The Third Life: The Fall

Yes, we are now back to the "actual" story. It should be noted, however, that Jake's time in Ancient Greece is very important to the future of this story.

Also, I am very much aware of Blackbeard's existence in the PJO-verse, and that he's a son of Ares. I've been looking forward to writing about that since I started this story.

It was not forgotten.

Anywho, this'll be a shorter chapter, due to the fact that's not meant to be long. It's meant to end the Black Flag arc, so we can transition into the Revolution arc.

And also Shay, and the relationship between him, Jake, and Cheyenne, Shay's granddaughter who looks like Percy, and was engaged to Zoё Nightshade before her premature death, something that caused Zoё and Arno to go on a complete rampage through the French Brotherhood.

Arguably more important than the philosophy that will be involved between Connor, Jake, and Haytham in regards to the American Revolution and the forming of the country itself.

Disclaimer: I don't own PJO or AC

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October 1722

West Indies

The Running Frenchman might as well have been a funeral service for all the conversation the crew made. In a way, it was a funeral. Edward Thatch, Blackbeard, was dead. Benjamin Hornigold was dead. Charles Vane and Jack Rackham were dead. Mary Read, their captain's beloved honorary big sister, was dead as well, and no telling who of their own families yet lived after six years away, and no telling how many other pirates had met the gallows in the same time.

In short, the crew was mourning for the deaths of an era, and for the deaths of family.

In the very back of his mind, Jake acknowledged the fact that there were several stops that needed to be made back in Europe. His crew had family there, and after six years, they needed to go back and see if they lived or not. However, that was at the back of his mind.

Right now, he was also in mourning, but also in fury, in loathing, and seething.

All at himself.

It was irrational, and a small voice was telling him that, but a much louder, much bigger voice was telling him that everything that had happened was all his fault. He had packed up and hauled himself off to Europe. He had wanted to see Greece and Rome for nothing more than a whim. He had left the Pirate Republic. He had left Mary, Edward, and the rest. He could have been here, could have turned the tide, could have been the game changer against the British.

Hell, he already was the game changer. He had the biggest, baddest ship in this corner of the world, with the best armor, the best weapons, the best ordinance, and the best crew, a literal magician as his first mate, and he, with his own borderline supernatural physical prowess.

He could have saved Mary, the Republic, Blackbeard, etc. It was his choice to leave—to abandon them—and therefore their deaths were his responsibilities, his faults, and his burdens to bear for the rest of his life.

That small voice argued that he was not to blame in any of this. It was illogical. There was no way to pin Nassau's disease on him, along with Edward's and Thatch's failure to find appropriate medicine. There was no way he was at fault for Hornigold's betrayal. And there was certainly no way he was to blame for Mary's death.

That fubar with the Piece of Eden from Chrysaor's ship was totally random. There was no way to predict that it would've exploded and sent them all hurling back in time, and there was no way to control whatever mechanism the Precursor woman, Aletheia, had used to send them back to the future.

Six years after the fact.

Jake had a sudden epiphany then, his conflicting psyche suddenly finding unity in its war against itself. As far as scapegoats went, this was easily the most sound and logical, perhaps even valid. This whole mess that Jake was in right now, the situation he and his crew had been in and just gotten out of, was very much the fault of the Precursors.

It was them that had made those infernal relics, the Pieces of Eden, with all their horrible powers. If they hadn't made those things, then that Apple wouldn't have existed to blow up and send them back in time, and that Precursor woman, Aletheia, with those three Apples or whatever device she used—and here was the irrational part—was solely to blame for the six-year skip.

That was an irrational thought because Jake truthfully had no idea as to what Aletheia could and couldn't control, so sending them forward to six years after the fact migth've very well been the very best she could've managed, but Jake wasn't feeling like being that beneficial.

He was angry, he was internally roiling, and he wanted something to direct all that emotion at, and where human instinct was to find an outlet anywhere but at yourself, the Precursors and their Pieces of Eden were perfect.

The Apples of Eden were perfect to blame.

The Pieces of Eden in general were perfect to blame.

The Precursors were perfect to blame.

Aletheia was perfect to blame.

Because of her, because of them, because of their bastard creations, Jake's big sister was dead, dead after he had promised her to be careful, and he ended up getting sent back in time. Because of the Precursors.

They were to blame. They were to blame for everything.

And Jake was going to hate them. After this, he was going to dedicate the rest of his life to finding as many Pieces as he could, gather as many as he could, kill any Assassin or Templar that tried to stop or steal from him, and find a way to destroy every piece he came found.

In a way that didn't get him sent somewhere back in time.

That wasn't really a fair sentiment, dumping all his emotion onto the Precursors, but who cares? Emotions were fickle things, after all, not caring about logic or reason.

Take this current endeavor, for example. Jake had his ship going right for Kingston with the intent of laying waste to the budding port city purely because it was there that Mary had been imprisoned, tried, and then died.

Jake's mind had already run wild with dark fantasies about just what happened to Mary in the Kingston prison, what the guards said, what they might've done—just how had Mary become pregnant, exactly?—and he was set to rain fire and brimstone on the whole town, bring forth wrath and fury on every person therein just for the actions of a few in a small area.

Emotions truly were a plague to mankind, Jake thought, so maybe the Templars had the right idea after all in their unending quest to subjugate free will.

And Mary probably would have been quite cross with him with for what he was going to do.

…ah, fuck it.

The Running Frenchman sailed for Kingston, full of very unstable pirates that were just ready to spill forth their anger and sadness in the form of innocent blood.

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As far as history IRL goes, Kingston was a port colony founded by the British after an earthquake ruined Port Royal, and it quickly crew into a thriving trade hub with its natural harbor and a perfect place to set up a fort across the channel for defenses. It was also never attacked in the dead of night by vengeful pirates that were perfectly fine with engaging in their humanity and using the city as an outlet for their grief and anger.

But also as far as history IRL goes, there's not an ancient civilization called the Isu, nor are there secret organizations raging a secret war for the freedom of humanity.

Or as far as we know, anyway.

Because Kingston was such a thriving port, heads were only turned at the sight of the Running Frenchman simply due to her size, and for no other reason. The night people saw the ship, and then went back to whatever their business was. Even the guards of the prison fort gave the galleon no further thought.

If it had been day, and the black flag visible, alarms might have been sounded, but as it was, the sleepy town of Kingston was completely unprepared for the blasts of mortars and the cadence of cannons.

Hellfire and brimstone was rained upon the innocents. Children were shredded by shrapnel, pregnant women were crushed by collapsing structures, able-bodied men were fleeing in terror and getting flattened by cannonballs. The town caught fire and burned, the slaves on the plantations burning with the crops.

The king's finest were completely useless, the panic and suddenness of the situation, and the fact that the Kingston station was regarded more as a sanctioned vacation than a posting, the soldiers frequenting the brothels, fuciking and drinking themselves silly, meaning most of them had become lazy and slow.

However, the most important part of this situation wasn't the vengeful crew shelling the town of Kingston. It was Jake, having stormed the prison fort all by himself before the attack began, and was laying waste to the soldiers therein.

As he mowed down British troops one by one, moving from section to section, driven by rage and fury, ignoring all the blood soaking into his clothes and dripping off his swords, Jake had to wonder how anything Edward described had come to pass. He had fought side by side with the Kenway pirate, and he knew how well the man could use those swords of his, so it just begged the question of how man as capable and skilled and Edward Kenway had let fall so many things in the course of the past six years.

Jake might have to ask him later if he didn't kill the man.

This was something of a cardinal sin after all, especially when you consider the fact that there was an Assassin Bureau in Kingston headed by the African-born Master Assassin, Antó. If he died, and/or any of his underlings died, well….

Jake barely gave it any thought as he single-handedly slaughtered dozens of British soldiers. Just a lone sixteen-year-old with a pair of swords and a quartet of pistols up against full-grown men, some of them outrageously large, some of them having been in the navy and swinging swords for years, but none of them stood a chance against Jake's skill.

And that Isu blood in him increasing his strength, stamina, and vitality. He had taken a few swords and musket balls during this battle, but the wounds had already healed.

He was unstoppable.

Jake carved his way through the prison fort, going out of his way to kill those few that weren't even fighting him but were running around like headless chickens. He did have the presence of mind to disable the fort's cannons and kill their operators, as this place did pose something of a small, tiny threat to his crew. Eventually, he stormed the prison, and what prisoners there were screaming like lunatics.

Granted, there were literal lunatics there, but that wasn't important.

Once again, Jake gave no quarter to those guards he found inside, cutting them down like dead trees ruining the view of his front lawn. He found what he was looking for, a big, wood and iron door locked from the inside, and he blasted it open with a strike of his leg, not even registering the sting of the impact through his nerves.

Inside was the warden, shivering and dressed in a nightgown, his uniform and powdered wig on a stand that had been knocked over from the impact tremors of the Running Frenchman's barrage. The Englishman looked at the horrifying figure that was the blood-covered Captain Jake Swallow, shrouded in the darkness of the gloomy prison, and whimpered.

"P-Please don't kill me! You can have all the gold and weapons and whatever you want! I-I have family—a wife, two sons and two daughters b-back in England!"

In the gloom of the warden's quarters at night, only slowly dying lamps to provide light, Jake's eyes were invisible to the warden, and therefore it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. In the background, the cannon and mortar fire drummed on like the cadence at the gallows.

"Mary. Read." Jake said icily, in a short, deep, clipped tone.

"W-What?"

"The pirate woman imprisoned here that gave birth and died shortly after. Are you the warden that was present during her time here?"

The warden sat frozen, and it was clear to Jake that the answer was yes, but the man was trying to figure out what Jake was doing here, and was weighing the pros and cons of lying or telling the truth.

With slow, deliberate steps the echoed through the stone chamber, Jake approached the warden and kneeled down so close that they could feel each other's breath.

"Are you religious?"

"W-What?"

"Are you religious? Do you believe in God and Jesus?"

"Y-Yes…?"

"Does your family share your beliefs?"

"O-Of c-course…"

Jake's hands moved with blinding speed and clamped down hard on either side of the warden's head, eliciting a pained squawk. Jake started to apply pressure.

"Then you'll see them again," the pirate hissed.

And he squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed, putting forth all that he had into crushing the warden's skull between his hands. However, as strong as he was, he wasn't so strong as to accomplish that terrible feat, and so he devolved into bashing the warden's head into the stone floor like an animal, grunting like an animal with each consecutive blow, until finally:

The bone gave way and spilled the warden's life all over the floor.

Jake kneeled there, watching the consciousness leave the man's eyes, his own eyes filled with hatred as he breathed heavily, the exertion and emotion of his act taking his toll on him. When his breathing evened out, he stood up and spat on the warden's warm corpse, experiencing the same cliché that typically came with killing an indirect person to the cause of your vengeance.

Jake felt empty and hollow, no more satisfied after killing the warden that had let Mary suffer than before. When he exited the prison and saw the burning nightmare that was Kingston, flames devouring people and houses, smoke choking the sea and sky, he only felt immeasurable guilt and shame.

Jake thought of what the warden had said, about having family. He had been telling the truth, the pirate had seen it in his eyes, and Jake was left wondering about all the other soldiers he had killed this night, and what family they had.

He looked to the Running Frenchman, and between him and her he could swear that he saw the ghost of his beloved big sister frowning at him in disappointment and distaste. Jake didn't know if that was just the fire and his emotions playing tricks on him, but it shook him to his core and would remain branded upon his mind for decades to come.

Jake returned to his ship and the pirates left Kingston to the flames, bitter, resentful, and still angry.

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The massive spire of smoke was seen for dozens of miles around the West Indies, and it drew sailors from all walks of life. The English, the Spanish, pirates, privateers, merchants, and more all came to investigate, and then to help in whatever way they could.

Edward Kenway was among those that arrived, and what he saw made his eyes sting, the smoke having nothing to do with it.

"Oh, Jake…what have you done?"

The pirate-turned-Assassin made his way through the burning town, dodging around teams throwing buckets of water onto the flames, and he found the local bureau. It had been spared the fire, but not the cannons. A big part of the building had collapsed into a pile of wood and brick.

Some Assassins were digging through the rubble, and Edward went to them.

"Where's Antó?"

The Assassin pointed, and where that finger led was a collection of bodies covered in bloodied white cloths.

"He didn't have a chance," the Assassin said. "We heard cannons, rushed outside, and that was it."

Edward's chest got tight. He had seen his fair share of bodies that had taken cannonballs, and it was never pretty. He had always thought that it was a quick end, given how much damage was done, but it was certainly a very messy end.

Certainly an undeserving one for a man as strong and upstanding as Antó.

When Edward next spoke, it was with hesitance out of fear for the answer. Even though he knew in his heart what the answer was, he still held on to a shrivel of hope that he was wrong.

"The ship that did this…do you know her?"

"Aye," the Assassin said, and his eyes alit with angry fire. "It was the Running Frenchman. Your friend Jake Swallow did this."

Edward's heart broke at the confirmation.

"Captain Kenway."

The Assassin in question turned to the speaker, and the other Assassins all crossed an arm over their chest at the sight of the Mentor, Ah Tabai. The Mayan Assassin's eyes were heavy and tired, but firm.

"This attack, despite the reason and cause, cannot be excused. Too many innocents, and too many of our brothers and sisters….Jake must be brought to justice for these crimes."

"I know, mate," Edward sighed. "None of this feels right."

"Agreed," the Mentor sighed as well.

Ah Tabai knew Jake Swallow quite well, the unofficial little brother of one of his most promising students, Mary Read. The boy was bright, capable, strong-willed, and would've made a terrific asset to the Assassins. He was well-versed in philosophy and could keep Ah Tabai engaged for hours in conversation.

It truly did hurt the Mentor's heart to decree the death of such an outstanding young man, especially when that young man had been so favored and loved by his favorite student, Mary.

"If you want, Captain…I can have others do this task."

"No," Edward shook his head. "Jake would cut them down. I'm the only one that can stand up to him."

"Very well, then," Ah Tabai said. "Captain Edward Kenway, as Mentor of the Caribbean Brotherhood, I order you to hunt down Captain Jake Swallow and kill him for the attacking of Kingston, the killing of dozens of innocent people, and for killing our brothers and sisters."

Edward solemnly crossed an arm over his chest. "Mentor."

The Jackdaw set sail soon after, on the hunt for the Running Frenchman.

She would never see her again, and their meeting in Great Inagua was the last time Edward Kenway would ever see Jake Swallow.

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November 1722

Off the coast of Florida

Through the fog, the frigates and man-o'-wars started to appear one by one, like ghosts coming to claim their souls, all of them bearing British flags.

The crew of the Running Frenchman stared at the armada silently, recognizing that this was most likely going to be the end. They had been sailing up the coast of the New World, planning to turn Eastward at about North Carolina to head for Europe so they could check on their families and skip the doldrums.

However, it was obvious that word of Kingston had somehow reached the Colonies and the governors there had dispatched a fleet.

Jake stared at the oncoming ships, feeling heavy and tired.

"I've doomed us all," he announced, making all the eyes turn to him. "All of you have families elsewhere that you need to see, and have no purpose dying here. Get to the lifeboats and make for shore. I'll hold them off."

And no one moved. They all just kept staring at Jake, calm and resolute.

Mr. Biggs placed his hand on the young pirate's shoulder. "The crew and I are with you, captain."

Jake looked at his first mate before he looked to his crew, and he drew his sword.

"To Freedom!"

The crew drew their swords and raised them high. "To Freedom~!"

"To Glory!"

"Glory~!"

"In the name of Honor!"

"Honor~!"

"All hands! Battle stations! Load cannons and mortars! Swivels and chase guns! Full sail! Full sail!"

The crew erupted into motion, the alarm bell ringing loudly as man and woman went to their assigned duties.

Jake looked at the magician. "A song for us, Mr. Biggs?"

He cleared his throat and started off.

"The king and his men

Stole the queen from her bed

And bound~ her in her bones~…"

The mighty green galleon sailed onwards for the British, undeterred by their numbers.

Mr. Biggs continued his song.

"The seas be ours and by the powers

Where we will we'll roam…"

A strong, warm wind caught the sails and powered the Running Frenchman forward, carrying her into battle. The crew, knowing the song of the first mate, joined in for the final verses, and that wind carried their sound across the waves to the British sailors, and they trembled.

"YO-HO

All hands!

Hoist the colors~ High~!

Heave-HO

Thieves and beggars

Never shall we die~!"

The last syllable hung loud and long in the air, and was silenced by the firing of six mortars at once, raining hellfire and shrapnel upon the British ships.

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And that's how Black Flag ends. Next chapter sees the beginning of ACIII, and Old Man Jake.

I've also had to take a second job on top of my current one, which means most of my mornings go to Job 1, and then my evenings from Sunday through Thursday go to Job 2, which has left me very tired. When these next chapters come out is uncertain.

What is certain is that Jake hates Shay because Shay killed Adéwalé; Jake hates Haytham because he's a total betrayal to Edward; and because Jake and Cheyenne are both Percy's past lives, that means that Percy both absolutely despises and absolutely adores his grandfather.

Reincarnation is fun.

Fav, Follow, and Review!

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Off the coast of Florida, if you go out far enough, down deep enough, you'll find the wreckage of dozens of ships. If you peeled through the coral and the rot, and were enough of an expert, you'd recognize the make of most of these ships to be of 18th century British design. Only one ship stood out from them all.

Amongst all this wreckage of wood and metal was a hill. Resting atop this hill, mighty and triumphant, forever dominant, was a magnificent galleon.

You know what her name is.