They crashed to the sand heavily, bodies scattered around the coast like stars in the sky.
He coughed once, twice. Three times, each heave whistling through his lungs, through his throat and coming out of his mouth as hoarse sighs. In his mind's eye he had seen it, dreamt it, yet it was not him who had brought them there. His blood boiled, temper flaring.
Dunkirk.
He sat up, the sand in his hair tumbling down his face onto the ground as rocks from the cliff face. His eyes and mouth and nose were full of salt-water, and burned with the gore and blood of the sea. With bloodied stumps where his fingernails once were, he crawled across the beach to his blond-headed companion, checked that he was alive, well and still breathing... and then punched him square across the jaw.
The man jolted upright, clutching his nose, and swung his free fist at the other's face. Missed, he did, and hit the floor again, the other man sat on his waist.
"Why the bloody hell did you bring us here?!" Arthur shouted, dark brows furrowed in fury as he gripped the blond's collar.
"You said to think of home, so I did!" The Frenchman bellowed, other hand moving to hide his face when the Briton's face turned a murderous puce.
"What, and your idea of my home is bloody 1940's Dunkirk?" He screamed in response.
"Your home?" Francis roared, "You just said 'home', not your home in particular! Now we're stuck between!"
"Well what the shit did you think of?"
"I wanted to go back to 1600's Paris for the renaissance!"
"We were supposed to go to modern London, you utter twat-head!"
"Va te faire foutre!"
"You fucking what?!" Arthur thundered, shaking Francis by the collar, before shoving him down into the sand. After a moment of exchanging glares, the Brit stood up, violently dusting the rest of the sand out of his hair, making his way off along the beach, wind rumpling his hair, blowing the thick, ash-blond fringe up and out of his face.
"Where are you going?" Francis called, clutching his aching chest.
"Where is it?" Arthur grumbled, kicking the sand around, sea-green eyes searching wildly.
"Where's what?"
"That damn Babylon candle. And where the shit are Ludwig and Gilbert?"
"I've got the candle here," Francis replied, pushing up into a crouching position and retrieving the black stick of wax from his pocket. "And Ludwig and Gilbert should be just over there." He pointed a long, pale finger off into the distance, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with the hand holding the candle. His hair had gone into rats tails, some strands bleached by the salt.
They both paused, locating two figures laying down on the sand near the waves, and then they ran.
Arthur dropped to his knees beside his youngest cousin, shaking him by the shoulders.
"Oi, Ludwig."
No response. His platinum head just lolled to the side unconsciously, the open fracture in his right arm seeping more blood out onto the beaches of Dunkirk. Arthur placed his ear against his chest, relieved to hear a slow but steady and sturdy heartbeat.
Being careful of Ludwig's fractured arm, he rolled the German onto his side into the foetal position, and pulled out the spare dressing and bandages he'd stuffed into his pockets. He always came prepared, just in case something went wrong. He removed his belt. Sticking a stiff upper lip, Arthur sucked in a deep breath, and wrapped the brown leather belt around the top of Ludwig's arm, like a tourniquet. He took his cousin's arm just above the wrist, and placed his palm just shy of the protruding radius.
"Sorry, mate. This might sting when you wake up." He apologised, and began to pull and shove, placing the bone back inside of Ludwig's arm. He dressed and bandaged it, securing it tightly with one of the safety pins attached to his collar. "Francis!" Arthur shouted across the beach to where the Frenchman was crouched down by Arthur's elder cousin, his best friend.
No answer. Fed up with the lack of response he was gaining, he left Ludwig for a moment to see what was taking the other so long.
When he saw it, he was almost sick.
Doused in blood, with his eyes wide open, lay Gilbert's motionless form. A wave of nausea crashed over the Brit and he stumbled backwards, stomach churning, bile rising in his throat.
"Dear God..." He gagged.
Francis was hunched over, his blond head buried in his hands.
"Why did this have to happen?" He murmured solemnly, "All because of a stupid mistake I made..."
"And what about Ludwig? What do we say when he wakes up? We can't let him see his brother like this."
"We don't have the time to bury him. Somebody's coming along the beach over there. Get Ludwig and light the candle."
"Where do we go?"
"Anywhere that isn't here. Hurry; they're coming."
Jogging along the beach and reluctantly away from Gilbert's body, Arthur threw himself down beside Ludwig, braced an arm around his chest, and readied the candle, Francis' arms around his shoulders.
"We're going to 1500's Munich, Bavaria. Bugger my problems, for now - Ludwig's got a bigger one on his hands."
With that, Francis lit the candle in Arthur's hand, and clung on for dear life.
They were gone in a matter of seconds.
