D O N T S T O P↠J A C O B F R Y E

Don't Stop.

This one shot is dedicated to Son0fEden! I hope you enjoy it!

Blood oozed from his tightly fisted knuckles. His opened wound smearing against the other man's skin as it made contact with the now unrecognizable Blighter's face. The young male stood defensivley next to his fellow comrads who fought with green on their backs with pride.

He slammed his elbow in the Blighter coming from behind him, swinging the attacker's body weight over his bulky shoulder. The young man elegantly slit the brut's throat quickly and turned his attention back to the crew.

"There's more closing in!" He grunted. "We are outnumbered. We need to withdrawl ourselves. It's out of our hands now." His ever growing anxiety ran deep inside of his gut. The Rook's attention turning towards his leader.

Twisting his pistol between his long fingers, aiming it towards the man of his attention. "Mr. Frye!"

The leader looked at him with wide hazel hues. His lips set into a firm line. Jacob stood in a trace of confusion. Before he could speak, the bullet flew next to his ear hitting an incoming Blighter at full speed. The bullet wedged inbetween the enemy's eyes, stopping the man dead in his tracks before falling limply towards the concrete .

Jacob's grim line quickly changes into a grin. Nodding his head in thanks towards hm; taking out his kurki knife and leaping into the fight once more.

The Rook groaned in annoyance at his leader's rashness of jumping into another hoard of Starrick's men. As much as he adored Jacob Frye he couldn't help but get angry when his leader didn't know when to pull out of a fight they are clearly losing. Jacob was too proud and too stubborn to back down.

Helping his comrad back to their feet, he raced across the battlefield towards the Frye twin with a blade firmly in his grasp. He swore to himself he was going to pay him back by protecting him with his life. Even if it costs him his own. The young Rook made that promise to himself the day Jacob saved him.

A blanket of freshly coated snow cascaded down on London's streets and it's inhabitants. A warm breath of condensation escaped the now blue lips of a dying pauper. His teeth clattering together in an attempt to warm himself. He had given up, his malnurished body lying on the frozen sidewalk of Lambeth. His body didn't work anymore as it was coated with the white blanket.

Bodies walked past him in a hurry to get to warmth inside of their houses. He layed there, alone, cold and invisible. The poor man had come to terms with meeting his inevitable death. He stayed huddled, skrawny arms wrapped loosley around himself.

He closed his eyes, feeling his breath become more shallow. All traces of the world becoming lost. He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not when he had so much to do, so much more to accomplish. All of his dreams became nothing but a distant memory.

Lone footsteps walked slowly to where he lay. The boy didn't give it much attention, still leaving his eyes closed. The footsteps stopped next to him, a warm hand placed itself upon his frozen shoulder. He didn't have the energy to open his eyes. He didn't want to look his mysterious person anyways. He didn't want to be seen.

"You're barely breathing," a low voice hummed. "But you're a fighter."

The strange man had made up his mind. He casually brushed the snow from the poor man's body. His ragged clothes had holes littering them. The stranger took off his thick winter coat and slipping it over the other man's body.

The man's strong hands grabbed the other's arm, lifting the limp body from the ground carefully. With a huff, he placed the young pauper's arm around his shoulder and neck and stood up, completely unphased by the extra weight pulling him down.