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There was nowhere left to go. Sir Handle had bashed right into a buffer. There was no track left.
He was going to die.
“You can’t hide from me, Falcon,” the twisted version of Stanley grinned sickly at him, “it’s just you and me out here now, ain’t it?”
“Leave me alone!” He cursed himself at the way his words fell over themselves. “And it—it’s Sir Handel now.”
“Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you,” Stanley rolled up closer, his rusted frame now completely in Sir Handel’s vision. “But the Manager might. You’re not a Really Useful engine, Falcon . Always complaining, always causing problems, faking sick.”
“I’ve–I’ve learned my lesson,” Sir Handel insisted, “I’ve learned my lesson. I have. I’m Useful now. More Useful than you ever were, you American prick.”
“You lied to get Peter Sam to take over your duties just the other day,” Stanley laughed, a painful, horrid gurgling sound, “how long do you think the Thin Controller will put up with your antics? It’s been a long time—longer than with the Manager, but you know humans, they change their minds at the drop of a hat.”
“The Thin Controller’s different!” Sir Handel snapped, “He’s nothing like that nasty Manager!”
“If you say so,” Stanley chuckled, and it still sounded so terrible, “tell me something, Falcon.”
“What?” He glared.
“Are the sheds on your new railway in need of a water pump?” Stanley asked, much too close to Falcon—Sir Handel then he would have liked, “you might be Useful, but you’re just as expendable as the next engine. It’s not just the three of you anymore. There’s what? Six? Seven of you now? I’m sure he don’t need that many engines.”
“So?” He tried to back up but there was no rail behind him, “it doesn’t change that I am one of the Thin Controller’s most Useful engines.”
“It was the same with the Manager, wasn’t it?” Stanley sneered, “and look what he went and did to the lot of us. What’s to say the Thin Controller won’t cover you with a tarp and leave you begging and pleading on a siding to be let out?”
“The Thin Controller isn’t like him!” He yelled furiously. He rushed forward and crashed into Stanley, buffer to buffer. “He isn’t like him at all!”
“He’s not?” Stanley seemed unbothered by the sudden motion.
“He is nothing like that horrid man,” he snarled.
“Then what are you doing out behind the sheds, Falcon?”
“What are you—”
Falcon’s eyes were wide as he took in his new surroundings. He was walled in on each side, a long pipe crudely stuck into his dome. It was pumping, pumping, pumping water. It rattled his boiler in all the wrong ways.
“Not so nice now, is it, Falcon?”
The quarry tracks lay beyond the wall he was stuck behind. So close yet so far. He watched the rest of his narrow gauge friends scamper to and fro across them.
They never sent a whistle his way.
“No…” Falcon couldn’t breathe. “No, no, no, no. I’m sorry, Mr. Percival! I’m sorry! I’ll be good, I promise, I promise! Manager! Please don’t leave me here! Please! I’m still Really Useful! I’m still your number three! I’m still—”
“—Useful!” He gasped, eyes flying open.
His breathing was laboured and heavy as his mind desperately chased the edges of reality. He was still at the Crovan’s Gate sheds, beside Peter Sam and Duke. He still had his steam roller wheels, smooth and sleek. He still had coal in his firebox and leftover water in his boiler.
He was still Really Useful.
“Falcon?” Duke’s voice came in soft, but he still flinched at the name, “Are you alright?”
Peter Sam was still asleep. His snores were soft.
“I’m fine,” Sir Handel let out a deep breath, “I just had a, uh, surprising dream. Nothing to get your buffers in a twist about, Granpuff.”
He didn’t find it necessary to mention that it had been the fifth "surprising" dream he had had in that week alone.
“If you say so,” Duke frowned, “but you can always tell me if something’s wrong. You know that, Falcon, don’t you?”
“I know,” he sighed, “but really, I’m alright. Don’t worry about me, Old Iron.”
Duke’s eyes lingered on him for quite some time with an emotion Sir Handel couldn’t grasp, but he ultimately didn’t push the matter any further. Instead, he went to waking up Peter Sam as their crews began to arrive.
With his own crew busy lighting his fire, Sir Handel had a bit of time to ponder on the dream. The strangeness, the desperation, the fear.
Stanley.
His fire went cold.
“Ah, having a bit of trouble starting up, Sir Handel?” His fireman asked. He gave a light pat to the side of his frame.
“I—no,” the nervousness crept into his voice, “I must still be a little bit tired. I’m sure it will light the second time.”
His fireman nodded and got to work. He shoveled an extra bit of coal into his firebox before lighting it once more. Still, nothing flared up. It stayed cold and bare, the flames faltering as soon as they gained any kind of purchase.
Come on! Come on! He urged himself. Just hold the fire! It shouldn’t be going out this quickly.
“Are you playing sick again, Sir Handel?” Peter Sam teased. “Your firebox should be lit by now.”
“I’m not sick,” he snapped. Stanley’s words echoed in the back of his mind. “I’m just having a bit of trouble starting this morning. I’ll be out before you know it.” His features scrunched into a familiar scowl. “Now go on before you're late.”
“But what about you?” Peter Sam raised a brow.
“I said I’ll be out before you know it, and besides, I have Granpuff here to keep me company while I wait. He doesn’t have any jobs today,” he insisted, “now go.”
“Alright, alright,” Peter Sam left the sheds with a bright whistle.
“You don’t want lil’ Stuart to be punished because of you, how sweet.”
His eyes slipped to the side, but there was no sign of a red, American pannier tank engine. It was still only Duke beside him, nestled in the shed.
“Everything alright, Falcon?” Duke asked.
“Yes, yes, fine,” he said quickly, “I already said not to worry about me. I just have a slow start this morning. I’m sure the Ma—Thin Controller will understand.”
“Falcon.” Duke’s gaze caught his own quite sharply. The slip-up hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Yes, Granpuff?” He tried to play it off.
“The Manager isn’t—”
Sir Handel whistled loudly as his firebox finally lit successfully.
“Alright!” He let out a sigh of relief. “Let’s get a move on driver! I’m on quarry duty today and I’d rather not waste anymore time.”
“You got it,” his driver flashed him a warm smile before climbing up into his cab. His fireman followed soon after.
“See you later, Granpuff!” He whistled once again, ignoring the troubled look on Duke’s face. He would be extra good to him later on to make up for it, and hopefully by then, the other engine will have forgotten the whole morning already.
Sir Handel rolled on happily towards the Blue Mountain Quarry. The terrible images of Stanley were smoothed to the deepest reaches of his mind, the Mid Sodor Railway drowning along with it. It never did good to remember that railway. The only good thing about it had been Duke and Peter Sam anyways.
And Stanley. His mind supplied against his own will. You were friends with Stanley. He narrowed his eyes and puffed his way up the winding mountain track. NO. No, you weren’t. He was difficult and daft and loud and funny and told the best—stop.
Sir Handel was swiftly approaching the bridge that led to the quarry. It was almost a twin to Duncan’s bridge, same height off the ground, same path to the other parts of the mountain. The only difference was the fall—and the fact that this one had two separate tracks, but mainly the fall. On Duncan’s bridge, a fall meant a quick way to become acquainted with the wonderful sensation of drowning. The blue mountain bridge on the other hand, was instant death.
He couldn’t tell which was worse.
He had almost tumbled to his death once. On a mountain just like this one.
“On the Mid Sodor, right buddy?”
Sir Handel screeched to a halt in the middle of the bridge. His brakes squealed and his wheels scraped against metal, but he didn’t crawl an inch further.
“Sir Handel?” His driver called up, “is there something wrong?”
“No, no,” his eyes locked onto the spiraling depths below them and the world spun beneath his wheels, “everything’s…fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. No. It’s perfectly fine.”
He sucked in a shallow breath and shut his eyes tight. He willed himself forward, but his brakes stayed in place. His wheels felt heavy and stuck as if they had been welded into the tracks themselves.
“Your steam roller wheels ain’t so useful now, Falcon.”
He mentally cursed out the snickers of that stupid American.
“Sir Handel?” The soft hand of his driver rested gently atop his frame. He couldn’t quite get out of the cab on the dangerous bridge, otherwise, he was sure his driver would’ve been at his front to comfort him.
“It’s alright,” Sir Handel warily opened his eyes, vision set forward. Forward. He couldn’t let himself stray. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. Simply have to get moving, that’s all.”
At the edge of his sight were the rocky cliffs. The cliffs that led to the endless bottom.
He couldn’t move.
“Not so fun stayin’ in one place all the time, is it?”
His whole frame creaked with a shudder.
“We have to get going, Sir Handel,” his driver told him softly, “it’s not good to stay out on the bridge. It’s dangerous.”
I can’t move.
“I won’t move,” he said aloud.
It was all the more easier to be stubborn than scared. Stubborn was familiar, something he could deal with easily, but fear? Fear was for the other railway.
“Sir Handel, please,” his driver groaned, “we have work to do.”
That’s better. Frustration was a welcome sentiment.
“I refuse to go any further,” he huffed, though his voice shook ever so slightly. “I’m staying right here and not an inch more.”
“You’re going to get the whole lot of us in trouble if we don’t move soon,” his fireman chimed in, “come on, mate. It’s not that much farther down the bridge. It’s hardly scary, and we’ll be with you the whole way, besides.”
“Scary?” He barked out a sharp laugh. “I’m not scared. I just don’t feel like moving.”
He didn’t mention the way his boiler was churning at the height. If he went any further he was sure the whole bridge would collapse beneath him and that stupid Stanley would laugh him the whole way down.
“Sir Handel,” his driver was stern now, but his tone stayed soft, “we have to get going. You said earlier that we were late enough as is.”
“And I just decided that I don’t want to do any quarry work today. Forget what I said earlier,” he dismissed rudely, “I’m not moving off of this bridge.”
I can’t.
“You stubborn little—” his fireman cut himself off, “if you don’t move, so help me I will go out there and push you myself!”
Push me? His boiler pressure rocketed.
“Don’t do that, Mike,” his driver grumbled.
I’ll fall. I’ll fall down, down, down. His eyes found the cliffs once more and his mind spiraled right down with them. I’ll be crushed. I’ll be crushed. I’ll never be Useful again. There won’t even be enough of me left for a pumping engine.
“And Dukey ain’t here to save you this time.”
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. He should have gotten over this silly fear by now. I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to fall. No, no, no. Please.
Sir Handel’s mind was caught on the depths below. He couldn’t quite hitch his conscience onto anything else. Even the American annoyance was quieted by the buzz in his head. His entire body felt as if it were tipping, tipping, tipping so close to the edge. He could already see the ground rushing to meet his freshly painted frame. Boiler bursting from the impact, tender cracking under the pressure. His funnel would be crushed.
And that would be the end of Falcon.
Even Mr. Percival wouldn’t salvage him from that. Couldn’t salvage him.
Would he still be alive down there? In constant agony until they decided to haul him off to the scrapyard? Or would he die the moment his frame slammed into the rocky ground below? Would it be quick? Maybe he wouldn’t feel a thing.
His wheels began to move seemingly on their own accord and the edge seemed so much closer.
“NO!” He shrieked. “NO! DON’T LET ME FALL! NO! NO! NO!”
“Sir Handel, calm down!” His driver called out desperately, “It’s only Duke!”
“He came to get you after Rusty came by,” added his fireman.
The words were muddled in his brain.
“DON’T PUSH ME! DON’T!” His panicked yells quickly choked themselves into sobs. “I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I promise!”
“Will you though? Maybe you deserve to die down there, dontcha think?”
“No, no, no,” his voice cracked and he strained against the engine pulling him back. “It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault. I’ll be good. I’m not a lazy engine. I’m a good engine. I’m Useful. I’m Useful. It’s not my fault!”
“Like hell it isn’t! It’s your fault. Your fault.”
He trembled.
“All your fault.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled on. His hold was slipping, the other engine succeeding in pulling him back. “Don’t push me down there, please. Please. I’m good, I’m good, and so, so Useful. Manager, please! I’ll do better!”
He was being dragged down. Down, down, down. Even with his brakes on, the engine pressed on, determined to take him to the rocks below.
“Your fault. Your fault.”
“I’ll wait on the siding as long as you need me to, Manager! Anything but this, please!” He pleaded desperately, “you need me, you need me. I’m Really Useful! A good engine. I’m a good engine. I’m a good engine!”
“I was a good engine too…”
He was moving faster than before.
“Wasn’t I?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sobbed, “I’m so sorry, Stanley. Please. I didn’t mean to. I’m a good engine. I’m good. I’m good. I’m go—”
A piercing whistle cut through the air. A comforting whistle.
“Granpuff…?” He croaked. Through his teary eyes he could clearly see they were trailing away from the bridge.
Away.
Duke was pulling him away from the bridge. He had saved him again.
“Oh, Falcon,” Duke's voice was a welcome sound, “Falcon, it’s alright. I’m here.”
“I thought I was going to die, Granpuff,” he sniffled.
“You’re safe now,” Duke reassured him, “as long as I have steam in me, I’ll never let you fall, Falcon.”
“Thank you, Granpuff,” he whimpered, “thank you for looking out for me.”
“I always will.”
The journey was silent on the way back as they finally pulled into the Crovan’s Gate sheds.
“Ye broke down now, did ye, Sir Handel?” Duncan snickered as he pulled into the station nearby.
“Not right now, Duncan,” Duke fixed him with a stern glare that had the Scot quieting immediately as he continued on his way. Then much softer to Sir Handel, “pull forward onto the track and have your fireman switch the points. It’s much more comfortable to stay in our berths that way.”
Sir Handel shook himself out of his daze and did as Duke told him, not a single complaint leaving his lips. Not even to tell Duke that he was being his usual bossy self. His fireman switched the points and he backed into the shed beside the older engine. He settled farther back than he usually did.
“We’ll go talk to Mr. Percival,” his fireman told him.
“And that should give you some time alone with Duke, Handel,” his driver gave him a soothing pat, “I hope you feel better.”
With both of their crews gone it was just the two of them in the sheds, though Sir Handel was in no hurry to start any kind of conversation. He knew what it would be about.
“So—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he cut in.
“Falcon,” Duke persisted.
“It’s Sir Handel,” a deep scowl settled onto his face.
“ Falcon .”
“...what?” He sighed, hating himself for how easily he gave in.
“It is not your fault,” Duke told him seriously.
“It is, it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Granpuff,” he huffed and averted his eyes, “I’m the one who went and got myself stuck on the bridge. That is my fault.”
“That is not what I meant, Falcon,” Duke let out a deep sigh, the kind that had his springs and plating alike shifting with a slow creak, “it…what happened to Stanley was not your fault. He brought that on himself, and even then, it was the Manager’s fault.” His voice lowered considerably at the mere mention of the Manager. “There was nothing you could have done. You are not to blame.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You don’t—you don’t understand,” the words cluttered out of his throat, desperate to make their escape, “it is my fault. It is. If I didn’t—if I weren’t such a bad sort of engine, the Manager wouldn’t have punished him. I should have been the one behind our sheds.”
“Don’t say that,” Duke retorted, “nobody deserved to be out behind the sheds. You are not a bad engine. ”
“I am, I am,” the edges of his vision watered with unshed tears, “Stanley was just trying to do something nice for me—to pay me back because I got the Manager mad at me the week before to keep him off of his wheels.”
“What are you talking about, Falcon?” Duke’s brows furrowed with concern.
“The day Stanley derailed, the day the Manager turned him into a pumping engine, he wasn’t slated to take those trucks,” the tears finally spilled over, rolling down his cheeks, “they were mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yes,” he swallowed thickly, “the Manager had finally started trusting me with the larger loads, I could take more trucks than before, but I was feeling right lazy that day, so I…I asked Stanley to take them for me.”
The memories were still clear as day in his head, as if it were only yesterday he was pleading with Stanley to take his trucks to the mine for him. Insisting that his fire wouldn’t light.
“But that…that daft American still wasn’t gauged properly,” he choked on something between a laugh and a sob, “the Manager never let him take that many trucks, so of course he derailed with my load, and he laughed it off like always.” He stared down at the floor of the shed, most of the stone blurring before him. “I didn’t think the Manager would—would do that. He’d never punished us so drastically.”
“That’s not your fault, Falcon,” Duke reasoned with him, “you couldn’t have possibly known the Manager was going to do that.”
“But it is my fault,” Sir Handel insisted, “I should have simply done my job.”
“The Manager would have done it regardless,” Duke pointed out gravely, “whether it was that day or the next week, he was already fed up with Stanley, and since he was never planning on regauging him, I’m afraid his fate was always dim.”
“That may be so, but…” he gritted his teeth, “it still feels like my fault, Granpuff. It always has. Stanley was my friend and I just let it all happen. I…I didn’t even talk to him after that day—tried not to look at him, not until you told Peter Sam the story. Then they took him down to the mines.”
His eyes were dry now.
“And he never came back.”
“Listen, Falcon,” Duke spoke fiercely, “it is not your fault. Perhaps you didn’t talk to him after the Manager turned him into a pumping engine, but who could fault you? That was a fate worse than scrapping. You were young and traumatized, and that railway was horrid. The Manager was horrid.”
Sir Handel stared at the ground.
“Look at me,” Duke demanded.
Slowly, very slowly, he dragged his gaze up. Duke’s eyes were filled with nothing but compassion.
“It is not your fault,” he repeated for the umpteenth time, “do you understand? It would never suit his grace to have you placing the blame on yourself nearly thirty years later. It has never been and never will be your fault.”
“It ain’t your fault.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Is that really all you have to say, you impertinent scallywag,” Duke snorted, but the warmth shone in his tone, “I need you to say it, Falcon. It is not your fault.”
“But—”
“Falcon,” Duke scolded.
“It’s not my fault,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” The older engine asked. There was a twinkle in his eye.
“It’s not my fault,” he repeated, louder this time.
“What?”
“It’s not my fault, Granpuff!” He shouted, becoming increasingly annoyed, “What are you? Hard of hearing?”
“What’s not your fault?” Duke’s smile wrinkled his eyes.
“I…” he hesitated.
“Hmmm?”
“Stanley’s death isn’t my fault,” he whispered.
“That’s right, Falcon,” Duke said approvingly, “and even if you truly do not believe it now, I’ll make you say it as many times as you need until the day that you do, and do trust me, I can keep you going for quite some time. Engines come and engines go…”
Sir Handel cracked a smile.
“But Granpuff goes on forever.”