It was, at first glance, a steam engine paradise. A place where they could always be safe and wanted and always always useful. 57646 knew this, knew how lucky he was to be there, but it didn't feel that way to him.
He also knew that he would, in a single beat of his iron heart, give all of that up if it meant being with his brother again. 57647, his twin, meant more to him than being safe or wanted or even useful ever would.
If the pain of losing his beloved brother was not so acute he might have noticed the, at first miniscule, fractures in the seemingly perfect, utopian world of the island. He might have noticed that, although they gave him a new number and even a proper name - for he hadn't had one before, that they had not repainted him fully, and, then, he might have wondered why.
But he did not, for he was too heartbroken, ridden with guilt and haunted by those he'd left behind to notice anything other than his own pain. For this reason, it was not until years later, the once barely noticeable fissures now splitting apart like stress fractures on the fuselage of an aircraft, that he did notice.
By then it was too late. The island was breaking apart, tearing at its seams and falling like rocks off turtle mountain. Engines, mostly steamers, were being sold off and scrapped left, right and centre in a desperate attempt to stay afloat and it was clear, now, that the island was falling from grace.
And Donald, because that was the name they gave him, was mad. Furious, in fact. The island railway, greedy, had taken him away without his permission, leaving his twin sentenced to scrap only to draw the torch on him too.
They had put him through hell for nothing and he hated them for it.
o0o
Meanwhile, many miles away in Scotland, 57647 had become very familiar with the leaky, rundown shed he'd been left in. He was lonely and miserable, his only comfort knowing that his brother was safe and wanted.
That, however, was about to change.
He'd been there for many months, sleeping most of the time away as engines left stationery for long periods tend to do. He'd been in the middle of a rather unpleasant dream about an island railway crumbling into the sea and his brother, stranded, calling desperately for help, when he was startled awake by the doors swinging open with a metallic groan. Two men stood silhouetted in the doorway as he blinked in the sudden brightness.
"647! Are ye alive in 'ere?!" It was the manager of the scrapyard.
"Aye sir." He replied, voice scratchy from disuse. "'Tis time, is it?"
The man chuckled. "'Tis ye're lucky day, 7, someone wants tae buy ye!"
His eyes widened. "R-really?"
"Aye." The second man spoke up. He was tall, with curly red hair and blue eyes, and he liked what he saw. The engine was stark black with six good sized wheels, a funnel that curved out elegantly at the top and an open cab. It wasn't too big or too small and was still in relatively good condition. It was perfect for his quiet little railway.
"Ye are juist what I need, auld boy. What do ye think o' living by the sea? There'll be goods and even some passengers for ye tae take."
He thought he was dreaming. "Aye. Aye, I couldnae say no, sir. When do we leave?"
The man chuckled. "Ye're eager, that's good. I juist have tae get the papers in order, and then I'll take ye there mahsel', how's that soond?"
57647 smiled. "Aye sir. I'll wait 'ere for ye."
The two men left then and a few minutes later a pair of workmen came in to do a safety check and light his fire. He sighed as the warmth spread through his boiler and by the time his new owner returned he was dozing peacefully. They set off soon after and he whistled joyfully as he eased out onto the line. If only his brother were here, he thought as he picked up speed.
The journey to the coast took them up the west highland line to Oban Bay, where he was loaded onto a ferry that, according to his new owner, was bound for some obscure Hebridean island.
"Sir?" He asked, for the man had joined him on deck some time into the trip. "Are there any other engines on yer island?"
"Ah." The man, sitting on his running board, replied. "I thought ye might ask aboot that. There is a narrow gauge steam engine who services a mine and a short line that meets wi' yers. He was destined for the island o' Sodor, but the order was cancelled so we took him instead. Ye'll see him often. He's called Duncan."
He smiled. "I havenae spoken tae anither engine in a verra long time. Is it juist the two o' us then?"
The man nodded. "Aye. 'Tis a wee railway on a wee island, ye ken. Nay need for verra many o' ye."
"O' course."
They fell into a comfortable silence then, enjoying the fresh salty breeze and clear sky. Eventually, the man spoke again.
"There is one other thing."
57647 looked over cautiously. "Aye?" He questioned carefully.
"Do ye have a name, auld boy?"
He was surprised. No human had ever asked such a thing of him before. "Nay sir. Only mah number, 57647."
The man frowned, clearly dissatisfied. "That wilnae do. Do ye have any ideas o' what ye'd like tae be called?"
He thought a moment. "Nay. It ne'er occurred tae me tae consider it 'afore and then when they were gang tae scrap me, I figured there wasnae a point anyway."
"May I give a suggestion, then?" The man asked, and he agreed. "What do ye think o' Douglas?"
The engine paused, rolling the name around in his mind. Douglas. He liked it, it felt right. Meant to be.
"Aye. Aye, I like that."
The man smiled. "Good."
o0o
As it was, Douglas was in for another shock. When they arrived on the island, he was unloaded by a small, rickety looking crane that groaned as it lifted him. It's arm strained and he watched nervously as he swayed in the air. But when he was finally set down on the rails, who should be awaiting him but his old crew?
"Driver?! Fireman?!" He gasped. "What are ye doing here?"
The two men chuckled as they came over to him. "Long time nay see, buddy."
Mr. Fraser came over as well. "I needed someone tae run ye, so I tracked them down 'afore I went tae see ye. Ye should ha' seen their faces, auld boy."
Douglas barely heard him. "Thank ye. Thank ye, sae much." He said, eyes watering. "Ye've saved mah life and foond mah crew. I couldnae ask for more." There was only one thing missing now.
His crew climbed aboard and they set off down the line. Douglas watched the world go by. The island was windswept and rocky, dotted with greenery and cattle, with a single railway line cutting across it. Arriving at the top station, he found a double berthed shed and a turntable. The standard gauge line ended and a narrow gauge one began, winding off into a shroud of trees.
A hoarse whistle sounded then and a little yellow well tank came trundling into view on the smaller line with a train of trucks.
That must be Duncan, thought Douglas. He whistled a greeting.
The smaller engine looked up. "Who's disturbing mah peace?" He snapped.
Douglas was taken aback. "My name is Douglas. I take it yer Duncan?"
"Och aye." Said Duncan. "Ye're the new engine. Keep yer mooth shut and do as yer told and we'll get along juist fine."
With that said, he shunted his trucks away and disappeared back up the line.
"Weel!" Douglas wheeshed. "How rude!"
"Never mind." Said his driver, as he backed into the shed. "I'm sure he'll no' be sae bad once ye get tae ken him."
Once he was parked his crew set about cleaning and polishing him and some workmen came to repair his neglected parts. Douglas sat contently as this went on and then he slept well in his new, blessedly dry, shed.
The next morning, his crew came early to light his fire and get him ready for the day. Soon, they set off. Their first order of business was a passenger service that ran to the other end of the island and back again. When he returned from that, it was to find Duncan sitting on the other side of the platform that separated their lines, looking cross.
"Ye're late!" He snapped, and jostled his pair of coaches. "I've been waiting for ages for mah passengers and there's slate that needs tae be taken." He said, eyeing a line of trucks nearby. "At least the lorries came on time! Cannae believe I've got tae wait for ye now. . ."
Douglas hissed steam and viewed the station clock. "I am no'! Ye're early!"
The two bickered as the passengers switched trains and then Duncan set off with a huff of steam. Douglas watched him go, unable to tell if he was stuck up or just plain grouchy.
Many years went by then and although they bickered at first, Douglas and Duncan became good friends. Each day, they would meet at the top station and Douglas would collect Duncan's goods from the mines and take them down to the harbor where they were shipped off the island. At some point, Douglas took on an old livery from the Caledonian Railway - royal blue with black and white lining and shiny brass window frames. Douglas quite liked it.
"Ach! Why do ye get new paint but I dinnae!" Duncan complained one day at the top station.
Douglas rolled his eyes. "Maybe if ye werenae sae rude, ye'd get some too."
Duncan wheeshed steam crossly. "I'm no' rude!"
"Aye, ye are. On mah auld railway yer kind o' nonsense wouldnae ha' been tolerated. We got our tenders bashed for it." Douglas explained. British Rails had been a dark place especially for the Scottish engines who had been forbidden to speak the old tongue they were built knowing, and it had only gotten worse after the diesels came.
"Aye?" Duncan replied. It was almost almost a sneer.
"Aye. speaking o' auld railways, can I ask ye something, Duncan?"
Duncan eyed him. "If it's aboot tender bashings, then no." He said quietly.
"It's no'." Douglas assured. "I was wondering - The manager said that ye were supposed tae go tae Sodor, but the order was canceled. Do ye ken why?"
Duncan shifted a bit. "Something aboot the money suddenly no' being there, I think. Maybe there was a wreck or something and they had tae do heavy repairs, I dinnae ken. Why?"
Douglas frowned. "Mah brother is there, ye see. I heard someone say that they were struggling, that things were starting tae fall apart and I was worried."
Duncan frowned too. "Huh. If Sodor fails, us steamers wilnae have a safe place tae go."
"We're safe here." Douglas pointed out. "I'm only worried aboot my brother. I miss him." He added, downcast.
Duncan watched a workman walk across the small yard. "For now. If this railway fails, Sodor would be our last chance, Douglas. We're a dying race."
"Och, I ken that fine." He agreed.
Douglas was happy there, running up and down the line day in and out. It was peaceful, quiet until summer, when the tourists came. He came to like taking the enthusiast trains and the humans loved to see him and take his picture.
Although he missed his brother, he reminded himself they were both safe and wanted. Sometimes though, that wasn't quite enough and he would sit, grief stricken, in his shed or cry out in his fitful sleep. If he wasn't careful, his whistle would sound mournful and he would slow to a sluggish crawl along the line, mind on his twin.
This was not helped by the rumors brought along with the tourists.
He was sitting at the station one afternoon, eyes trained on the ballast below him and thinking, fearfully, that his brother was no longer safe, when the manager walked up.
"Douglas." He said. "What's the matter, auld boy? I thought ye were happy here."
Douglas sighed. He trusted the man. "I assume ye've heard the rumours, sir? Aboot Sodor? That engines arenae safe there anymore?"
The man frowned. "Aye. But it's no' our concern, Douglas. Ye shouldnae worry yerself aboot it."
Douglas looked up, sad. "Due respect, sir, but 'tis my concern. Mah twin brother is there, ye see. He was sent there when I was shut up in the shed in '59."
The man's eyes widened. "Ye're twin brother? Ye mean tae say they seperated ye? Ye must miss him terribly . . ."
"Aye sir. I've always comforted mahsel' by reminding mahsel' that he was safe there, but now. . .folks are sayin' they're scrappin' and sellin' engines and - and cannibalizing them tae save others and I -" tears ran down his cheeks. "Sodor is supposed tae be this great place and I always thought I could depend on him being safe there but now. . ."
Mr. Fraser sighed. "I ken I'd probably be wasting my breath telling ye no' tae worry, Dougie, but if it makes ye feel any better, I dinnae ken if the rumors are true or no'. They could be completely false - something some tosser made up wi' no real thought o' the matter."
"Maybe." Said Douglas, but he didn't look convinced.
The man patted his buffer in comfort. "I'll tell ye what. I'll look intae it and see what I can find oot."
"Thank ye sir." Douglas replied. He paused. "Sir, if - please, dinnae ask after my brother directly, I couldnae bear it if - I dinnae want tae ken that. I only want tae ken if the rumors are true. I'll draw my own conclusions aboot 6."
The manager nodded. "Verra well, my engine. I understand that."
o0o
The rumors were, of course, true. In recent months, Donald had been relegated to the back of the now rundown Arlesburgh sheds. It had four berths - the second was occupied by Duck, who still went out now and then and the fourth had always been empty for as long as both Donald and Duck had been there. Donald knew it would have been his brother's. He tried not to look over there, to imagine his brother's ghost looking back. That was hard.
The third berth, though, belonged to Oliver. But Oliver was gone now, had been ruthlessly sacrificed so his parts could be used to repair Thomas, who had become priority in the heat of the island's downfall. Donald still felt a sting of betrayal at the thought. He had rescued Oliver from scrap and the act had helped to heal the jagged wound left behind by his twin's loss. Now, the very people who had torn him away from his brother had taken away his best friend too. And for what? To try and keep a dying beast alive?
Sodor was finished and Donald knew it. So did Duck. The island had been pristine once, with only the most necessary railway lines cutting across it and only a few engines to run them. Hell, when Donald had first arrived there had only been a little over a dozen engines on the whole of the island, including the Skarloey and Culdee Fell lines.
Now, the sprawling hills were crisscrossed by seemingly pointless tracks and there were more engines on the island than the whole of England could ever have any hope of knowing what to do with. Many people were moving away for the simple reason that the island was no longer the idyllic place it once was, leaving the maze of rail lines and facilities unmanned and the surplus of engines without crews.
It hadn't always been that way. Once, new engines would come because they were needed. Even Oliver, who's arrival hadn't been planned by anyone other than the engine himself, had come at a time when they had needed the help. Somewhere along the line though, that had changed. For every one job opening, two or three engines would arrive or sometimes engines would turn up when there were no job openings at all. Sometimes, temporary engines would become permanent even though they weren't needed and at some point there were more engines than trains that needed taking. Some of the engines were completely useless too, Donald thought, referring to the more recent additions. But then, perhaps, the most glaring problem of all was that engines seldom, if ever, left the island.
Come couldn't exist without go, thought Donald, in the same way that go couldn't exist without come. In other words, the island was bursting at its seams.
Donald knew what it all boiled down to. The Hatt family had a problem. It had started out innocently enough - they had wanted to save a dying race; the steam engines that the mainland no longer found useful. They had been commended for it, even as Donald had turned a blind eye and spat insults about them when he and the western engines were alone in the shed. He couldn't forgive them for his brother's loss and perhaps that was what had, after a while, allowed him to see what the others did not.
They were hoarding.
"Donald?"
Duck's voice broke through his thoughts and he looked over to where the pannier tank's form was shrouded in shadow.
"What are you thinking about?" The green engine went on. "Your thoughts are so loud I can almost hear them."
Donald made a sound that Duck considered a variant of what he had long ago dubbed 'Scottish noises'. "Och, ye know. Juist aboot how we're all fucked, thanks tae the Hatts."
Duck rolled his eyes. "That's not true, Donald. They've dug themselves a hole but they'll get out of it yet." He said hopefully. "You forget that they saved you."
Donald scoffed. "Och aye! Saved me fine, but didnae bat an eye for mah brother! I'd have rather died wi' him than be stuck here for all eternity!"
Duck frowned. "You know they didn't have enough money at the time to buy you both."
"But they had enough tae buy all those other wastes o' space." Donald muttered back.
"What, like me?" Duck snapped. "Gee, thanks Donald!"
"No Duck." Donald settled a bit. "No' ye. Ye're a good sort. I mean -"
"That good for nothing Billy?" Duck suggested cheekily.
"Aye! Or that wee prat Charlie. Or - or whiny red scrap iron!"
Duck raised an eyebrow. "You mean James?"
"Aye!" Donald affirmed. "He's too much o' a bairn tae e'en take a few trucks wi'oot complaining! My brother would ha' been more use here than any o' them ever were! Christ!" He went on. "If they e'er try tae cut me up tae save some useless idiot, I'll run mahsel' aff a cliff 'afore they can!"
"Well." Said Duck. "I can't blame you there."
Time went on then, as time always does. Somewhere out on the island, a little engine cried as his brother was cut up so his parts could be used to repair him. A big engine argued in vain as his express was handed over to a diesel and an old engine was sheeted and left in his shed for the last time. Two railways, one very small and the other very tall, were shut down. More people left the island, and Donald and Duck's shed sprung a leak in the roof.
"This is just great!" Duck said crossly as water dripped onto his boiler from above. "I'll rust!"
"Dinnae fash." Donald replied. "Ye can switch berths next time ye go out."
"If I go out again." Duck huffed.
They looked at the shed doors longingly.
"Aye." Donald said quietly. "If."
And then, something happened. One day, news came to the shed. Donald had been bought and was being sent back to Scotland with his crew. He didn't know how to feel about the matter. He'd been given another chance, but a part of him wished he'd just been scrapped and put out of his misery. He would be with his brother again then, on the rails in the sky.
But that was not the case, and soon the day arrived that he was to leave. His fire had been lit for the first time in a long while and the shed was warm and clammy with steam. He was ready to go.
"Well, auld boy, are ye ready?" His driver asked.
Donald responded simply. "Aye. Goodbye, Duck."
"Goodbye." Duck replied sadly. "Good luck, and travel safely."
Donald eased out of the shed towards the turntable. He paused just before his friend left his line of vision.
"I'm sorry I cannae take ye wi' me." He said regretfully.
"I'll be fine, Donald, I promise." Duck replied, but Donald could hear the fear in his voice.
"We both ken that's no' true."
Duck blinked back tears. So did Donald. "Even so. It was nice knowing you, Donald."
"Aye. And ye." Donald replied. "I couldnae ha' made it here wi'oot ye. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
With that, Donald steamed over the turntable and out of the yard, losing sight of Duck for the final time. A tear ran down his cheek and dripped onto his running board as he crossed the Vickerstown bridge, not for the island but for the last friend he had no choice but to leave behind.
Their journey took them north, to Glasgow. Luckily, they were able to hitch a ride up on the back of a friendly diesel's train so they weren't in danger of running out of coal. Donald grumbled about it of course, finding it embarrassing to be dragged around by a 'dirty' diesel like he was some invalid.
However, the diesel took no notice as they parted ways at the station.
"Have a good rest of your trip!" It called, as it rumbled off to find its next train.
Donald grumbled a half-hearted reply as his fireman stoked up his fire again.
Soon, they set off again, diverting onto the West Highland line. It took another few hours before they arrived in Oban, and then he was loaded onto a ship.
He had never been on a ship before, but he found it mesmerizing. It was a part of the world that he, as a railway engine, had only ever seen from the rails of seaside stations and harbors, and he couldn't stop staring. The water glistened like diamonds in the rare highland sun and the ocean was full of islands, hazy dark outlines scattered like shattered glass all up and down the coast. The sound of the waves against the hull of the boat lulled him and he slept for a while. He dreamt of thick fog and a whistle, deep-toned and familiar. He woke to a bump as the ship docked. Soon, he was unloaded via a rickety crane into a small dockyard. His crew came back to him then and fired him up as he looked curiously around. It was a small island, windswept and rocky, with a single railway line disappearing away from the docks.
"And ye must be Donald." A voice interrupted his inspection of his new surroundings.
He looked down and saw a tall man with red hair and blue eyes in front of him. "Aye, sir."
"Good. I am yer new manager." He said. "A bheil gàidhlig agad?"
Donald blinked in surprise. He hardly ever met a human who spoke Gaelic. It was, however, common among Scottish built engines, for some unknown reason. He hadn't used it since before Sodor and it felt so good to hear it again.
"Aye. I do."
The man looked pleased. "Glè mhath. Faìlte, Dòmhnall."
Donald smiled, despite himself. "Tapadh leibh."
The man continued in English. "Ye'll get on fine wi' my other engines then. Sometimes it seems their favorite pastime is speaking Gaelic just to annoy the workmen who dinnae understand it."
Donald smirked a bit. He had done that himself on Sodor in the early days, just to piss the clueless English workmen off. "Maybe I will. How many engines do ye have, sir?"
"There are two." He replied. "A narrow gauge industrial well tank called Duncan and a CR 652 called Douglas. The latter is at the top o' the line now. Ye can lea' when yer ready. I'm sure he'd like tae see ye."
But Donald suddenly felt cold to the boiler. He didn't recognize either of the names, but he missed how his new manager had said 'see' instead of 'meet' and he didn't want to have to share a shed with one of his other brothers - one who wasn't his twin.
"Aye, sir." He said, colder than he meant to.
They filled up on coal and water and left soon after that, up the singular line that cut across the island. However, when he reached the aforementioned top station, the only other engine in sight was a small one he presumed to be Duncan. Looking around, he spotted a double shed off to one side. One berth was closed, the other was open and empty. Noting that there wasn't really anywhere else for a standard-gauge engine to go, he figured Douglas must have been in the closed berth. He was about to head over there, however reluctantly, when Duncan interrupted him.
"Oi, newbie!"
Donald rolled his eyes and answered. "Aye?"
"Grab those trucks there - the full ones - and take 'em down tae the harbor!"
He sighed. "Oh, verra weel." He said, and set about getting turned around before backing down on the trucks in question. They were sitting beside a platform that separated them from a line of narrow gauge trucks from which they'd clearly just been loaded.
Soon, he was on his way back down the line with his trucks in tow. Privately, he decided he'd rather be working than sitting in a shed anyway. He'd been doing far too much of that lately.
So, then, he spent the rest of the afternoon running up and down the line, apparently filling in for Douglas, who was mysteriously absent. It was a while in, before he realized he was enjoying himself. The island was peaceful, unlike the constant bustle of Sodor before things had taken a turn, and it reminded him a bit of Harwick - that distant, windswept village in the north, where the NWR officially ended. It was all rocky cliffs and deep water and a small harbour that sat below the town itself.
Maybe he could be okay here, he thought.
This idea dissipated as soon as he pulled, whistling, into the next station. His coaches slid easily to a stop behind him and people went about getting in and out. He waited.
"Daddy, look!" A small child exclaimed somewhere nearby. "Douglas has new paint!"
Donald followed the sound of the voice with his eyes and spotted a father/son duo looking back.
"So he does." The father replied. "Pity, I quite liked the blue."
They walked over to him then and the father spoke. "Fresh paint, eh Douglas? I heard there was a new engine arriving today. Have ye met it yet?"
Donald glanced away awkwardly and then looked back. "Och, uh, actually sir, I-I am the new engine. My name is Donald."
The man stared at him for a moment and then laughed. "That's a good one, Douglas. Ye and Duncan come up wi' that?"
"No." Said Donald, blinking confusedly back.
The man just chuckled as he walked away, leaving Donald's boiler feeling cold as he pulled away. He hadn't been mistaken for another engine since before Sodor. Before - but no. His twin was dead, scrapped. This mysterious other engine couldn't be him. It must have just been that the two of them were of the same class that had led to him being mistaken. Nothing more. He would not hope for something that could not be.
o0o
Meanwhile, Douglas was dozing peacefully in his shed. It was his day off, or rather, his crew's day off and by extension his. Generally, when Douglas wasn't running the bus would manage the passengers, but on this day there was rather more activity going on at the train station than usual. Douglas knew this must have been because the new engine was arriving that day - or so he'd been told.
Setting that line of thought aside for later consideration, he dozed again. But this time he was disturbed, fitful dreams of an island shrouded in fog and the deep wail of a familiar whistle.
He woke with a start, inadvertently bumping against the buffers behind him. The whistle came again, though by now he was wide awake. He could hear puffing sounds and two engine-voices conversing. One was Duncan's distinct burr, the other was also familiar, but in a way that nothing else ever could be.
It cannae be. Sodor. . .
He looked frantically out the open door of the neighboring berth, but could not see the station from that vantage - only the rocky, green hills of the island. His own door was shut, as it had been raining earlier and so he could do nothing but sit, mind racing.
o0o
The last run of the day was a goods train from Duncan's mine due at the docks. After that, he was able to run light-engine back up the line to the shed.
He chewed his lip anxiously as he went. He didn't want to meet this other engine, this other brother of his. He could scarcely bear the idea of having to share a shed with a brother that wasn't his twin.
He whistled absently through the station second to top, mind flicking through vague memories of his beloved lost twin. The top station was in sight then, and there was a sudden shuffling in his cab. He could hear his crew whispering to each other in the Gàidhlig - a language they had actually learnt from him - too low for him to make out the words.
Instead, he focused ahead. The station was empty save for a few straggling workmen and Duncan, knowhere in sight, must have vacated as well, in favor of his own shed. Speaking of sheds, his eyes glided over to his from the station. The door which had been closed previously was open now and -
He froze, his wheels skidding as he slammed on his brakes of his own accord. Screeching to a halt, he stood still before the station, black eyes wide and face white as if he'd seen a ghost. The engine in the shed looked back, wide, wet eyes glinting in the glow of the spotlight shining above him.
They stood frozen for several minutes, Donald trembling as tears coursed down his cheeks. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to move himself, his driver eased open the regulator again and drove him over to the turntable in front of the shed. Donald let him, his mind in a haze of disbelief and heartbreak.
He was seeing a ghost surely, or dreaming or -
"Six."
The voice sent tremors through his frames and he sobbed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. "Ye're no' really here. I-I'm dreaming. Ye were scrapped, now no' but a ghost haunting me."
The other engine - it wasn't seven, it couldn't be seven - moved forward as much as he could with no steam. "I was saved, a bhràthair. Bought and brought here, tae this wee island."
Donald refused to believe. "No, nay, I've had this dream 'afore. I'll wake up and ye'll be gone -"
The other engine chuckled. "I'm no' going anywhere, six. And sure as hell no' now that ye're here." He said and rolled forward so their buffers touched.
Donald sobbed. "It's really ye, then? Here and living?"
"Aye. I was so worried when I heard what was happening on Sodor. Manager saw I was upset aboot something and asked. I tellt him, but I didnae think he'd do this." Douglas explained.
"Aye." Donald echoed. "He must really like ye if he was willing tae buy me and bring me tae this wee island. There's hardly room for one engine here, let alone two."
Douglas laughed as Donald backed into the empty berth beside him. "There's more tae do here than ye might think tae look at it. Manager said the line used tae run all the way up to a harbor on the north coast. The whole thing was completely shut down for years before I came here - the war, I think, did it in. Manager reopened it and he wants to reopen the rest someday too. If he does that, we'll both be set and Duncan as well."
Donald looked skeptical though. "Aye, sae long as he doesnae replace us wi' diesels."
"Och, ye dinnae have tae worry aboot that, six." Douglas assured. "He's a staunch preservationist and this line is an official heritage railway. We're safe here."
That, then, was all Donald needed to hear. He broke down in tears again with the relief of it and didn't settle until after his crew had quietly slipped away. It was sometime before either of them spoke again.
"He said - he called ye Douglas. He gave ye a name?" Donald asked, moving onto a new, less emotional subject.
Douglas looked over at him with a smile. "Aye, he did, and ye can have one too."
His brother smiled back. "I have a name. They gave me one on Sodor. 'Tis Donald."
Douglas raised an eyebrow. "They match. That's a wee bit strange, considering."
"Donald and Douglas. Aye, they do. That's fitting, us being twins an' all." Donald agreed.
Donald and Douglas lived happily then, reunited as they were on the small island railway. Donald was eventually repainted into Caledonian lined blue to match his brother and he occasionally thought of Duck, wondering whether he'd lived or died. Was he still on Sodor, shut up in the shed they'd shared, left to rot with it? Or had he been scrapped? Donald hoped he'd been sold and was safe on a heritage railway somewhere, but he knew that was wishful thinking.
Not all engines could be saved.
Donald didn't want to remember Sodor, those years spent believing his twin brother dead and trapped unwillingly on a railway run by a man who could never have enough. He couldn't help but remember it though, couldn't help but remember Duck and Oliver, and when he thought of them, he couldn't help but shed tears for them. They were the only ones there who he'd divulged more than just his name and number to, the only ones who knew about Douglas. They had made his life there bearable and reminded him, when he wanted nothing more to do with living, that oughtn't he make the most of his life, for Douglas? For every other engine who'd been lost to the scrappers?
Now, Douglas was alive and safe against the odds and it was Duck and Oliver who were gone.
Donald remembered their words to him then, and put them to good use. He pulled his trains to the best of his ability, doing his part well to keep the railway in good working order. When the northern branch was reopened, he took it over and ran it like clockwork. The little island railway prospered and its engines thrived with it.
