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sourcreammachine · 3 months

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this is fucking deranged

this is baso one train interchange why does it look like this

[ID: extract from National Rail's supplement to the london tube map, with commuter rail lines as well as the tube. this extract shows that map's depiction of the king's cross st pancras and euston area, large rail interchanges extremely close to each other that together become the busiest heavy rail terminus in the uk. both euston and KCSP, and the nearby farringdon, are depicted as an 'internal interchange', which means there are platforms connected by tunnels, as opposed to a regular interchange with multiple entrances on the surface. internals are depicted as circles connected solid bars, while externals are simply one circle. euston and farringdon have two connected circles, while KCSP has six. euston is also connected via a dashed line to ‘euston square’, indicating the two stations are less than ten minutes apart and foot traffic is encouraged (‘square’ is actually literally just outside the entrance of euston). the western lobe of euston is depicted as the terminus of the Lioness Line (orange) and the northwestern railway (lime with bars), which emerge from the station going northwest, depicted as being attached to each other. passing through this lobe is the western branch of the Northern Line (black). the eastern lobe of euston depicts the other branch of the Northern Line, coming from the north but turning east at euston to travel to KCSP, intersecting with the Victoria Line (azure), coming from the southeast before also turning east at euston to run parallel to the Northern Line towards KCSP, though with a gap between the two. no rail termini emerge from the western lobe of euston. the next stop on the western branch of the Northern Line after (western) euston is warren street, which also is the next stop for the Victoria Line after eastern euston, creating a right-angle triangle with the Victoria, western Northern, and the euston internal interchange. to western euston’s southwest via the ten-minute walk dashed line is euston square, which is an interchange for three tube lines, the Hammersmith City (salmon), the Circle (yellow), and the Metropolitan (dark magenta) all of which run next to each other horizontally. the three lines cross the northern-victoria-euston triangle without stopping at euston itself, towards KCSP.

KCSP is an intimidating Y shape of six lobes - three in a vertical line, then two emerging on the northwest spoke and one on the northeast. despite the name of this underground station, drawn as the internal interchange, being ‘king’s cross st pancras’, the giant Y is actually not labelled this at all - the western fork hovers near the label ‘st pancras international’ while the eastern hovers near ‘king’s cross’, and the southern fork remains unlabelled. the southernmost lobe of KCSP is for the glued-together Hammersmith, Circle and Metropolitan from euston square (not euston proper), after which the lines turn southeast to farringdon. this lobe also is for the Piccadilly line (navy), which comes from the northeast before turning south - the only Piccadilly stop in the KCSP-euston area. the middle of the three vertical lobes is for the Northern, travelling east from euston - and nothing else. the northernmost of the vertical lobes is for the Victoria - and absolutely nothing else. the Victoria crosses the Northern at euston whilst travelling diagonally, but then deliberately creates itself a gap before turning horizontal, to reach a separate lobe from the Northern due to KCSP being an internal interchange. both the Northern and Victoria politely duck under the Piccadilly after KCSP. from the Victoria lobe emerges the two spokes for king’s cross and st pancras international. King’s Cross is the terminus of the Great Northern (golden-brown, bars) and a branch of the Thameslink (maroon, bars), both heading north but separated by a tiny gap from each other. the first of the two lobes for SPI is the terminus for HS1 (blue, bars of yellow), which is absolutely not a commuter line - it goes to bloody Paris. this lobe is also bisected by a different branch of the Thameslink, going vertically, after which it sails over the Victoria, Northern and the triple glued-together lines, immediately after which it turns southeast, over the Piccadilly to farringdon. HS1 and this Thameslink out of SPI are once again separated by a tiny gap. the western lobe of SPI is the terminus of the EMR (cyan, bars), which emerges due north. the gap between the EMR and Thameslink is almost imperceptibly larger than the gap between Thameslink and HS1. after the lowest lobe of KCSP with which they intersect the Piccadilly, the triple lines (Hammer., Circle, Metro.) turn southeast to the northeasternmost of farringdon’s two lobes, with which they intersect nothing. this lobe is connected via an internal interchange to another, which is where it intersects the Thameslink coming from SPI, but also the Elizabeth Line (violet)/end ID]

#196 #london #tube map

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slvt4em1lyprenti2s · 11 months

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Captain Bishop

Originally posted on my Wattpad @MayaBishop_is_myWife

Relationship: Maya Bishop x fem!reader Fluff

Word count: 2.6k

Y/N POV: I feel my nerves going wild as I walk through the doors of Station 19. I used to work at Station 10 but, I got offered a position here for what reason i'm still unsure but, who says no to a job at the 19? I am really excited because I've heard so many stories about these guys and they're basically famous in the firefighter world.

I look around for a second before seeing someone walking my way. Andy - "Hey can I help you?" she said with a warm smile. Y/N - "Yeah, un I'm your transfer from Station 10." Andy - "Oh yeah y/l/n (your last name) right?" Y/N - "Yeah that's me." Andy - "Okay great, uhm I'll go get Captain Bishop to give you the run down." Y/N - "Okay thank you." Andy - "Oh, I'm Andrea Herrera by the way, but call me Andy." She extended her hand for me to shake and I took it. Y/N - "Okay Andy." She gave me a smile and turned towards a door that I assume leads to the Captain's office, considering it had 'Captain Bishop' plastered across the front I would think I'm right, and she knocked on the door opened it and said Andy - "Hey Bishop the new girl's here" Maya - "Send her in."

I walk in and sitting behind the desk is probably the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen, and I've seen many in my time. Her piercing blue eyes stared at me her beautiful blonde hair slicked back into a ponytail and a smile on her lips, wow. I sit down on one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk and wait for her to say something. She speaks up as soon as I sit down. Maya - "Hey, so I'm Captain Maya Bishop, I don't really care if you call me Maya, or Bishop or Captain, like I really don't care but there are a few ground rules here so.." She explains all the rules about the Station like not taking other people things, or food out of the fridge for that matter, or when you're on Aid Car you don't go on calls no matter how big, you stay on your task, and most of all don't be rude or cruel to the others. She told me they're like family and family have each others back which I though was really sweet. Maya - "So now that that's over and done with, let's give you a tour of the place."

She began to lead me round the Station, showed me the locker area, changing rooms, inventory rooms, bedroom type things and so on.

The last place of the list was the beanery because that's when I'd meet everyone. We walked in while the team were eating their breakfast and chatting amongst themselves. Maya - "And this is the beanery the best place in the Station in my opinion." The crew chuckled and murmured in agreement with her before realising she was giving me a tour. Jack - "Oh hey, you're the transfer from 10 aren't you?" Y/N - "Yeah I am, I'm y/n y/l/n by the way." Jack - "Jack Gibson." Vic - "Victoria Hughes, but everyone calls me vic." Travis - "Travis Montgomery." Dean - "Dean Miller." Andy - "I already told you my name so don't expect another introduction." Everyone laughed at her antics and then invited me and Maya to sit down.

The first minute was awkward but after the ice broke a bit it felt like we'd all been friends our entire lives. I sat next to Maya and to say I was a little nervous would be a massive understatement. I mean, who wouldn't be nervous, she's literally perfect but, she's my captain, she's Captain Bishop and I can't have feeling like that towards my Captain so I just tried to push those thoughts to the back of my mind while we were talking with everyone which surprisingly worked.

Time skip

By this point we were all just doing mind numbing chores like checking the hoses and stocking the rigs when the klaxon rang out. Klaxon - "Aid Car 19 respond, Apartment fire Maine Street" We all rushed to get our gear on and got in the trucks. Andy was driving, I was in the back and Maya was in the front with Andy. Me and Maya had to stick together today because I'm new and she's the Captain or something like that. I didn't really understand I mean it's not like I'm a rookie I just transferred but whatever, I get to spend the entire shift with Maya, I'm not complaining. Andy slows down and comes to a stop outside a 5 story apartment building with a raging fire on the 3rd floor that was ripping its way through the building. Maya - "Okay people listen up! Herrera, Gibson go get the hoses set up and ready for use, Montgomery, Miller, Hughes start evac in the building get everyone out of there!" She was so hot when giving orders. Oh my god. I've got to stop thinking like that. Maya - "y/l/n, you're with me. We're doing a sweep of the building, look for structural damage that could cause harm or poses a threat to our team or possible vics inside and close any and every fire door in that place to help get this beast under control you got it?" Y/N - "Got it Captain." Maya - "Good, okay come on people let's roll." She yelled that last part out to everyone.

We put on our masks and hooked up our oxygen tanks and set off into the building, the first floor was completely untouched by the fire and only a very small amount of smoke was coming through the vents and a lot of people were already waiting there for evacuation. The same can't be said for the second floor though. The fire had already ripped through the walls and smoke was heavy. It was really fast spreading too, we were dealing with a big one.

As we are making our way through I hear a creaking noise and head to check it out, the fire has spread to the support beams, the building is officially extremely unstable. I radio in my findings and tell Maya. Maya - "Okay, damn. We're gunna have to work a lot quicker than what we though. I've swept the whole of my side are you done?" Y/N - "Yep, no vics and fire doors are closed." Maya - "Okay good, we're heading up onto the floor that the fire started on so please be careful while we're up there okay?" Y/N - "I will be, same goes for you okay?" Maya - "Yeah don't worry your pretty little head about me." I chuckled and followed behind her as we walked to the stairwell. She had an unfamiliar softness in her tone when she told me to be careful, it wasn't the kind of careful you'd say to anyone or in like a 'you're my friend so I care about you' way, I don't know it was just different. But, I need to put that aside because we have bigger problems right now.

As soon as we open the door to the 3rd floor a wave of heat washes over us, making the pair of us step back a bit. Maya - "Wow, you got your fire extinguisher?" Y/N - "Yep, you got yours?" Maya - "Yeah, don't be shy to use it okay? This is a big one and I don't want you getting injured." Y/N - "Same goes for you Maya, don't try to be a hero, put yourself first." She smiled before walking in and telling me to take the right side and she'll take the left.

It had been about 20 minutes since we parted ways and I had just shut the last door and finished my sweep. I looked around and there was no sign of Maya anywhere. Over radio - Y/N - "Captain you there?" ~ static Y/N - "Captain Bishop?" ~ static Y/N - "Maya, I need an update." ~ static

Shit. I quickly switch channels and say I'm not getting a response from Maya so I'm going to look for her. Over radio - Jack - "Do not go in there alone, wait for backup. That's an order from your lieutenant y/l/n." Y/N - "Gibson! I need to go in it's been over 20 minutes since we split off to sweep so who knows how long she's been down," I say in anger, "I'm going on whether you like it or not." Jack - "Hey! Y/l/n don't you da-"

I switched back to the channel me and Maya were using and tried radioing her again. Still no response. I begin to trace her steps looking at hallways with closed fire doors, which she's obviously not down because she'd close the doors as she comes out so she doesn't block herself in, and finally I see one that's completely open all the way down apart from one, right at the end of the corridor.

As I make my way down I hear that dreaded beep. It was Maya's PASS device. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I quietly mumble to myself as I pick up the pace and follow the sound.

I come to a room and see a collapsed, actually I don't even know what that is but Maya's under it so right now it doesn't matter what it is. I manoeuvre around it and pull up one side that snaps off and i throw it in the other direction. I pull up piece after piece until I finally see her red hard hat sticking out. I don't exactly know what came over me, probably adrenaline but after seeing that I placed my hands under that slab and lift it off her in one big motion.

I immediately crouch down and check her pulse, stable and strong. Good. As I'm doing this a piece of wall collapses right next to us. So that's what it was. Because of this Maya begins to stir as I try to give her my oxygen mask. Maya - "What happened- hey no no no, you need that." Y/N - "and? so do you, you were crushed by a wall." As I said this another massive flame went up opposite us. Maya - "Y/n listen to me, leave me here, get out now." Y/N - "No way, I'm not leaving you behind, nothing you can say will make me change my mind." Maya - "Y/n pleas-" I cut her off before she can say anything else by licking her up bridal style and I begin walking out of the building. At that point back up had arrived and we're just arriving on the 3rd floor as I was carrying Maya out. Jack - "I told you not to go in alone!" Y/N - "Yeah well, when your Captain's PASS device is going off and she's being crushed by a wall in a burning building, there isn't really any time to wait for back up Gibson." He sighs and agrees as we walk out. Andy and Jack had handed off the hoses to Vic and Travis and Dean was helping patch people up so, they finished our sweep while I carried Maya out the building.

As soon as we got outside I took her mask of so she could breath and then took off my own. I walked over to the rig and set her down on a stretcher. She had slipped unconscious again at this point. I put the oxygen mask over her and checked her vitals. Dean - "Hey, what happened? I heard some commotion on the radio." Y/N - "A wall collapsed on her so I had to get her out but so far from what I can tell from the work up she has no crush injury's and her vitals are stable so she would be just fine." Dean - "That's good, and thank you for saving her y/n. Means a lot and, is a very good first impression." I chuckle and say no problem. My attention is them drawn back to the stunning blonde woman i front of me as she begins to stir. Maya - "Hey, what happened? Am I okay? I mean I'm not in any pain so I assume I'm okay." Y/N - "Yeah surprisingly you're completely fine, you must be the chosen one or something because when most people have a wall collapse on them they sustain some form of crush injury's but you? None." Maya - "It's because I'm just so awesome and intimidating that the wall was too scared to hurt me." Y/N - "Oh really?" Maya - "Yeah, mhm." I started giggling at her antics "What? You don't think I'm intimidating?" Y/N - "Well... I mean, a smile like yours doesn't exactly scream 'I'm scary be afraid of me!' to be completely honest with you." Maya - "What's that supposed to mean? You think I've got a nice smile? Because if so then I think your smile is stunning just for the record" Y/N - "I think you've got a beautiful smile. I think you're beautiful." Her cheeks turned a light shade of pink with this comment and she looked down. Maya - "Thanks, oh and thanks for saving my life as well." Y/N - "All in a days work." Maya - "Oh my god that is so corny!" I laugh at her comment and her smile just widens at me. Maya - "What can I do to repay you?" Y/N - "Now you sound corny, but in all honesty, you don't have to give me anything. It's not like I was just gunna leave you." Maya - "I know what I can do." Y/N - "Oh yeah, and what's that gunna be?" I ask teasingly. She grabs my hand and gets off the stretcher and drags me into the rig. Maya - "Come closer." I take a step closer to her and her other and finds it's way to my hips while the other still clutches my hand. She's a few center meters taller than me so I have to look up at her, her shining blue eyes that are usually so hard to read are now filled with love and care. I blush and look down. She brings a finger to my chin and makes me look up at her. Maya - "Hey, don't look away. Then I won't get to see your pretty face and, I won't get to give you your payment." Y/N - "Which is?" I ask completely clueless as to what's about to happen. She takes one look at me and her eyes flick down to my lips before she leans in. I was shocked at first and didn't respond but after snapping back to reality I kissed her back. Our mouths glided against each other as if we'd done it a million times before. Her soft lips felt like heaven on mine. She ran her tongue across my bottom lip asking for access with I happily granted. My hand made its way up into her hair as her hand that was on my hips gravitated towards my waist. I pulled away to catch my breath. Y/N - "You know that was probably the best payment ever." Maya - "Really? Well you'll love the next part back at my house tonight, and tomorrow night at Joe's when I take you out." Y/N - "Oh really?" Maya - "Yep, so what do you say?" She seemed nervous. I made the Maya Bishop nervous? Wow. Y/N - "I would love to, especially the first part." She laughed and gave me a peck on the lips and let go of me. Maya - "I'll see you after the shift then." I said bye and watched her leave to go help patch up some vics.

How had I gotten so lucky?

#maya bishop #maya bishop x reader #station 19 #wlw #wlw fanfic #lesbian #lesbian pride

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fizzycherrycola · 2 years

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UK Brothers, 1900s

Summary: The UK brothers attend Queen Victoria's funeral. Ireland is upset. Scotland is bored. Wales is eating biscuits. And England is being a royal pain in the ass.

Biscuits and Black Parades

Windsor, UK; 2 February 1901

Long fingernails of ice cling to brick, matte and colourless in the overcast daylight. A thin mist of snow alights upon dark, frozen umbrellas and silky top hats. Cold and damp, the air nips insistently at Wales’ ears and he shivers. He shakes his arms, making the frost fall from his greatcoat, impervious to the aura of death and solemnity that, like the shrouds of the snivelling women who today line cobblestone streets, does drape over Windsor’s train station.

Slipping his hand into one of many pockets, his fingers wiggle about, then clasp around paper wrap. He smiles. Pulling the small bundle out, he tears open the package without so much as glancing at the label.

Scotland raises one of his great, shaggy brows. “A biscuit?” he asks. “Where’d you get that?”

“From a bakery in London,” Wales says, gazing at the confection’s fancy crucifix design. “Shop windows were piled with them; you should’ve seen it! Loads of different flavours, too.”

With a crunch, he bites into it, rolling his tongue along the golden-brown edge to avoid spilling crumbs on his ceremonial outfit. It’s a lovely flavour, pungent ginger with a dash of cinnamon, causing his toes to curl. The treat is almost enough to help him forget today’s awful weather.

Ireland nudges him. “Is that a mourning biscuit?”

“Mmm!” Wales nods, mumbling around his mouthful of food. “It is! Would you like one? I’ve got more.” He taps his weighty pocket, which rustles. Naturally, he has several treats stashed in preparation for the long day.

Ireland frowns. “I'm not sin-eating for a Famine Queen.”

Wales deflates. “That’s not fair. It’s only sin-eating if you eat it over her open coffin.”

“No, it’s.... Isn’t it if she’s within spitting distance?”

“But she’s not even that,” Scotland mumbles, nodding at Queen Victoria’s casket.

Slowly, the dark box comes off the train’s platform, obscured by wrought iron fencing and a multitude of onlookers. Ghostly clouds of engine steam linger among the pallbearers – who are equerries, rather than dukes – and they utter not a word while performing their task. All eyes are affixed to the casket, all hands treating it with reverence as it is readied for the final cortege to Windsor castle.

Ireland hums. “Not spitting distance for you, maybe, but if that wind picks up again, I'd probably be able-”

“Shh!!” England hisses, pivoting to glare at his siblings, but making no move to abandon his spot in the procession. “For God’s sakes, will you lot be quiet?”

The trio grumbles. With his soles throbbing in protest, Wales shuffles and is reminded of how relentlessly rigid his dress boots are.

“Feck off,” Ireland moans. “We’ve been on our feet all day in this damn cold.”

England sputters. “All day? It’s only been a few hours!” His eyes flick to Wales, and then narrow. “...Are you eating?”

As if it would help, Wales hides the biscuit behind his back. “Well, it’s already afternoon and I haven’t had luncheon. Figured we were allowed a bite to eat in-between processions. Besides, Her Late Majesty’s not attached to the carriage yet.”

Ireland grins, a picture of mischief. “Aye, that’s military code. Procession can’t begin until the deceased is on the gun carriage.”

“And I’m starving,” Wales pleads.

“You wouldn’t want him collapsing on route to the chapel.”

“Yes, and... well, I don’t think I’d collapse, but-”

“It’d embarrass the whole empire,” Ireland continues. “Just imagine what they’d write in the papers. ‘Great scandal befalls Queen’s funeral! Starving senior officer faints in the parade. Inquiry launched into military’s unprofessional conduct.’ Come on, England, you need to be serious about this sort of thing.”

England pinches the bridge of his nose and curses under his breath.

Weighed down, with the horsehair plume of his helmet shielding his face, he looks strained; and not unexpectedly so. Wales nibbles his lip. The effort his youngest brother put towards this funerary affair was nothing short of extraordinary, as from the hour of Victoria’s passing, the monarchy was frantic. A military funeral for a sovereign was simply not the thing to do, and yet, it was Her Late Majesty’s final request. England ran meetings with army officers, city representatives, and heaven-knows who else, funnelling crucial resources in a matter of days.

It was a race against time to get everything in order before the body... decayed.

With a deep inhale, England draws himself up. “Could you at least try to show some bloody respect? Christ, look at Australia – even he’s being civil. We’re almost at the chapel, and after the ceremony, you can bugger off and do whatever you’d like. But until then, keep quiet!”

He turns away with a huff, back as straight as the Royal Standard flagpole over Buckingham itself.

When Wales is sure that a quarrel is not about to begin in the middle of the street, he risks a glance at his other two siblings. To his right, Scotland yawns. Thankfully.

But, to his left, Ireland is quiet. Rooted within his matching uniform, a defiant lock of carrot hair pokes out the front of his Albert helmet. The metal chin strap looks too tight.

Wales gnaws the inside of his cheek. “...Ireland?” he whispers.

“What?” Ireland asks.

Wales fiddles with the last bite of his snack. “I meant what I said about the biscuits. I’m not helping the Queen get to heaven; I was just hungry.”

Emerald eyes study him for a moment, before Ireland sighs and the ice water tension trickles out of his shoulders. Small wrinkles trace the corners of his lips – the sort that only appear on stressful days.

“Never mind,” he murmurs. “What flavours have you got?”

Wales blinks. “Oh. I think I’ve got shortbread, buttermilk, almond....”

“Pass the buttermilk one.”

Riffling through his pocket, Wales finds the treat and gives it to his brother, and the moment it leaves his hand, his heart is already lighter. Taking it, Ireland opens the paper to reveal an eerie skull imprinted on the biscuit and a card, no larger than a finger, that is tucked in amongst the wrapping. His mouth twists into a wry smile.

“This one has a poem slip,” he remarks.

“What does it say?” Wales whispers.

Ireland clears his throat.

“Thee we adore, eternal Name, And humbly own to thee, How feeble is our mortal frame. What dying worms we be.

Our wasting lives grow shorter still As days and months increase; And every beating pulse we tell, Leaves but the number to be leased.

The year rolls round and steals away, The breath that first it gave; Whate’er we do, whate’er we be, We’re travelling to the grave.”

With an audible gulp, Wales finishes his own biscuit. “Oh, that’s an omen.”

Scotland snorts. “It’s not an omen. They print that poetry shite on half the wrappers; it doesn’t mean a thing.”

“He’s right,” Ireland mutters. “It’s just a reminder, warning humans that everything ends eventually. Lives, families....” He drifts off, eyes glazing for a second or two – and Wales nearly ejects something stupid, like ‘What’s the matter?’ but catches himself – before the whole biscuit is popped in Ireland’s mouth and vanishes.

In the awkward silence, Wales scratches his chin. “It could still be an omen....”

“Don’t start,” Scotland nags.

“Psst!” comes a voice behind them. Turning, Wales sees Australia standing about two metres back with the other colonies. With his wild hair and bright smile, the stuffy, high-necked uniform wholly mismatches his energy. “Can I have a bikkie?”

Wales squints. “A... what?”

“He means a biscuit,” Ireland adds.

“Oh, of course!” Fumbling for the first package he can grab, Wales attempts to pass it to Australia, careful not to move from his place in the unmoving procession.

Beaming, Australia stretches quite awkwardly, as he also refrains from stepping out of position. Wobbling like high-rope gymnasts in a circus, they reach, and Australia’s gloved fingertips are so close, grazing the paper wrap, but then his eyes go wide, and he immediately snaps away, straightening with both arms at his sides. Wales balks. Until goosebumps rise on his neck, and he turns, and England is glaring hot daggers at Australia.

He sniffs. Then, returns to face the front.

Sighing, Wales buries the confection in his pocket and browses the somber scenery for a distraction. It’s the only apt way to fritter time, between the marching and waiting that has swallowed his day.

On their parade through London, they were surrounded by an endless stream of black-clad civilians, much as they are now. Some wept, but most seemed there to merely gawk at the pomp of the whole thing. And who could blame them? The public showing, the decorated horses, the military marching, the trumpets, the gun carriage – all of it is spectacular, designed for spectacle. Past royal funerals were performed quietly. With this display, one may think a monarch had never died before.

The ceremony is not so terrible, though. In fact, when Wales saw the bakeries yesterday, overflowing with gloomy gifts, he chuckled. The occult and superstition are as close as he can get to the old days, when magic beautifully intertwined with history and science. Faint memories of ancient kings who went to their barrow tombs covered in gold and ensured the doorways aligned with the equinox and the stars. Truly, this funeral is a big, macabre celebration of death, as much as it was long ago.

But, for the sake of his family... Perhaps a quiet funeral would have been better after all.

“Why pick white horses?” Scotland mutters. “And bad-tempered ones at that.”

Wales snaps out of his daydreaming. “Horses?”

Scotland points ahead of them. “The ones pulling the gun carriage.”

Eight pale horses are adorned with elaborate gear; fine ostrich feathers, polished collars, and embroidered capes. Their heads hang low, their ears lie flat, and their heavy hooves stomp the frigid earth. “If they wanted cream ponies, they could have got some with better tempers.”

“You’re right,” Wales whispers. “What do you think has them so upset?”

Scotland crosses his arms. “It must be this fucking dreich weather. That, and I’m guessing they’re a luxury type; picked for their prettiness and not much for hard labour.”

Muttering under his breath, Ireland leans closer. “Almost as cunty as the Sassenach himself.”

Scotland grins. “You’re going to catch it.”

“Can’t help myself; not today.”

“...I know.”

“...Where we going after this?”

“Hmm. There’s a pub down Park Street that’s only half-shite....”

Their muted conversation goes on, but melts into the background as a familiar sensation directs Wales’ focus to the animals. The air crackles, ominous and still, as it does before lightening, and a shiver runs up his spine. Something is wrong.

Draped in its white pall, the coffin is at last on the carriage, and all guardsmen, dozens in front and behind, stand ready. An officer calls out for the procession to start, voice booming in the station square, but the horses don’t budge. They resist, as men tap the reigns, insisting they move.

A clink, a clatter. Then, a soldier produces a whip, raising it in the air. Wales’ stomach drops.

Leather strikes with a smack.

The horse squeals. Rearing, its front legs kick wildly. Wood snaps and splinters. And the leading horses bolt, knocking their masters to the ground. Chaos erupts.

Men are shouting. The other horses thrash, whinnying and bucking. Metal clangs to the ground and restraints slip loose. Guardsmen surround them, a mass of outstretched hands grasping at harnesses and horsehair. The carriage jostles. The coffin slips.

“Look out!”

It falls...

...slamming into a gaggle of noblemen, who catch it and buckle under its weight.

The animals dash, dodging infantry. Free beasts, they skirt the edges of the crowd. Two or three trip, collapsing, entangled by their reigns. Twisting, wide eyes fearful, lips snarling. Onlookers scream and the procession scatters. Officers rush to form a barrier. Others try to wrangle the crazed animals.

One creature darts backwards. Galloping hooves crash against stone. It barrels toward Wales, and he jumps aside. The horse blows past, an ivory blur. He slips, shoulder hitting the wet road and it bursts with pain. Cursing, he folds over, helmet scraping cold rock. He grabs his scorching arm, eyes squeezing shut, and takes a few deep breaths, willing his blood to slow, his mind to settle.

Then, flexing, he tests it.

And it moves. Painfully.

His sigh comes out like a bark. At least, his stupid limb isn’t dislocated.

Dragging himself up, gravel sticking to damp wool and skin, he shakes off the dizziness. Small mobs surround each horse; tidal human whirlpools that curve and drive the animals back into submission. Guardsmen are gaining the upper hand, bellowing orders while civilians boo and berate them.

“There are children here, you idiots,” one of them yells.

“What, in God’s name, were you thinking?” roars another.

From the back, Australia brings a horse. It jerks its head back, but he keeps a firm grip on its bridle, hushing it and stroking its neck.

“I saw you topple over,” Australia calls. “Everything all right?”

“Definitely not,” Wales moans, rubbing his throbbing limb. “I smacked my shoulder so hard; I thought I was back at Waterloo!”

Australia laughs. “Do you need any help?”

“...Have you got any whiskey?”

“I don’t.”

Wales releases a long-suffering sigh. “Never mind, I’ll manage. It’ll heal in a minute anyway.”

“In that case, could you wish me good luck?”

“What for? ...Oh.”

Plodding, his smile slightly tighter, Australia leads the horse to England.

Australia coughs. “England? This mare has ice on her hoof walls. It’s just a thin layer, but it’d be enough to put her in a sour mood. Erm... do you know how long these animals have been outside in this weather?”

But England is silent and as pale as the mare before him. Statue-stiff, he gapes at the disaster that’s become of the cortege. “England?” Australia repeats.

England startles. “Right, yes. Well done. Just, um... t-take her over to the lieutenant.” He clears his throat and points to a man. “That’s Goldie. He’ll have the answers and find somewhere to house her for now.”

Australia's jaw hangs for a moment. “...That’s it?”

“Yes, that’ll be all.”

“...Right.” Hesitantly, Australia departs on his assigned errand, horse clopping along beside him.

When he’s gone, England buries his face in his hands, fingers split open around haunted eyes, wilting impossibly further. Then, he trudges away, dragging his feet as he lumbers half-dead toward a cluster of Royal Navy officers that seem to know what they’re doing.

Wales gawks.

“This,” he exclaims, “was definitely an omen.”

There’s a tug on his collar. “Stop havering,” Scotland says, gesturing at the angry crowd. “We need to calm these idiots, or we’ll be stuck here ‘til sunset.”

Wales shoos him off with his good arm, and out of the corner of his vision, spots Ireland. “Oi, Ireland! Can you help us a bit?”

Ireland shuffles closer in a strange manner; crouched as though trying to hide in broad daylight. His wide eyes are sparkling with awe.

“Lads,” he whispers. “I think I did this.”

There is a dead pause.

Heat rises to Wales’ ears, but he keeps his tone even. “...You what?”

Scotland groans. “You unscrewed the fucking bolts on the carriage. Aye?”

Ireland blinks. “What?”

“That was it.”

Wales slaps his idiot brother. “Coc oen!!”

Ireland flinches. “Ow!”

“I was almost trampled!”

“No, that’s not what happened!”

“It is; you just said it.”

“No, listen!” Ireland leans in, arms wrapping around his brother’s necks as he pulls them near, and Wales fights the urge to toss him off. “When Vicky died, I visited the church on Croagh Patrick; the old one, on the mountain. And when I went, I said the rosary – a dozen times at least – and prayed to Saint Patrick and Saint Michael. And I asked them for a miracle, any kind, I didn’t care, but some type of divine misfortune that could happen at this funeral.” He whispers excitedly, quick bursts in hushed breaths, but his face is aghast. “And then... then, I did the same for the fae outside my cottage last Tuesday.”

Scotland squints. “You said the rosary for the fae?”

“What- no. No! I made them an offering and asked for their help, too! I wasn’t sure it would work, but... I mean, look at this. It seems like my prayers were answered!”

Scotland and Wales exchange a glance.

“Actually,” Wales mentions, “I did hear some sort of clatter before the animals dashed off; right before that oaf raised his whip.”

Scotland frowns. “I heard that, too. It could be coincidence... but maybe not.”

“There, see?” Ireland says, a delighted smile creeping up his cheeks.

Wales huffs. “Fine, but you shouldn’t have asked the fae folk. What if someone died? What if you summoned a vengeful spirit and now, we’re all cursed? And I was still nearly trampled!”

“Nearly trampled,” Ireland says. “Not actually trampled.”

“I am going to slap you again.”

“Calm down! Nobody died, right? I gave a massive offering when I went to the fae, so everything should be fine.”

“What did you give?”

“Uh... Potato bread, some shiny crystals, a few rings... bottles of ale and whiskey?”

Scotland interjects. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to ask both the fae and the saints?”

Wales ignores him. “What if you summoned a demon, then?”

“Can’t be a demon,” Ireland says.

“Why not?”

“Because when I was praying in the oratory, I made a promise not to drink for a year if the saints came through for me. And demons don’t like that. They want you pissed, not sober.”

Wales narrows his eyes and considers this. Really considers this. Scotland and Ireland watch him, waiting with bated breath.

“Supposing it was the saints,” Wales chances, “and not the fae, that did this... how’re you planning to keep your promise to them?”

Ireland slumps, gaze falling to the ground. “Ah, well,” he mutters. “I might struggle with that part.”

Scotland pats his shoulder. Wales sighs, in sympathy and pity.

~~~

As order is restored, improvised drag ropes are brought in, lashed to the gun carriage, and the march finally begins.

Left, right, left, right; leather boots pound cobblestone, as if in defiance of the debacle which just occurred. Her Late Majesty’s gun carriage is towed by hand, by the unluckiest men of the Royal Navy. They drag their heavy load, breath fogging the air, and the general melancholy that earlier befell Windsor station, is eclipsed with wonton embarrassment.

Trumpets sound with a whimper as the parade passes under the grand frontage and onto the main road. New parade onlookers, who were shielded from the commotion by distance, are gossiping. “What took them so bloody long?”

“Mummy, where are the ponies? I thought there were ponies.”

“Why’ve they got sailors pulling the coffin?”

Rolling his healed shoulder, Wales commits today’s scenes to memory. His pockets rustle and he makes note of that, too. He’ll allow Ireland the privilege of scarfing down his half-dozen biscuits, since the poor bastard won’t be able to partake in drinks tonight.

And at the upcoming service, rather than pray for Victoria’s soul, which he wasn’t planning to do anyway, he’ll instead ask for protection against every fae and demon he can name. Because one can never be too cautious when it comes to old magic.

...Goodness, what a spectacle death can be.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

Please note, for dramatic effect, I may have played up the danger of the horse-emergency. One source I found described the scene as a well-managed “contretemps”, while another claimed the horses bolted. So, I went with the most thrilling and possibly embellished account, as a treat.

A gun carriage is a wagon that typically transports cannons and artillery. In military funerals, it instead carries the coffin.

Mourning biscuits, common in the Victorian Era, were given out at funerals. Family members of the deceased would make or buy them in a shop before the funeral, then give them out to guests on the day of. The way Wales is eating them isn’t how they’re meant to be used.

Sin-eating is a Welsh custom where someone eats food over the deceased’s coffin to “take on their sins,” thus allowing the deceased to enter heaven.

The Irish Potato Famine occurred from 1845 – 1849, while Victoria was on the throne. For this, she was labelled as the Famine Queen.

Saint Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland. Meanwhile, in Catholic teachings, Saint Michael has multiple purposes. Firstly, he’s the leader of God’s army tasked with triumphing over Hell. He’s also the Angel of Death, carrying souls to heaven and weighing their merit. The Prayer to Saint Michael asks for the faithful to be “defended” by the saint.

#hetalia uk brothers #hws uk bros #aph england #aph scotland #aph ireland #aph wales #historical hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia #aph uk bros #my writing #hws england #hws scotland #hws wales #hws ireland #arthur kirkland #uk bros

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stephensmithuk · 1 year

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The Reigate Squire

This has three different titles - "The Adventure of the Reigate Squire", "The Adventure of the Reigate Squires" and "The Adventure of the Reigate Puzzle". The first is from The Strand, the second is the book title and the third is the American title from Harper's Weekly.

This is from the second "volume" released in book form - The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes and the fourth one in the LFW series from there.

Telegrams were the rather expensive text messages of the 19th century. Holmes likely asked someone at the hotel to send one to Watson and the postman would drop it at 221b Baker Street.

Watson could get to Lyons (or Lyon) in France in under 24 hours via train-ferry-train-train (Charing Cross-Dover-Calais-Paris-Lyon) for the price of £4 2s 6d second class and £5 9s 9d first class, not counting any supplements for a sleeping car berth. The South Eastern Railway sold through return tickets. Adjusted for inflation, he's looking at around £410 in the former and £550 in the latter. You might pay around the same today at short notice, but for much faster journey.

Railways also employed interpreters at major stations to aid travellers.

Hotel advertisements from this period are great fun. The RL Lyon hotels in the 1887 Bradshaw's on Timetable World include noteworthy things like a garden, a piano, a lift and the provision of foreign newspapers.

Reigate is a town about an hour by train from London Victoria in 1887. Today, you could do the entire journey from Baker Street in under an hour.

Reigate itself is an affluent commuter town in Surrey located just outside the modern M25 motorway and has been around long enough to be recorded in the Domesday Book, William the Conqueror's census/tax assessment of England in 1086. Much of it was still rural at the time.

Cunningham senior is a magistrate. He's not the first dodgy magistrate we've encountered - see "Gloria Scott" and we need a counter for that.

"Help! Help! Murder!" is the kind of thing you often see in Victorian literature - and crime reports from that period.

British police officers were not routinely armed with handguns at this point and still are not - the truncheon would prove sufficient for most situations.

A carafe is a glass container with a flared lip for serving liquids. It is not a decanter, which has a stopper.

Holmes' use of powder burn evidence for busting the Cunningham's story is a very early use of a forensic technique now taken for granted in crime stories.

Both Cunninghams will likely hang for this murder. It's pre-mediated and the fact the former is a magistrate is an aggravating factor if anything.

#letters from watson #the reigate puzzle #sherlock holmes

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engineer-gunzelpunk · 7 months

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Traintober 2023: Big World

(A little bit of a story from my humanised TTTE AU This Is Sodor: The Age of Iron, concerning Aus Steam '88)

For Your Consideration

NWR Head Office, 1988

The Fat Controller looked at his calendar and roster of locomotives for the weeks and months ahead. It was coalescing nicely.

The plans for sending a group of Sudrian locos in their human form to the great Aus Steam '88 locomotive festival that was going to be held at Spencer Street Station in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, was heading apace.

What a clever idea for Flying Scotsman to suggest, using the Australian Steam Festival as a cover to send some of the Sudrian locos to teach the local steam engines how the NWR survived decades of onslaught of persecution; from the LMS, from creditors, from the BR, from Beeching and Marples and the whole bloody lot of them.

What an honor would it be for them to meet not just Scotty but the Australian locomotive rights radicals VR H220 Heavy Harry, VR R707 and NSWGR's 3801 on their own metals.

It would give some of the locos a nice little experience outside of their Sudrian bubble... get them to see the world, to a place where the hateful Lokodammerung was successful and where the preservation movements were running on fumes. Maybe it would pacify and humble them a little, make them see how difficult it really was to be a locomotive and not have what the NWR provided.

He had heard that Heavy Harry's residence at the North Williamstown Railway Museum at the former Newport Workshops... was not the best. It wasn't exactly the luxurious surrounds of the National Railway Museum in York.

Or that R707 was put aside by the VR in spite of being the closest thing the state had to a premier passenger locomotive... and was saved by volunteers fixing him up themselves.

He'd hoped the Sudrian locos would draw lessons from how harsh things could be outside of their little island.

Or that was the fantasy.

The reality would be they would likely get drunk and indulge in all kinds of sin, and he didn't necessarily blame them. The human world outside of Sodor was as exotic to them as railways outside the little island.

This the Fat Controller pondered. Ever since that TV show began airing, he's had to keep its star Thomas under wraps. It wouldn't do for him to get captured in the papers doing something silly, especially since the books and TV shows were a bowdlerized version of what he got up to...

So no, not Thomas, not this time.

He thought of his Strike Trio, and against common sense he had the compulsion to send them. He knew Gordon would be keen to meet a foreign Pacific express passenger locomotive and to meet his brother, and maybe perhaps the Hudsons in attendance.

He pondered Henry and James. Henry had worked pretty hard and he partied harder, but he had been pretty well behaved this past decade after being angry and restless in the 70s... And James, well, he knew that giving him a special job often made him more tractable and agreeable to work with.

Just to make sure, he put Edward down as a sort of unofficial chaperone. If this experiment worked, he would send Thomas out into the world at some point.

Not now though, not while the attention was upon him with a whole bloody TV show named after him having just screened in Australia a year previous and the world's attention was on the little blue tank engine.

"Charles, bring me to Tidmouth Sheds when the listed four have been properly hostled... I have something wonderful to tell them..."

#ttte #rws #thomasallgrownup #victorian railways #ttte henry #ttte gordon #ttte edward #ttte james #ttte humanisation #ttte gijinka #Aus Steam' 88 #This Is Sodor: The Age of Iron #traintober #traintober 2023 #Traintober' 23: Big World

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briansolomonauthor · 1 month

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Riding the Bangor Line on Cloudy Day

We thought about traveling to Derry, but it was a dreary day and we had evening plans, so instead I suggested we take the train toward Bangor. And, no, we were not in Maine! So, Kris and I traveled from Belfast Great Victoria Street Station aboard an NI Railways train, and got off the train at Cultra to visit the Ulster Transportation Museum. The museum has some of the finest preserved railway…

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#Bangor #NI Railways #Translink #photography

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jabbage · 11 months

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#Letters from Watson #lettersfromwatson

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ginandoldlace · 2 months

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On 2nd March 1882 Roderick Maclean attempted to assassinate Queen Victoria as she left her train and entered her carriage at Windsor railway station. Queen Victoria wrote about the event in her journal:

At 4.30. left Buckingham Palace for Windsor. Just as we were driving off from the station there, the people or rather, the Eton Boys cheered, & at the same time there was the sound, of what I thought, was an explosion from the engine, but in another moment, I saw people rushing about, & a man being violently hustled, people rushing down the street. I then realised that it was a shot, which must have been meant for me, though I was not sure Sir H.Ponsonby & L d Bridport had followed the man to the Police station, where he was to be examined. Brown came in to say, that the revolver had been found loaded, & one chamber discharged. Superintendent Haves of the Police here, seized the man, who was wretchedly dressed, & had a very bad countenance. Sir H. Ponsonby came in to tell me more. The man will be examined tomorrow. He is well spoken, & evidently an educated man. An Eton Boy had rushed up, & beaten him with an umbrella. Great excitement prevails. Nothing can exceed dearest Beatrice's courage & calmness, for she saw the whole thing, the man take aim, & fire straight into the carriage, but she never said a word, observing that I was not frightened. Was really not shaken or frightened, so different to O'Connor's attempt, though was infinitely more dangerous. That time I was terribly alarmed.

Upon investigation Maclean was found to be of unsound mind. He was obsessed with the colour blue, believing anyone that wore it was deliberately trying to aggravate him. It was believed that his reason for wanting to assassinate the Queen was due to her lack of respect for the poetry that he had sent her. However, it’s likely that the queen never saw his poems and that the responses he had received were written by members of her court. Within minutes of his trial starting, Maclean was declared insane and was sent to an asylum, where he remained until his death 1921.

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rainbowratsstuff · 2 years

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Which cats do you think are strays and which live with humans?

Ooh I like this question. This will be a long one as there are a lot of Jellicles 😅

Old Deuteronomy: doesn't have humans but does love hanging around the humans at the vicarage. He's sort of the friendly stray cat who gets in everyone's way as he lays in the traffic XD

Munkustrap: lives with humans. I love to imagine he lives with a family who have a little girl that he absolutely adores, he thinks of her as his human kitten 🥰

Rum tum tugger: definitely has humans which he annoys with his habit of never deciding whether he wants to be in or out and getting stuck in drawers XD

Demeter, Bombalurina and Jemima: I imagine Dem was a stray up until she broke off from Macavity and wanted a second safe place to stay when not at the junkyard. I think she moved in with her sister Bombalurina and brought her kitten Jemima too. I think that's why they all have matching spiked collars

Skimbleshanks: the trains and station are his home and he's beloved by everyone who works there

Jennyanydots: obviously lives with humans where she teaches the mice and cockroaches

Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer: live in a very rich fancy house. They may be troublesome but their owners love them and would never get rid of them

Pouncival, Tumblebrutus, Electra and George: stray kittens who live in the junkyard. I love imagining George as a puppy who was raised by the cats and now thinks he's a cat

Etcetera: I don't know why but she strikes me as someone with owners. Ones who love to play with their excitable kitten

Mistoffelees and Victoria: twins who live with humans around their uncle Bustopher's side of town, so quite well off. Definitely the pretty kitties who make for great pictures (when Misto isnt disappearing in the middle of them)

Alonzo: a stray who would never ever live with humans. He's someone who likes to think of himself as strong and independent and he's grown up on the streets (but secretly he loves having his tribe around to help)

Plato: a stray who's training to become a protector. He likes visiting Victoria's house.

Cassandra: lives with humans. She's very aloof even after living with her humans for years. She's a very elegant, photogenic cat though, loves to pose from afar.

Macavity: a stay gathering his own gang. But I do find it funny to imagine him with an owner who thinks he's just their fuzzy silly litte guy, who's never done anything wrong XD

Gus and Asparagus Jr: Gus lives at the theatre with his son. Asparagus wants to be there to take care of him when Jelly can't

Jellylorum: has humans and loves to visit her friend Jenny or take care of Gus with Asparagus when she's free

Coricopat and Tantomile: strays with a mysterious past. They haven't told anyone yet where they came from.

Bustopher Jones: lives in a very fancy house and of course goes off to his various clubs regularly

Grizabella: used to live with humans but left them when she left the tribe

#cats #cats musical #cats the musical #cats headcanon #cats headcanons

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scotianostra · 11 months

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June 22nd 1861 saw the death of Edinburgh firefighter James Braidwood.

In the early 19th century the wealthy were leaving Edinburgh’s Old Town for the more comfortable surroundings of the New Town. The old buildings became slums and fire-traps.

Edinburgh had very limited fire services and, following a series of deadly fires, which culminated in the Great Fire of Edinburgh of 1824, Braidwood persuaded the authorities and insurance company brigades to work together. He formed the world’s first municipal fire brigade, organising men and machines. He was the first to promote entering burning buildings to fight the seat of a fire. He trained his men at night to get them used to dark conditions and instructed them to carry rope to escape from burning buildings, practising their climbing skills on Edinburgh’s North Bridge.

In 1833 Braidwood was lured south and became the first Superintendent of the new London Fire Brigade , with a team of 80 full-time fire-fighters at 13 stations.

In this capacity, he carried out fire prevention surveys at, for example, the Royal Naval Dockyards and Buckingham Palace. Braidwood’s manual on fire-fighting includes many basic principles which are still quoted during fire training today. He also invented one of the first forms of breathing apparatus to be used by firemen.

On this day 1861 Braidwood was killed by a collapsing wall while fighting the infamous Tooley Street Warehouse fire on the south bank of the River Thames. Queen Victoria was particularly concerned about the event and the fate of James Braidwood and in her diary she wrote ‘poor Mr Braidwood … had been killed … and the fire was still raging. It made one very sad.’ this statue in Edinburgh’s Parliament Square, close to the site of his first fire station.

James Braidwood was buried at Abney Park Cemetery on 29th June 1861. The funeral procession was a mile and a half long and shops were closed with crowds lining the route. As a mark of respect every church in the city of London rang its bells. Another man Scotland can be proud of.

#scotland #scottish #firefighter #london #pioneer #history

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fizzycherrycola · 2 years

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UK Bros Weekend WIP

I’m still working on my PrUK story, I swear, but this came to me in a dream and I had to write it down. Words in (brackets) are just basic notes of what I want to happen. Please keep in mind, this is a WIP, nothing here is finished. Warnings for England being a bit of a twat.

Windsor, UK; 2 February 1901

(The air is cold and damp. Nipping. Ice clings to brick.)

Wales shakes his arms, making the frost fall from his greatcoat, impervious to the aura of death and solemnity that, like the shrouds of the snivelling women who today line cobblestone streets, does drape over Windsor’s train station.

Scotland raises one of his great, shaggy brows. “A biscuit?” he asks. “Where’d you get that?”

“From a bakery in London,” Wales says, gazing at the confection’s fancy crucifix design. “Shop windows were piled with them; you should’ve seen it. Loads of different flavours, too.”

(Ireland action.) “Is that a mourning biscuit?” (Describe him. Matching greatcoat and helmet. Stubborn lock of red hair poking out the front. The strap looks too tight.)

“Mmm!” (Mouthful of biscuit.) “It is. Would you like one? I’ve got more.” (Patting his pocket. He has several stashed in preparation for the long day.)

Ireland snorts. “I'm not sin-eating for a Famine Queen.”

Wales deflates. “That’s not fair. It’s only sin-eating if you eat it over her open coffin.”

“No, it’s.... Isn’t it if she’s within spitting distance?”

“But she’s not even that,” Scotland mumbles, nodding at Queen Victoria’s casket.

(Describe it, coming off the train. Humans treating it with reverence. Readying it for the final procession to Windsor castle.)

Ireland hums. “Not spitting distance for you, maybe, but if that wind picks up again, I'd probably be able-”

“Shh!!” England hisses. (England action. He’s in front of them in the procession, just behind the carriage.) “For God’s sakes, will you lot be quiet?”

(The trio grumbles, shuffling in place. Cobblestones. Wales’ feet hurt. Dress boots.)

“(Fuck off)” Ireland moans. “We’ve been on our feet all day in the damn cold.”

(England action.) “All day?! It’s only been a few hours!” (England squints at Wales.) “...Are you eating?”

As if it would help, Wales hides the biscuit behind his back.

He shrugs. “Well, I haven’t had luncheon and it’s already noon. Figured we were allowed a bite to eat in-between processions. Besides, Her Late Majesty’s not attached to the carriage yet.”

(Ireland is amused.) “Aye, that’s military code. Procession can’t begin until the deceased is on the carriage.”

“And I’m starving.”

“You wouldn’t want him collapsing on route to the chapel.”

“Yes, and... well, I don’t think I’d collapse, but-”

“It’d embarrass the whole empire,” Ireland continues. (Sarcasm. More taunting. “You really need to be meticulous about this sort of thing.”)

England pinches the bridge of his nose and curses under his breath.

(Describe him. Fringe from helmet nearly hiding his face. Wales feels bad, for a moment. Recall the effort England put into this thing. Humans were frantic. Military funeral for a royal, never done before.)

(England action.) “Could all of you at least try to show some bloody respect? Christ, look at Australia – even he’s being civil. We’re almost at the chapel, and after the ceremony, you can bugger off and do whatever you’d like. But until then, keep quiet!”

(He turns away with a huff.)

(Wales fiddles the last bite of biscuit.) “...Ireland?” he whispers.

(Ireland doesn’t answer immediately.) “What?”

“I meant what I said about the biscuits. I’m not helping the Queen get to heaven; I was just hungry.”

(Ireland studies him for a moment before sighing.) “It’s fine.” (He looks tired.) “What flavours have you got?”

“Oh.” (Wales action.) “I think I’ve got ginger, shortbread, buttermilk, almond....”

“Buttermilk.”

(Wales gives it to him. He opens it. It’s a skull design. Ireland gives a wry smile. He reads aloud the poem slip.)

“Thee we adore, eternal Name, And humbly own to thee, How feeble is our mortal frame! What dying worms we be.

Our wasting lives grow shorter still As days and months increase; And every beating pulse we tell, Leaves but the number to be leased.

The year rolls round and steals away, The breath that first it gave; Whate’er we do, whate’er we be, We’re travelling to the grave.”

(Wales action, finishing his own cookie.) “Oh, that’s an omen.”

(Scotland action.) “It’s not an omen. They print that poetry shite on half the wrappers; it doesn’t mean a thing.”

“He’s right,” (Ireland action.) “It’s just a reminder, warning humans that it all ends eventually.” (Ireland pops it in his mouth. Chews and swallows.)

(Psst! Australia catches their attention, behind them, where a few of the colonies stand together. He asks for a cookie. Wales tries to pass him one without moving from his place in the unmoving procession. Australia reaches, then his eyes go wide and he immediately snaps back to position, arms at his sides. Wales turns and sees England glaring at Australia. Then he turns back to the front.)

(Awkward quiet. Describe the scene. What led them there, to Windsor, the procession in London. The sobbing people that lined the streets. Most just gawking. And the pomp of the whole thing. The public display, the train to Windsor, the white horses, the military parade, the trumpets, the gun carriage. You’d think a queen had never died before. Most funerals of monarchs were performed quietly, but not this one. This is a departure from the norm.)

(Wales doesn’t mind too much. It’s like a big, macabre celebration of death. The occult and superstition are as close as he can get to the old days. When magic beautifully intertwined with history and science. But for the sake of his brothers... Perhaps a quiet and speedy funeral would have been better.)

(To be continued...)

Speech patterns might change and some paragraphs might move around, but that’s about the first half of the story. Hoping to finish it before Halloween.

EDIT: THIS STORY HAS BEEN FINISHED!! Please read the full version HERE!

#hetalia fanfic #uk bros #hetalia uk brothers #hws england #hws ireland #hws scotland #hws wales #wip #my writing #historical hetalia

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thesudrianchronicles · 1 year

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NWC BIOS: Lough Gill

Name: Gill (Lough Gill)

Class: GNRI U Class 4-4-0, Regauged

Built: 1915, Beyer Peacock & Co.

Arrived on Sodor: 1996

Number: NWR 57, TOPS 95057, Wears GNRI 196 (NIR 496)

Livery: GNRI Blue

Homeshed: Tidmouth Harbour

Gender: Male, Cisgender, He/Him

Lough Gill, or Gill for short. Is one of the NWR's many international locomotives, He is unique among NWR engines, for, he prefers the company of Non-NWR engines. Like the Tidmouth Dock Authority engines.

HISTORY

Lough Gill (Pronounced Loch Gill), was the first of, at the time at least, 5 U class 4-4-0 tender engines built for the Great Northern Railway Ireland (GNRI), by Beyer Peacock of Gorton Manchester. Upon arrival in Northern Ireland (Which was still part of Ireland at the time) he & his siblings were put to work on hauling secondary services on the GNRI's mainlines. Such as Belfast - Derry/Londonderry expresses, Belfast-Bundoran & Enniskillen expresses and so forth. From new, Gill & his siblings were never named. However, they quickly gave themselves names based on the local Lochs.¹ From built to at least 1950, Gill led a pretty uneventful life. But, in 1953, Gill was officially given the name "Lough Gill''. (His 4 other siblings were also named after Loughs, while his 5 newer siblings were named after countys).²

In 1953 as well, the GNRI was incorporated into Northern Ireland Railways.³ Because of this, Gill was renumbered from 196, to 496 and repainted into the railways lovely apple green with black lining. Allocated to the GNRI shed at Adelaide, in Belfast. Gill would, more or less, get caught up in the adventures of "The Adelaide Gang"⁴, in which he never really wanted to, but secretly enjoyed it. With the arrival of MED’s & DMU’s in the 1950s & 60s, Gill found himself on less & less passenger work. Spending much of his later NIR years shunting around Great Victoria Street Station in Belfast. Finally, Lough Gill was withdrawn from NIR Stock in September 1964, after 39 years of service.

PRESERVATION & SODOR

Following withdrawal in 1964, Lough Gill was Preserved by NIR and displayed on a Plinth outside Great Victoria Street station. In which he would remain for the next 30ish years. In the early 90s, NIR made plans to modernise Great Victoria Street station, including the front, of which Gill was sitting at. NIR had made plans to put slightly weathered & bored out of his non-existent skull Gill into their museum in Cultra. But luckily, (For NIR anyway), The North Western Railway was in need of a medium size 4-4-0 to help with Boat train traffic from Tidmouth Harbour to at least Cronk. So, when the NWR heard that there was a slightly too big⁵ but mendable 4-4-0 close to home, who really didn’t want to be put inside a museum……you can see where this is going, right? In the Winter of 1994, Lough Gill was officially sold to the NWR and arrived on the Island in the Spring of 1996, the reason it took so long, was because it was decided to regauge Gill from 5ft 3in to 4ft 8½in in Northern Ireland.

Upon arriving to Sodor. Gill very, and I mean, VERY quickly got sick & fed up with the big engines. So, he decided to spend his first night on Sodor sleeping with the Tidmouth Dock Authority engines at the Harbour shed. He was meant to sleep there for one night, but he has stayed there ever since!

As of today, you can usually find Gill pulling local or boat trains from the harbour. Or chatting, mostly arguing with some of the other engines. But, even though he sometimes misses his home in Northern Ireland. Would he leave Sodor? Well, to quote himself when asked that question, “Don’t be f**king stupid!”

PERSONALTY

While Lough Gill can at first come off as rude, or blunt, and fed up with everyone around him. He is actually kind & cares about those closest to him, that being the Tidmouth Harbour engines & cranes. He enjoys having time to himself, but will always join in to any games, story telling or general shenanigans that happen down by the docks. And as perversely mentioned, as much as he misses Ireland from time to time, he’ll never leave Sodor. For two reasons: One, he enjoys been with the new friends he's made,

And the second?

Being reconverted back to Irish gauge would be a bugger to deal with.

NOTES

1- The first 5 members of the U class were all named after Irish Loughs in the late 40s & early 50s. Until then, they unofficially named themselves after nearby Loughs.

2- 5 more members of the class were built by Beyer Peacock in 1948.

3- In the NWC & 63A universe, The Ulster Transport Authority was never formed, leading to the creation of Northern Ireland Railways & the Ulster Road Authority.

4- The Adelaide Gang refers to a group of (now preserved) GNRI engines, of which Gill was sometimes a part of.

5- Lough Gill was built to Irish Gauge & not standard Gauge.

TRIVIA

My headcanon voice for Lough Gill is the same as the character of Bishop Brennan from Father Ted.

He has blue eyes.

He was the first engine at Adelaide to have an all female crew, gaining them in 1949.

He holds the record for the fastest time for traveling from one end of the Harbour to the other, completing it in 3 minutes & 28 seconds.

#thomas the tank engine #thomas & friends #alternate universe #ttte #The railway series #ttte oc #Irish train go FECK!#I think I'm going crazy #plz share

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