Love Lost to Blood

Shrapnel flew through the air, barely cutting the young man's face with its razor edges. His face was already streaked with blood and soot, sweat making small trails through the layers that were caked on his jaw and neck. A quick motion found a match lit and a round bomb hissing as its fuse began the dangerous countdown. The explosives expert hurled the weapon onto the opposing ship, using his free hand to wipe the salty fluid that dripped down into his eyes. Within that second, he found a gun being thrust into his hand.
“Watch out, Frankie,” the Irishman muttered as he turned away, shooting a member of Gabriella's crew in he back of the skull with no trace of mercy present. He quickly rejoined the Captain in the fight, using that expertise of the handgun that made him so feared.
Placing the long-range weapon on a near-by barrel, the man ran a marked hand through his hair, leaving streaks of black powder in its chestnut strands. His heart hammered in his chest, tinting the edges of his visions with a blurry, white border. Pale blue eyes jumped around, not fully taking in the battle scene—that was, until, he caught a glimpse of Smith being cornered by three large men. The barrel of a pistol was lowered to his forehead as he stared up in terror.
The same feeling streaked through Frankie and then he heard a gunshot. Saw nothing but blackness, felt the warm red of blood ooze from a wound in his chest. He'd been hit. Him, not Smith. “Thank God...” he muttered as he dropped to his knees, staring blankly up at the sky as the red liquid, colored darker by gunpowder, gushed from his heart.

“Hey, Smith, are you playing vith dolls again?” Frankie remarked, poking his head over the other pirate's shoulder.
“Uh...Uh...They were a gift...I have to do something with them.” It was a futile excuse, but it was the best one he had at the moment.
Smirking a bit, the Russian placed a hand on top of Smith's head, messing up his bandana. “Vhatever you say...”

Suddenly, he was aware that his dear friend was still in danger. Forcing himself to stand, though he swayed dangerously, one foot found its way in front of the other. A lumbering walk. The men were still surrounding him, saying something he couldn't quite make out. English was a foreign language to his mind. What were they saying? “Oof!” Someone colliding with his weakening body made him flop over, hitting the deck hard, causing the air to be forced from his lungs in a bloody gurgle. Frankie blacked out for a second or two until his eyes just barely focused, just enough to take in the world around him.
Smoke. Guns. Cannons. Screams, splashes, bodies falling into the ocean. It was all so familiar, except...
Feeling around his belt, his hand came across a last-ditch effort. A bomb he had been working on that would be able to kill multiple people, using only a small blast radius. The cold, stained canvas it was wrapped in felt like a million pounds in the young man's shaking hands. He was bleeding to death. He knew it, he knew he was dying, and yet he forced himself up once more. Standing on unsteady legs, Frankie lit another match and touched the head of it to the makeshift wick that stuck out of the deadly parcel. It ended tonight.
He found himself running toward the men, gasping for breath. Had to get there before the bomb went off...

A seagull circled overhead, carrying a piece of bread, stolen from the disgruntled Russian sitting there, yelling Russian curses at it. Those stupid birds were always so bothersome, and Salem wasn't around at the moment to take care of their pesky antics. He was with the Captain and Leon in her quarters, but doing what? He'd make you guess.
A stone whizzed by Frankie's ear, which caught him off guard. It hit the bird, which caused it to drop the food it held back onto the deck as it flew off with a loud sqwack. Whirling around, the Russian only saw Smith tucking a well-worn slingshot into his belt. Where had he gotten such good aim?

Even as he got closer, Frankie couldn't make out any voices. Part of him wondered what significance these flashbacks held; is this what men saw before they died? He didn't have the time to ponder about it as his shoulder connected with the waist of one man, pushing him out of the way.
Standing in front of Smith so protectively, he would have looked heroic, but the blood dripping down his soaked shirt stated that he was in no shape to fight. The bomb in his hand, however, said otherwise. Without a word, the Russian grabbed the frightened Smith and roughly threw him far to the side, hearing a sudden stammer of objection. But he would have none of it. The bomb was about to go off, the wick no longer visible. There would be no time for him get out of the blast's range if he wanted to kill these men who had tried to hurt his friend.

Cold winds blew down from the north, making France colder than it was normally this time of year. Paris, the city of lovers. He scoffed and pulled his bearskin coat tighter around him. Both fur jacket and Russian-style hat were lightly covered in snow. Suddenly, he heard a voice behind him and he spun around, coming face to face with the man whom played with dolls. “Smith?”
“The Captain's been looking for you. We're about to leave port, so you can't just be wandering around. Everyone's waiting.” The tone in the other man's voice was just the slightest bit scolding which shook at the end as a shiver crept across his body.
“...Vhat? Oh, sorry. I'll be zhere in a little vhile,” Frankie said slowly, as if he was trying to make up his mind.
“But the Captain'll be angry if we don't...” Suddenly, Smith found himself encased in a thick coat of fur, pressed right up against the explosives expert's warmth. “I...We can't...we...we can wait another minute.”
“Zhat's vhat I thought.”

With his last ounce of strength, Franklin Volkov made his final stand. Before the men could get away, he threw the bomb hard onto the deck, giving it a delayed reaction.
“Frankie! What are you doing!?” Smith cried, trying to get closer, trying to stop this madness. “Stop! Run away, you're going to get blown up!”
“No! I'm already dying! I vill bleed to death if I don't!” he shouted back, drawing a ragged breath. He slipped into his native tongue, giving him a final sense of resolution. “Для тебя, мой друг, в тысячу раз. не думайте, что я никогда не любила. Я.” He'd have to ask Doc for a translation.

In the middle of the raging battle, the explosive went off with a blinding flash of light, and bang. Metal barbs flew out of the canvas, killing anyone who was close enough, including the man who made such a deathtrap. But as the Russian went down, he managed a salute directed at the crew of the Raven—whom paused in their fighting just long enough to look over when they heard the blast. A pool of his own blood cushioned his fall.