find whoever decided that spare milk vans needed to be stored behind the sheds and have a word with them. 

“Ma’am?” Duck bustled in, dripping wet from the washdown rack. “What are you looking at?”

“Shunting diagrams,” she said, letting the mask drop a little. “Ones I should already know.”

“Shunting diagrams? You’re not exactly one of us Paddies, now.” He said this with a familiarity that Lear and Banquo would never have allowed. 

“But I am the Queen,” she said, knowing that the stress would show regardless. “And so I must know all.” 

“Well,” he was pulled closer, his driver then setting the brakes and departing for a meal break. “What seems to be the issue?”

“Is it just me, or is this milk van storage chart unintuitive to a hopeless degree?”

“Oh goodness, that’s the June revision, isn’t it? Yes we store them differently because it keeps them out of the sun. The shadows are totally different in the summer than they are in the winter…”

For the next hour, he kept on like this, telling her about the incredible minutiae of the railway. Things that she didn’t even know were possible, he casually spoke of. It was fascinating, in a very unusual way. She found that his ability to summarize, to easily condense reams of documents into a short sentence or three, to make the unknowable easy… breathtaking.

---

A few days later, The Queen was assigned a fast milk train to Wootton Bassett. The train left from Mitre Bridge, nearly within sight of Old Oak Common, and while usually the tanks and Siphons would be ready for her, on this day there had been a points failure deep in the yard. The Paddie Shunters, ranging from Capulet, Benvolio, and Tybalt, down to younger engines like Petruchio and Bianca, were trapped inside the roads for the coaling stand while men with hammers and torches worked furiously to free them. 

The bigger engines, whose more prestigious lodgings were not affected, complained mightily. As the Queen surveyed the yard, it was an almost perfect mix of engines who held her favour, and those who didn’t. Those who did, complained from a place of legitimacy - a single truck could be buried several roads deep, and the delays would keep piling up - while those who didn’t… were complaining about having work at all. 

Pendennis Castle was particularly loud, whinging and complaining his way through the yard as he collected the rake of coaches for the Cornish Riviera Express. It grew so appalling that Olton Hall - who, as a visitor from another shed had no social standing to criticize - looked about ready to speak up. He certainly had no problems collecting a line of goods vans, and The Queen made a note of his work ethic and good spirit. 

“This is beneath me!” Pendennis shouted to everyone and nobody. 

“As are the rails,” she said, steaming past him into the goods yards. “And yet without them you would be nowhere.”

“Oh, what a pithy line, your majesty.” He scoffed, and there was an offended whistle from Olton’s direction. “Have you any other weak aphorisms to dispense from on high?”

“Oi!” The Hall-class yelped. “You will show her the respect she’s owed!”

“And I am doing exactly that…” Pendennis growled. 

“Gentlemen, please.” She wanted to shove Pendennis through a wall, but doing so with witnesses would be unbecoming. “We all have work to do…”

Without another word, she steamed away to find the milk vans. As she rounded the corner, she heard Pendennis and Olton begin arguing again. The specifics were muddled, but eventually there was an exasperated cry of “if you think she’s so infallible, wait until she tries to find the milk vans - those damn panniers will hide them in every dark hole between here and creation except for where they’ve been diagrammed to be parked!” 

There was no-one on this side of the goods sheds. The mask dropped, and a vicious smile spread across Caerphilly’s smokebox. 

Less than ten minutes later, she had the entire train of milk tanks rolling behind her. The mask went back up, a placid expression hiding the imp inside. Pendennis was flabbergasted; Olton was at once reverent and smug. 

-

The next night, Duck was most surprised to find himself being bundled off to The Factory for a repaint. His paint was in fine condition, he protested, but he was ignored - these orders came from a “higher power.”

The next night, he was in the Queen’s Quarters looking rather shy. “Th-thank you, Ma’am.” He said quietly. “This was very kind of you to arrange.”

He was now adorned in the same delicate filigree as she was - a sign that he was a member of the royal household, rather than a replaceable employee. Not even Lear had been given this honor, and Banquo had rejected the “ornamentation” as being well above his station. 

“It’s only right,” she said, mask firmly in place. “You are a member of my retinue, after all.”

Then, the mask dropped. “And, you bloody well earned it. I’m proud of you, Duckie.”

-------

1938 

Lode Star was an older engine, feisty and impudent in a manner totally unbecoming of her age, but she rarely spoke falsehoods, and often had a keen eye for glory seekers and the unworthy. She was a valued member of the Queen’s counsel as a result. “So, I hear your footman has been given a promotion.”

“Yes, head of the carriage works shunters.” The Queen felt very proud. “He might make head of Paddington within the decade.”

“Provided that they don’t ship him off to the front, or something like that.” Celestine was one of the other trusted members of her counsel. “War is coming, you know. Management will never admit it, but just you wait.”

“Then we’ll get through it, just like we did the last one.” Star said primly. “You forget that I was here, dodging zeppelin bombs while you had a holiday in Paris.”

“I was behind the lines-!” 

“Please, you two.” The Queen spoke up, letting her mask slip slightly. Out came the slightest glint of Caerphilly underneath. “If you continue talking like that I will make you get a room.”

Celestine stuttered and Lode Star gawped, and the mask went back up. 

“Well how unfortunate for us that we are not graced with our own eternal lover’s nest!” Star sniped back. “It must be nice to have that privacy, even if all you do is pine over him endlessly.”

The mask fell off.  “How could you know about that?”

“Anyone with a brain could see it,” the other engine sniffed. “Which nobody else has. Tell me, has he noticed yet?”

The mask stayed off for a long time. Her face betrayed what her voice concealed.

“I thought not.” 

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

1940 

War had come to the world. London was under nightly siege from the skies above. 

The railway, and its social structures and organization that had been with them all for generations, was gone, subsumed into a massive government operation focused entirely towards national defence. Gone was the green that had clad them, replaced by flat black, and the letters GW. Troop trains ruled the rails, and even the Cheltenham Flyer had to lay over for them. 

Only the barest shreds of the lives they had lived in 1939 remained. They still sang Gilbert and Sullivan in the sheds at night, there were still crack expresses to the Cornish riviera, and everything was still Great Western in spirit, if not always in design. 

Inside the grounds of Old Oak Common, the world was slightly more normal than it was elsewhere. The huge shed was still a bastion of Western power, with only a few interlopers making their way from the LMS and LNER networks. If one stayed entirely within its confines, the war could almost be ignored. 

Inside the yard, buried deep within the walls of the shed, the Queen’s Quarters remained the same. A man from the government had made vulgar noises at the palatial state of the facilities, but Great Western men, citing the rich lineage of the tapestries and posters, dating back to Brunel himself, convinced them to spare the fineries from the cloth and metal drives that swept the country. 

Caerphilly would rather they have taken the lot of them. While the Queen may need her fineries, Engine No. 4073 could survive with far less. 

--

Darkness fell upon the land, lights snuffing out under blackout regulations. It took less than an hour for the air raid sirens to go off, and a keen ear could soon hear the drone of propellers in the sky. 

Inside her well-appointed room, Caerphilly kept an urgent watch on the door. She couldn’t do anything about the bombers but… 

“I’m here! I’m here!” Duck steamed in through the open door, shunting abandoned. His crew had scarcely the time to set his brakes before they slammed the shed doors shut and ran for a shelter. 

Caerphilly looked down on him in surprise. They hadn’t bothered to throw the switch for his road, and their buffers were now touching.

The bombs started falling like distant thunder, wave after wave destroying houses and industries in the middle distance. The fires soon cast an awful light through the windows. 

“They’re close tonight.” Duck said, panting hard from his mad dash across the yard. “Hopefully they don’t hit us.”

He spoke too soon. Within a quarter hour, the bombs began dropping into the tightly packed neighborhoods that surrounded the yard. Thunderclap followed earthquake as the world ended around them. The building shook, and the walls trembled. The tapestries and posters fell from their hooks, and the massive portrait split itself in half as a crack ran through the brick behind it. 

“We may not make it out of this one!” Duck shouted over the hellish din. “It’s been an honor serving you Ma’am! A real privilege!”

She looked at him, totally bowled over by the idea that his last thoughts would be of her. 

A massive crash outside shook the very air, and death seemed suddenly imminent. “I love you.” she said, so quiet it could scarcely be heard. 

“What?” 

There was a half-second of doubt, a voice that screamed “you don’t have to do this.” She silenced it. 

“I love you!” she yelled, over the bombs, over the sirens, over the sudden ringing in her hearing. “I’m not going to die without telling you that I love you!” 

He looked shocked, eyes wide, mouth half-open. Smoke rose from his funnel in sudden jagged bursts. A trickle of steam wheeshed out of his cylinders, pooling around their wheels. In the darkened room, the whites of his eyes stood out the most, and despite all of her training, all of her skill, all of her stature, she had no idea what was going on behind those eyes. 

A bomb hit somewhere close, possibly within the yard, and the entire world jumped. Even the engines’ hundred-ton-plus weight was not enough, and they rocked back and forth on their suspension. It was entirely possible that this could be “it” for them. Caerphilly - both the Queen and Not - decided that she had to do this. The time may never come again. 

She lurched forwards, leaning down on her suspension just enough to hook her buffers under his, and kissed him. 

She’d expected it to be a chaste kiss, a single action that fulfilled a task: show him how you feel about him. It was supposed to take a second, and last her for a lifetime. (which may not be much longer than that.)

She didn’t expect him to push back, to meet her kiss and keep going - to reciprocate, saying without words exactly what he felt about her admission. It was an exhilarating feeling, a relief, a joy. 

They kissed and they loved as the bombs fell around them, and all was well within their shed. 

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

1944

A Southern Railway engine had been sent into their stronghold. Named Union Castle after the shipping line, it was immediately obvious why the government functionaries had made the error.  

She was a fine engine, sure footed and fairly swift, but even a short excursion into Western territory was too much for her, and she took the GWR’s ways as well as Pendennis did to shunting. Paperwork was being filed to send her home post haste, but until then, she cast an oddly shaped shadow over the proceedings at Old Oak Common. 

The Southern was evidently a most egalitarian railway, and many scandalous noises were made as the “air-smoothed” Pacific made equal small talk with the tank engines as she did with her express passenger contemporaries. 

The Queen was immediately beseeched by her followers to put a stop to this, but kept her tongue still. The stodgy class system of the Western was ideal to no-one, in her view, and any chance at changing it was welcome. 

Unfortunately, the one opportunity to bring about said change was about as rude as she was rectangular. “Oh, you store what back here?” she sniffed one evening, in the middle of a long conversation that seemed intent on offending every tank engine within earshot. “We wouldn’t keep cattle trucks back here. Not that we have many cattle trucks, seeing as we don’t need to rely on freight that much compared to you all, but my point still stands.”

Other evenings were spent going from one offended party to another yet-to-be-offended party, and soon even Duck had ill words about the “spamcan,” which he muttered to Caerphilly as they bedded down for the night. “I daren’t speak ill of anyone, but this one is an exception… she is very lucky that she has the skills to back up her mouth, otherwise someone might put her through a wall!”

-

Later, with the engine’s transfer still in the bureaucratic shuffle, Lode Star rolled up, unexpectedly grim. “She’s been cutting a swathe through the tank engines. I have it on good authority that Tre Pol and Pen is looking to start a riot. Nunney wants to see if we can paint a target on her boiler big enough for the V-2s to see.”

“Edging in on Celestine’s work I see? He’s rubbing off on you.” Caerphilly smirked before the mask went up. “Define 'swathe' for me.”

“What you do in the privacy of your own shed, she does behind the carriage sidings.”

“How obscene.”

“Too right.”

“How has she managed to convince anyone to…?”

“Apparently her refusal to kiss your ring has made her quite the rebellious beauty among those who view Hillingdon as a exotic locale.”

“Funny, considering I haven’t asked her to do any such thing.”

“Well there’s that too.” Lode Star rolled her eyes. “Your buffers-off handling of this has been well and good, but someone needs to lay down the law, lest the groundlings get uppity.”

“I was under the impression that the war was with Germany, not Waterloo.”

“Being soft is a peacetime ideal. You are not Chamberlain, and you know it.”

 “Ruling this railway with an iron fist is not my style either, Star, and you know that.”

“If I ever start advocating for that, feel free to ask for my resignation. I just want you to have some steel inside the velvet.”

This would have continued for some time, but there was a gentle cough, and Celestine melted out of the shadows. “Ma’am, I apologize for interrupting but, I feel your hand may be forced one way or the other.”

“And why would that occur, exactly?” 

The 2-8-0’s face was inscrutable. “It would appear that your ‘footman’ has attracted the attention of our Southern guest."

--

It was by one of the far water columns that the scene was set. Civil blood was moments away from staining multiple sets of civil buffers, as Union Castle leered at a number of tank engines while the bigger express engines looked on in displeasure. At the head of the group was Montague, the Queen’s footman. He was trying to act as a barrier between three sub-groups of his fellows. 

On one side, Tybalt and Mercutio took the side of the express engines, baying like hounds for the Bullied Pacific to go back from whence she came.

On the other, Juliet and a host of smaller pannier tanks from a variety of classes were cowering in the corner, trying to draw as little attention as possible. 

Between them, Claudio, Hero, Gregory, and Sampson were all trying to do the exact opposite, puffing themselves up to try and draw Union Castle’s wandering eye. 

Of course, the wandering eye was focused most intently on the intricate filigree of Montague’s bunker, and stayed that way until Caerphilly Castle, Queen of the Westerners, arrived. 

King George V, King of the Westerners, standing with a group of her fellows along with a sizable number of Halls and Manors, tried to elaborate on the circumstances, but the Queen called for silence. 

Naturally, the Southerner paid this no mind, and continued making lecherous remarks about the Footman until the Queen called for a private audience in a nearby shed. The Southerner agreed, mostly due to the Queen’s careful wording, making the request sound far more… erotic than it actually was. 

The two engines disappeared around a corner, and the King and the Footman set about dispersing the crowd. There was a war on still, and personal drama would not win it.

Minutes stretched into tens, and those who had legitimate business being at the water column wondered if maybe they had mis-interpreted the Queen’s words. 

Then there was a muffled shout, a whistle of anger, a whistle of fear, and a screech of metal. The Southerner was suddenly shoved through the wall of a nearby goods shed in a shower of bricks and a cloud of steam. The Queen had applied sufficient force for Union Castle to fully leave the building, smashing into gravel and sleepers piled behind. 

Minutes later, as steam continued to hiss from the dented Spamcan, the Queen emerged from around the building. The mask was not placid, and instead a sense of righteous anger covered her very being. 

She said nothing as she collected her Footman, and made to return to her shed. 

“None of you saw anything.” She growled to the remaining engines, her tone making it very clear that this statement was ex cathedra. 

A sea of terrified faces heartily agreed. 

-------

“Might I ask what brought you to such violence?” Duck asked, snuggled up against her later, during the few hours they had to each other each day.

“She was quite amenable, right until I suggested that she stop harassing your fellows.” Caerphilly murmured. “Then she became quite insistent. She demanded someone to ‘warm her berth’ each night, and suggested that maybe the 'cute little tank engine with all the filigree' could be sent her way in exchange for her compliance.”

“And so you put her through the wall?”

“Oh goodness no, not on purpose. I forgot which shed we were in. I assumed that it was the one that backed up to the canal.”

“Oh…” Duck said quietly. 

“What?”

“You really are fond of me, aren’t you?” 

“You are everything to me.”

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

1945

Glory, Glory, the war was over. Women cheered and men cried. Lights stayed on throughout the night for the first time since 1939, and the BBC played a celebratory tune across all civilian airwaves. Caerphilly Castle, Queen of the Westerners, ran a packed express service from Cornwall the next day. While there were still dozens of military trains carrying men and supplies, for the first time in six years they gave way to her.

It was a joy that was infectious, and it spread throughout the country at the speed of the wireless. Engines up and down the railway put aside their grievances and cheered together. At Old Oak, Pendennis even took the time to lead the tank engines in a rousing chorus of God Save the King. 

The world was headed towards a brighter future, and they would all be there for it. 

The train pulled into Paddington on time - not on time for 1945, but for the old 1938 timetable - and eased to a stop in a cloud of smoke and steam. Waiting all the way at the end of the platform was a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. The instant the train had come to a stop and the brakes were set, the driver flung himself out of the cab and into her arms. They hugged and they kissed like they hadn’t seen each other in years, and Caerphilly attempted to give them some privacy. Then there was a squeal of delight, and she looked to find the driver on one knee. 

------

She mentioned the occurrence to Duck that night. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful for them.” he said kindly. “They must be so happy.” 

Caerphilly said nothing in reply, and he looked at her. She was deep in thought. “I said they must be so happy..?”

“What would it be like to be married?” she said, looking for all the world like she hadn’t realized that she said it out loud. “Would it be any different from normal?”

“Well,” he said quietly. “I think it shows that two people love each other so much that they’re willing to tie themselves together. Kind of like the permanent coupling on the articulated coaches.”

“That would be nice,” she said, dream-like. “An endless and unbreakable thread connecting the hearts forever.”

He looked at her, once, twice, three times. “Putting aside the 'can' for right now, do you… want to get married?”

She blinked rapidly, expression turning owlish. He now realized that she hadn’t realized that she’d been saying anything at all!

-------

A few days later, a hushed and secret ceremony was held in the main shed. All of the big engines were barred on royal orders, save for Celestine, Lode Star, and King George V. A single tank engine - Juliet, a sibling of Duck’s who could be trusted with a secret - was also in attendance. Celestine officiated, and George gave her blessing on behalf of the Great Western. 

And then, just like that, it was over. The two newlyweds departed to their next jobs, feeling both the same, and permanently different. If they looked down, they could almost see the invisible thread that tied them together. 

--------

1948 

And just like that, the Great Western was gone. 

The government, the amorphous, faceless creation of man, had decided that all needed to run by its orders. Electricity, mining, shipping, buses, lorries, and yes, railways. The Great Western, which had an unbroken lineage going back to the days of Brunel some 113 years ago, was gone with a few strokes of a pen at Westminster. 

Those with sources on other lines reported that it was being viewed as a blessing as much as it was a curse. The North-Western and the LMS had taken a ruddy beating during the war, and the money to restore it all did not come cheap or easy. The LNER was too proud to admit if things were bad, but they remained notably silent in those early days. The Southern was apparently still somewhat flush with money, and complained mightily about the loss of their independence; the follow-up statement that the new Southern Region would be staffed almost entirely by former Southern Railway employees mollified them instantly. 

On the Western, however, it was the end. The end of so much more than could ever be said in words.

There was a weeklong period of mourning that went from the lowest Welsh shunter to the highest floor of the headquarters building in London. The Queen had to issue edicts just for work to be done, and her closest disciples were instrumental in spreading calm - Celestine in particular; he gave entire sermons to distraught sheds, preaching resignation and fortitude. 

It seemed to work, but “render to Westminster what is Westminster's, and to Brunel what is Brunel's” could only go so far. Engines threatened action of various kinds - the sort that only happens during the ultimate breakdown of society. Work stoppages were frequent during those first days, passenger and freight trains held up for interminable reasons for indefinite times. Engines from other roads - now their co-workers - were drafted in to help at certain sheds, although their efficacy was mixed; at Penzance, the sight of an LNER Pacific striding in was enough to throw everyone into a double-timed frenzy of resumed productivity; at Plymouth Laira, the arrival of a pair of Southern Q1s turned a simple strike into a violent industrial action that snarled services for three days. 

The men in suits were most displeased. They scurried around the network, Old Oak Common most especially, taking notes and in search of answers. Every time they found a clue, their frowns grew deeper. They eventually came to the Queen, flush with questions about her leadership, and how the engines “worshipped her.” 

The questions were insulting at a base level, and Celestine, Star, and Duck all bristled on her behalf, but she remained placid. Their questions were answered politely, fully, and with some vague semblance of accuracy. 

A few days later, they left, and the Queen gathered her council. “If this keeps up, they will try and break us. Our best course of option may be-”

“Don’t you say it.” Lode Star glared. “They’re only out here because Plymouth is rioting.”

“And it has already done so,” Celestine grumbled. “The cat is out of the bag, no putting it back in. We bend the knee now, and we give away everything for a gain of naught.”

They stared at her expectantly. The mask did not lift. “Do either of you have an alternative plan? It’s not as if we can raise a pirate flag and run trains as we see fit.”

Neither of them did. 

“Have a plan, but don’t do anything,” a fourth voice - Duck’s voice - said from beside her, and all attention turned to him. “It’s like dealing with the coach yards. Things could go wrong with the fussy things, and you’ve got to plan for it, but most of the time nothing goes wrong.”

“You think that is a better plan than mine?” Celestine said in his low grumble. “Or hers?”

“Well,” Duck slowly drawled. “Rolling over didn’t work for Chamberlain, but fighting back didn’t work for the Poles either. We’re going to have to handle this as it comes.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” Lode Star muttered. “All the fighting in the world won’t save you if you’re already in the ghetto.”

Celestine grumbled something about Warsaw and Llanelli but otherwise said nothing.

“So it’s settled then,” the Queen said, with firm aplomb. “We shall call for calm, and do nothing for the time being. But, we will have actionable plans in place for if or when they decide to come for us.”

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

1950

Two years later, their plan was holding firm. Picking up the pieces from the long and grueling war seemed to be the top priority of the men in suits, and some even spoke of the “difficulties” of 1948 as merely “frustrations left over from the war.” 

True to their word - as told to the Southern region, among other places - few changes to leadership or operations were made, and if one ignored the “BRITISH RAILWAYS” lettered across freshly-shopped tenders, it was almost like nothing had happened. Even the prophesied horde of engines from other regions was proving false - aside from some through trains and the odd motive power shortage, (and the infamous locomotive trials) few non-Western engines trod upon Brunel’s kingdom in those early years. True, there was some rumbling of the new CME (a Midland man, the shame of it) designing new “Standard” classes, but the rumour mill provided equally swift news that Swindon would be producing them in large numbers, so they couldn’t be all bad. 

The Queen watched this all happen with wary eyes, but even Celestine’s numerous contacts could not figure out if a penny was indeed about to drop. 

----

On a more positive note,  the Queen’s footman was visited once again by tidings of his own competence, and was granted the ultimate promotion: Head Shunter, Paddington Station. 

The Queen was so overjoyed for him that the mask fell completely, and Caerphilly Castle gathered him up into a quite amorous kiss behind the coaling stage. 

There was a quiet cough as the two separated, and Pendennis Castle looked on with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. 

“Breathe a word of this and I’ll kill you.” She said it with such steel it may well have been ex cathedra, and the royal sibling scuttled away. 

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

1951

The end started sooner than anyone had anticipated. 

It came in waves over the course of the summer. New engines - almost all of LMS design - would be introduced to the railway network. Built at various works across the country, they could go anywhere and do anything. Those “in the know” believed that these new engines would not be taught the old ways, and would not have allegiances to their works, as thousands of Swindon, Crewe, Eastleigh, and Doncaster engines had before. 

Then, came the hammerblow that the long-awaited “unification” of the railway system would begin. While “old” engines would be kept within their existing depots for the most part, the “new” would be free to traipse across the country at their leisure. It did not take a genius-level intellect that “new” was standing in for “useful” in this phraseology. 

Speaking of the new engines, it was obvious that they would need roles to fill, and thus, some engines would have to be replaced. The especially geriatric classes were up on the chopping block: the LNER’s J17s dated back to the last century, the LMS had engines dating back to the Midland, and the Western… well the Stars were almost fifty years old, weren’t they?

The withdrawals had apparently been happening slowly, taking engines based at outlying depots one by one, almost as if to avoid notice. 

The council, even with Celestine’s spiderweb of intelligence, the Queen’s watchful eye, and Duck and Lode Star’s network of friends and enemies, never saw it coming. They had expected, planned on, anticipated, a sort of violent overthrow - one fell swoop, a single order issued from on high that declared them all unfit for use, something that could be rebelled against, but it never came. Instead, the assault was silent and bureaucratic, every decision couched in phrases of “economic viability” and “service life.” Nobody knew if this was merely a first step of a grander scheme, or simply the new normal. 

These silent methods meant it was never apparent when they should deploy their old war plans, or indeed what good they could do in the face of this silent, bureaucratic Revolution. Several times they planned a counter, but found that no single person could ever be named as the figurehead. There was no face to this opposition, just the amorphous cloud of “business.” 

Rebellion against a person was easy, but to do so against an uncaring spreadsheet was another matter. 

Eventually, the strikes began hitting home, hammering the very foundations of Old Oak and its Queen. Lode Star left one day on a limited bound for Reading, and never came back. Word eventually filtered back to London that she’d failed outside of Swindon with a cracked cylinder, and had been withdrawn on the spot. Another engine had hauled her into the works for what they thought would be a repair, and after that, she vanished, disposition unknown. 

The shed mourned her, and an empty road was left near the main turntable for many nights. When it eventually filled, it was by Celestine, who cried bitter tears whenever he thought he was alone. 

The Queen herself was in a state of shock that not even the mask could cover, and the yard soon realized that no one was truly safe. As the year went on, morale dropped, and subsequent visits from management were met with increasing levels of hostility. Withdrawals began to happen in the middle of the night, or after completing runs to far-off locales, and the anger and desperation grew tenfold by year’s end. 

Throughout this, The Queen’s footman remained steadfastly by her side. “I’m with you until the end,” he said, buffered up to her as she mourned the withdrawal of another sibling. 

“And what if the end is sooner than we think?” she sniffed. 

“Then I’ll be grateful for the time I had.”

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

1954

London’s newest edict was the first time that everyone understood the true scale of the threat they were up against. It was the edict from on high that would have spurred a revolution three years ago; now, everyone was a little older, a little more tired. The mundanity of life under British Railways had dulled the sense of danger just enough that the rank and file did not clamor for revolt until it was far too late. 

The edict, inventively named “Modernisation and Re-Equipment of the British Railways,” called for the complete abolishment of Steam, and the replacement of all steam engines with Diesel and Electric as soon as possible.  

Nobody was entirely sure what to make of this at Old Oak. Diesel was a novelty, restricted to a few funny-looking shunters and lorries on the street. Electric was far more well known, but there was some confusion as to how the London Underground could replace fast goods trains. They kept their guard up nonetheless, and all ears were kept firmly against the rail. 

What they found worried them. On the Southern, huge numbers of suburban trains were operated by electric-powered coaches, and engines could apparently be run off of this system as well. On the Midland, test units built before the nationalization had shown the possibility of huge diesel powered express engines, easily capable of taking work from all but the strongest steam engines. 

Morale dropped further, and then took a menacing turn when it was revealed that the Southern’s steam engines had taken to this news poorly, and began revolting against their electric comrades. “We can fight them…” came the whisper, angry and cloying. “Maybe we can kill them.”

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

1955

The whispers did not stay silent for long. “Troublemakers” were soon identified and excised, whether by scrap or by transfer, it was ultimately unclear and not relevant. Old Oak was rapidly turning into a gruellia camp, and those few men in suits walked around with swiveling heads. 

The Queen had given up on ever restoring order. Unless she could muster up an army capable of sacking London, this was not a war she could win, and so she let it rage. As Celestine said, “better to go angry into the cold night as a warrior than to stay warm as a servant.”

Eventually, even the regal mask could not contain her. After six of her most faithful confidants were transferred away in a single night, she lashed out, dousing a group of BR men in boiling steam, injuring them to the point of needing hospitalization. 

“That was a very stupid thing you did,” Duck said as they sat in the shed, dreading the dawn’s first light. 

“Burning them?” 

“Getting caught.”

“And what happened to the rule-follower I know and love?” 

“They withdrew Benvolio last night. And Juliet.” 

A sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry, I-”

“I hadn’t had a chance to tell you.” 

A long, poignant pause followed. 

“What do you think will happen to us?”

“I don’t know. Til death do us part, I assume.”

“Til death it is, then.” 

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

As it turned out, it was worse than death. 

She ventured forth on a long trip to Cardiff, feeling the whole time like the world was about to collapse on top of her. Pulling into the station, she failed in a cloud of steam, a piston seal giving out after years of neglect.

A grim-faced shunter pulled her into the shed, and to everyone’s surprise, she was put on the repair docket for later in the week. Unlike Old Oak, which had been slowly turning into a den of vipers, Cardiff Canton was still much as the Western had left it. Spirits were higher than she’d seen in years, and even the now-prevalent Britannia-class engines were being treated warmly. 

Worry began to seep in after a day, as she discovered that many of Old Oak’s more mechanically sound “troublemakers” had not been withdrawn as she had thought, instead getting transferred to the Welsh capital. Lode Star was not among them, but many other familiar faces were, ranging from King George V to Raglan Castle. 

They all trod around her like she was made of glass, and a pit grew in her firebox until the men came to mend her. They brought with them all the appropriate tools needed to fix the seal… as well as a set of new depot plates. Gone was Old Oak’s 81A, replaced with the 86C of Cardiff Canton. 

“So this is it, then?” she asked dully. “A kingdom in exile? Pendennis left to rule the roost?”

-------

It took almost two months to get back to London. British Rail was quickly installing new management in the Western Region, and they were keen to keep the troublemakers as far away from the “capital” of the GWR locomotive fleet as possible. In the end she had to resort to threats and bribery, taking a long meat train into the goods platforms at Paddington, before making her way to Old Oak. 

She was expecting some sort of welcome, but the yard exploding into shock was not within the realm of possibility. 

“You’re here!” yelled a suburban tank, so loud she could almost see his boiler tubes through his gawping mouth. 

“It’s her!” said Paris, another of Duck’s siblings. 

King Edward II almost backed through a wall as he refused to take eyes off her. 

Caerphilly felt the mask come back on, and the Queen went in search of answers. 

-

She found them, and Pendennis, in an empty and bare Royal Shed. “They said that you’d been cut up…” he said, sounding legitimately horrified. “We held a funeral. Half of London thinks you dead.”

She didn’t say anything, eyes scanning the bare walls. 

“They-they came and took everything down a week after you die- left,” Pendennis stammered. “What were we supposed to think?”

She didn’t even care enough to answer. “Where’s Duck?” 

“I-I- I don’t know. He said something about ‘til death do you part’ and then… he left. Got transferred, something.”

She left Pendennis, stammering and terrified, and went in search of answers. 

------

“I don’t know where he went.” Celestine recovered from seeing her rise from the dead rather well. “He didn’t tell anyone and he didn’t ask for specifics. He took some coaching stock to Euston and told the Midlanders to take him North.”

The Queen didn’t say anything, and stared down her spymaster. 

“I don’t know,” he said with a hint of desperation and sadness. “I don’t think he knows. I can find out, but I don’t think it’ll help. He got a two month head start, and…” 

“And what?”

Celestine gulped, a moment of vulnerability she’d never seen before. “He- he left his nameplates. And his paint. Had them do him up in black like every other new engine they’ve got.” he looked her in the eyes, tears welling up. “Caerphilly, you died, and he parted.”

The world seemed a lot grayer, after that, and the queen left Old Oak Common, never to return. 

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

1957 

Celestine had followed in her wake, traveling to her exiled kingdom inside Cardiff Canton. He provided the same sage advice as always, but seemed oddly insistent on setting up his successor. “Anyone can die, at any time.” he said, as he pushed the Queen to accept his recommendation of a Britannia named Polar Star. The engine was fresh-faced but had aged, weathered eyes that looked suspiciously at everything and anything. 

In the end, she’d agreed, and her retinue briefly became four, with Polar Star joining Celestine and King George as her counsel. 

Then, one day. “My number has come up,” Celestine said quietly. 

“Just like that?” By 1957, nobody was shocked by a prediction of death. Many weren’t even saddened. 

“Not to worry, my Queen,” he said with a sly look. “I always have an exit strategy.”

He said nothing more on the subject, but was very insistent on saying goodbye the next morning when he took a short goods train down to the docks. She followed suit, and wished him goodbye as though she’d never see him again. 

His train vanished into the mist, and just like that, he was gone, the fog closing behind him like the veil of eternity. 

And now there remains only one… she thought later, as George V and Polar Star politely debated the merits of some important topic, so thoroughly inured to the death and disappearances that Celestine merited little more than a moment of silence. 

And soon there will be none at all…

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

1960

It was the end of one world, and the start of another. 

Cardiff Canton, the last true bastion of steam in Wales, accepted with great fanfare Swindon’s last hurrah. A hulking decapod named Evening Star, he arrived with a fresh face and innocent eyes. The other engines, worn down from tragedy after loss, attached themselves to him and his kind like drowning men to life rings, so taken were they by his innocence. 

Meanwhile, inbound trains from great depots like Swindon and Plymouth Laira became the heralds of a new age. Diesel locomotives - huge, soot-throwing things that made noises no-one had ever thought of before - began making appearances. The crews were wowed by them, by their ease of operation, their clean interiors, and their power. To those with an ounce of foresight, it was immediately obvious that the end was nigh. 

At the very least, the end would not be violent. Tales quickly spread from other regions, of diesels wrecking trains, bashing engines, spreading rumours, and generally acting as agents of destruction. The Eastern region was turning into an Orwellian dystopia by all accounts, and the Southern was experiencing three-way civil wars between steam, diesel, and electric traction. Even the piddling North-Western Region had suffered an upset, when a six-coupled diesel shunter had in short order: dethroned the station’s pilot, sowed discourse in the steam shed, and then caused a runaway train before being sent back to whence he had come. 

The western diesels - two classes named after warships, with more on the way from Swindon’s erecting shop - were nothing like the stories from afar. Most were built by Swindon - and those that weren’t hailed from North British Locomotive, a long-time contractor of the Western - and had been taught the old ways. They spoke earnestly of being the next step in Brunel’s lineage, and despite their imminent demise now made real, many steam engines found themselves relaxing, sure in the knowledge that their legacy would remain “within the family.” 

Evening Star, and his cohort of 9Fs both Swindon and Crewe built, were settling in just as easily, and it seemed as though the future may be bright after all. 

The Queen, however, felt a sense of ominous dread that she could not shake. Surely the Eastern region, if none other, would have maintained their sense of decorum and pride, just as the Western had? Why had it gone so wrong for them? 

---------

She tried to make inquiries, but Celestine could not be recreated, no matter how hard Polar Star tried. It seemed that, perhaps, the Great Western truly was “better” than all the rest, and conflict of that sort could never sully their shores. 

She doubted it, but tried to put a brave face on her uneasiness. In lieu of answers, she could at the very least ensure that her subjects went to the end with as much comfort as possible. 

This lasted until the tenth of May. Some tiny component deep within her workings was deemed failed, and instead of fixing her, they withdrew her on the spot. 

Surprisingly, this wasn’t done in some far-off corner of the yard, free from prying eyes, and so it took less than an hour for Cardiff Canton to become a frenzy. Engines raged and mourned in equal numbers. Some younger ones, like Evening Star and a shiny “Warship” named Centaur, looked utterly bewildered at the goings on. Bigger, older engines, grief coloring their eyes, had to pull them aside and explain exactly what was occurring. 

It was an odd thing to see a diesel cry. It almost seemed like they hadn’t been built to do so. 

In the end, there had been profound declarations made, tears shed, threats issued, and leadership changes discussed. The Queen felt as though her decision was obvious, and a terrified looking King George V issued her first teary-eyed speech to the rest of the shed shortly thereafter. 

After all of that, it was time for her to leave for the last time. Centaur had volunteered, and after the diesel and his cargo had been polished to a blinding finish, the funeral train departed Cardiff, up-bound for Swindon. 

As they left, whistles started to blow. First one, then another, then another, and so on until the air was split by the siren-like call of Cardiff Canton, and by extension, the Great Western, bidding farewell to their one true Queen. 

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

Swindon

The great works, birthplace of almost every engine who trod GWR metals, was now a charnel house of mechanical destruction. Engines lined up in neat rows, waiting for the end. To either side, piles of metal that had once held life - smokeboxes, cylinders, frames by the dozen. 

In a macabre take on the circle of life, the far end of the works property glimmered with the freshly-painted sheet metal of new diesel locomotives, ready to supplant those steam engines that remained. 

To her surprise, the Queen was not shunted into the execution lines, but instead tucked away in a storage shed near the shop floor. 

The shed was not empty. 

“Star?” She goggled at the sight of Lode Star, dirty and rusted and far worse for wear but still very much alive, huddled in the back of the shed. 

“My Queen…” the fire was gone, the smile a ghost of its former self. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“The same as you…” she said, trying to smile. “Preservation. Eternal life within four walls.”

“Well.” The mask fell, and Caerphilly looked at her. “It beats dying, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lode Star looked haunted. “At least the screams would stop then…” 

--------

1961 

No matter how much she tried, and which face she used - her own or the mask - Caerphilly couldn’t bring Star out of her emotional cocoon. Whatever the poor engine had gone through during the time of her withdrawal, it was still happening behind her eyes.

Matters were not helped by the arrival of a third engine. 

“You…” City of Truro hissed as he was brusquely shoved into the shed by a snarling diesel of unclear lineage. “So they’ve seen fit to preserve you for all eternity?” 

Caerphilly was bewildered and angered all at once. She had strong memories of the old engine, regal yet opinionated, strong yet caring. She’d tried to model much of her reign off of him, and did not recall ever doing anything to earn such ire. 

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” she snapped, worry for Lode Star flashing over into anger when given the correct spark. How dare he come in here like this? “Are we not in a state of crisis? Do we need to band together or stand alone? I seem to be of the understanding that the only thing we will do alone is die, so what has gotten into you?” She stared at the receding diesel, which looked relieved to be rid of Truro. “And what did you say to him?” 

“Him? Him?! That monstrosity has hauled me away from my life! Taken me away to be re-imprisoned by those who deem me unworthy of such things! It is an agent of evil and you call it him?!”

Unnoticed in the squabble, Lode Star whimpered silently, and fell silent. Later on, there would be nothing that Caerphilly or Truro could do to make her speak again. 

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

It was only later, when they hauled her from the shed, towed her into the shop floor, and began taking her apart as though this were any normal overhaul, that she learned exactly what the next stage in her life would be. 

“The Science Museum? In Kensington? But there’s no rails there.” she said, voice weak from disassembly fatigue. 

“Not to worry!” The men in suits said grandly. “We’ve got it all under control!” 

----------

Swindon outshopped her to like-new condition, and she felt better than she had since 1938. The experience of moving without pain was a joyous one, but the happy feelings died soon after she left the works, up-bound to London. 

Gone was the easy camaraderie of just last year. Now, steam and diesel were at each other’s throats up and down the line. Her “royal train” passed Old Oak Common, and she saw it was packed with diesels. Many of them were not of the same designs that she saw in the yard at Swindon, and their smiles were cruel, their eyes harsh. 

She was officially handed over to the museum with a speech that seemed intent on calling her a relic from a bygone time - never mind that Clun Castle was standing a few roads away with a packed passenger train. 

Then it was back to the yard, where she sat overnight, privy to a host of conversations, arguments, threats, and whisper campaigns between steam and diesel that proved - to her at least - that the spirit of the Great Western was dead. 

The morning came along with a set of heavy haul lorries, and the mask went up over a few dried tears, and within a few hours, the Queen of the Great Western was gone, vanishing around a corner, Kensington bound. 

-------

Kensington 

The mask didn’t slip when she saw that there was a hole missing in the brick wall of the building. They meant to entomb her, and she couldn’t stop them if she wanted to. 

Did she want to?

-----------

A portly man with a balding head introduced himself as “Dr. Beeching, chairman of British Railways” as the workers began re-building the block wall of the museum. 

For some time, he went on and on about topics that she didn’t pay any attention to. He didn’t seem to notice, until he started asking questions. Somewhat miffed about the lack of response, he looked up at her for the first time. “Your controllers said you were a talkative sort. Were they mistaken? I feel that after all that I have done for you, saving you from scrap and whatnot, you could at least be a conversationalist.” 

Caerphilly didn’t look at him. She didn’t even look down, instead focusing her attention on the last rays of the sun, streaming in through the hole in the brick. The workers had maybe seven or eight tiers to go. “You’ve entombed me here, without even a cask of amontillado for company. Haven’t you done enough for me, Montresor?”

Dr. Beeching looked shaken, and left without saying another word. 

He watched from the outside as the workmen finished up the wall. 

As the last brick went into place, a great stillness went over London, for just a second. 

Then, from inside the building, through the wall. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!” 

Beeching, the workers, and some of the museum staff tumbled through the doorways, and into the grand hall of transportation. 

Caerphilly was gone. The Queen stared back. The mask was up, and within those walls it would never come back down. 

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

Tidmouth, 2001

The train puffed through the station looking for all the world like it had steamed out of the 1930s. The coaches were painted in the traditional Western colours, and Caerphilly herself shone like the proverbial Lady of engine folk-tale. 

There was only one engine to witness her passage through the big station, and James’ jaw hit his bufferbeam and stayed there until the train was fully out of sight. 

As the train passed underneath the first GWR-style cantilever signal arm, Caerphilly felt a tickling in her cheeks, and around the edges of her mouth. The mask was trying to make a reappearance, and she forced it down. This was not the time or place. 

Passing through the tunnel under increasingly dark skies, she rolled into Haultraugh station in near total darkness. The sun was going down, and the skies had turned gloomy. A prickling sensation deep in her cylinders and her boiler - one that she’d forgotten almost entirely - told her rain was on the way. 

A deep whistle sounded in the other direction, and Douglas puffed through the station with a train of stone. He looked her up and down in surprise, but said nothing as he continued on to the big station. 

The mask almost came back out of instinct, as the GWR signals, on top of the GWR signal arm, outside of the GWR station, rose to a clear aspect. She tried to bite it back, but could feel the placid expression fall on her face out of habit. 

Arlesburgh was like entering a warp through time, and she had to purposefully look at the modern cars in the carpark to assure herself that she hadn’t just awoken from some horrible nightmare back in 1937. 

Stowing the coaches was a matter of moments - the shunting system was exactly as she remembered it, and the mask slipped enough for a single fond tear to roll down her cheek. 

The driver quickly turned her on the table, and she was backed into a twin road shed that brought back waves of memories of Old Oak Common. 

Donald was half asleep on the next road, and her spirits faded slightly, before she recalled that this was the only shed. He had to sleep here. 

---

Sure enough, some fifteen minutes later, as the first drops of rain began to pitter-patter off the roof, she could hear his whistle in the yard. 

A few minutes later, and the shed doors were opened, and he screeched to a stop just outside the threshold. Light from the inside spilled onto his rain-soaked form, and he looked exactly as she remembered.  

She hadn’t even realized that the mask was up, but it fell away regardless. Indescribable emotions flitted across her face, almost mirrored in his. 

Neither of them said anything as his driver took a firm hand on the throttle and the brake, moving him inside the building to the point where the doors could be shut.  

The driver - Siobhan (of course, it had to be) - dismounted from the cab, took one look between the two engines, and marched over to Donald. 

“Oi! Cannae ye see I’m sleepin?” 

“Get yer wheesht and get goin’, cannae sleep here tonigh’”

“Wah? Fuck ye! Is’ rainin’!”

“Fuck ye too. No’ in here ye be sleepin’, even if I left ye here.” 

“Aye? Wha? Wait, when did they ge’ here? Wah?” 

“OUT!” 

The squabbling continued as Donald was driven outside into what was now a downpour. The sounds of his increasingly damp complaints lessened until he was driven entirely out of earshot. 

The two looked at each other, words unable to span the distance of decades. 

“When did you find out?” he asked, after a minute and an eternity. 

“Sometime in the 70s,” she said, feeling a thousand miles away while touching his buffers. “One of the curators brought in his son’s books for me to fact check.”

He looked like he was ready to fade into the mist. “That must have been a shock.” 

“I would have dropped everything and run after you,” she said, not even thinking to come up with a segue. “If only I had known.”

“They told us you were dead,” he replied. “I suppose they wanted to break us, and it worked.”

“I wish that you could have come with me,” she said quietly. 

“I do too.” They were barely above a whisper, almost covered by the pounding rain. 

“What did you do, after…?” 

He chuckled, without any warmth. “I buried the pain, and went on with my life. I never told a soul.”

“I tried to forget,” she admitted, tears welling up. “It never worked.” 

There was a bright flash, and thunder roared outside. 

“Sounds like the bombs going off, back when.” He said, fairly transported to another place and time. 

“I remember…” She was starting to cry a little. 

He looked up at her, eyes piercing through her. “What are we, Caerphilly? After forty years, are we still anything?”

She looked at him. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and the walls shook. In a moment, she was back in 1940. 

“We’re together,” she said, crying openly. “Until death do us part.”

And then she kissed him, as the thunder roared. 

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