Author's Note: Okey-dokey. I was actually going to make this into a giant Christmas segment, but I've discovered if I put it all on one chapter it will be about the size of the state of Alaska. So here's the end of chapter eleven. There may be some typos, sorry.

Caribbean Decembers were very different from those of the Decembers in Paris.

It was an hour before dawn on the tidy beaches of New Antoine. Fantine sat by the shore with her feet buried in two mounds of sand, and listened to the waves, as she had taken to doing several times a week. The beaches were too busy during the day; they were filled with fishermen with eyes as gaping as those of the heads of the fish they had caught. Robert stood a few feet away, picking up shells and bringing them to her. Robert was now at the age that he would often scurry on ahead of her when she walked to pick up something interesting, hurry over to his mother, give it to her, and bustle on ahead. Most of the time they were rocks and sticks and the occasional fish head, but sometimes he would find something rather diverting from whatever she had on her mind.

Today Fantine's mind was not with her. Her mother had been in her thoughts for the past few weeks, just after Fantine had been trying to prepare a special stew her mother used to make in Paris. It had occurred to Fantine that, when people said daughters grow into their mothers, they weren't lying. Fantine realized that at the age of nearly 17, the time when most girls would be busy finishing school and finding husbands to make a life with, Fantine had taken on a job just as hard as any middle-aged peasant woman's in Vierge Harbor. Not only was she practically the manager of the inn, but she also was busy raising two children on her own… two spilled mugs of beer on a previously clean wooden floor that she had to mop up.

Oh, but Fantine would never think of her children as any sort of misfortunes: no, she loved Robert and Erin with all her soul. They were the only family she had left, as far as she was concerned. After all, was it really logical to hope for once again joining her mother- who had been ill the last time she saw her- after so many years? It was foolish to put on the horse's blinder that was optimism; Fantine wasn't as stupid as people assume lower-class to be. She knew at least one thing for certain- in this day and age, a working-class woman at middle-age who overworked herself to the point of illness wasn't likely to survive the rough, unforgiving, white-capped rapids that were the cobblestone streets of Paris. In reality, her mother had probably died shortly after Fantine had been taken, without enough strength and without enough money to earn medicine for wellness. A sense of morbidity came upon Fantine like a dark thundercloud as she understood her mother had probably died some years ago, alone, penniless, in some grave- hopefully marked. Maybe- maybe she could go and see what became of her mother, the sweet, selfless woman- if she earned enough money, she could take Robert and Erin back to Paris, and she could say goodbye to her mother, and maybe move out to the country somewhere where people would look at her so much with harsh, assuming eyes and snubbing civility in their tones.

But such thoughts were fancy. Where could she earn enough money for three tickets for a passage back to Paris, and from then where could she find the money to support her family happily? She could barely support herself now. To achieve almost any dream, somewhere along the way a considerable deal of money is involved, and for Fantine, to achieve any dream right now, one would… one would have to be….

"A pirate." Fantine murmured coldly to herself.

A pirate. Fantine felt something like a slimy, cold snail slither into her gut. It was the thing that had torn her away from a humble, somewhat promising life and hurled her into a life of Torments: like Sisyphus, always pushing a cumbersome rock uphill, but never really getting anywhere; chained to the very thing that had brought her to this slippery slope. Piracy. It was true, to hope to rejoin her mother and live happily was almost as fanciful as hoping that her would-be husband would come home and support her instead of simple adding another weight onto the stone and leave her to push on uphill. She was tired of fancy.

"Mama!" Robert cried, running over. Fantine loved the way toddlers- especially Robert- ran. It was more of an excited waddling.

"What is it, my duckie?" Fantine said in French. She wanted him to know both English and French; she just didn't know if it was right to teach him the languages at the same time or consecutively. Robert took Fantine's hand and dropped something into it, then ran back in the direction he came from. Fantine looked down and opened her hand. It was a string of beads: fourteen or fifteen of them, all different colors and designs, and one very large coin fastened at the end. They were familiar. Yes, she couldn't mistake these beads, especially that coin, with the skull on its face.

It was Jack's.

Fantine dashed after Robert, where she could make out a spot on the horizon. Quickly, she swept her boy under her arm, picked up her skirts, and ran as quickly as she could to whatever was by the shore.

As she approached, she could see it was something standing up- no, it might be two things, something flat next to whatever was coming out of the water. When she reached her destination, Fantine's suspicions were confirmed. A man, soaking, stood before her, bare feet planted in sand. A sea turtle, wrapped in some sort of rope, floated expectantly beside him.

"Jack?" She cried incredulously.

"'Ello, love-" he panted, wobbling, "Fancy meeting you on this fine Caribbean morning…." It was about all he could say before he collapsed tiredly to the sandy floor. Fantine knelt down to help him; he had gone unconscious and had a cold, clammy feeling to him. Fantine looked up at the turtle, still floating somewhat expectantly near her. After a second, the turtle ducked his head under, turned around, and disappeared into the tide.

"Fancy that," Fantine murmured.

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The one thing about New Antoine that annoyed Fantine to no end was the fact that it was heavily guarded and very conservative. She felt she was already pressing her luck in residing in such a "safe" harbor, and now she was dragging a soaking wet man with long dreads and beaded beard with obvious tattoos all over his person into the port where easily panicked and ultra-protective islanders lived didn't make things any better. She had to stop two boys running by to purchase a wheelbarrow they had with them, giving them two halfpence if they would help push the wheelbarrow to the inn. The boys did not inquire of the strange man curled up hiding under a blanket; why should they, for two halfpence? That was the promise of being young and innocent- naivety.

Since last year, Mrs. Stew's cough had gotten worse. In the past few months, Fantine had noticed a few flecks of blood in her handkerchief, even though Mrs. Stew tried to hide it. Mrs. Stew huskily shrugged it off, saying it was just the cold and by spring she'll be as fine as the customers were numerous, but all the same she had been bestowing more responsibility onto Fantine. The other workers at the inn were dull and common, but Fantine was sharp and precise. So, within the past month or two, Mrs. Stew had given her a raise, allowing her to purchase a small cottage-like shack near the inn that Mrs. Stew had been keeping on the side for guests.

She hid him in the room next to hers. Paying through the nose for a room for Jack would be considerably more expensive, but would in the end be safer as well. Honestly, who wouldn't be suspicious of a 17-year-old girl- supposedly unmarried- hiding a strange man with a dubious "P" tattoo blatantly displayed on his wrist? To put him in a hospital would be too expensive: and risky. The doctors of New Antoine didn't normally tend to commoners such as herself for a reasonable price, and they especially didn't serve pirates and criminals. Not in New Antoine, not anywhere. In the end, hiding him in the inn would be the best choice.

In the past two years at the inn, Fantine had learned a thing or two about medicines. She had already possessed a sufficient amount of knowledge from her work with Freia at the church in Vierge Harbor, and Mrs. Stew made sure all of her employees were equipped with proper know-how when it came to expensive matters such as doctoring. It was bad for business when a seaman wasn't feeling too well and Mrs. Stew had to send one of the serving girls to fetch a doctor for a housecall. Fantine's prior knowledge of medicines helped her earn a higher position above the other girls at the inn; Mrs. Stew trusted her more. BY keeping a pirate in the inn, she was risking not only her position and job, but her citizenship at New Anoine. Nobody wanted a scanty unmarried mother of two questionable children around if she was going to be hiding shady potential criminals in an allegedly "safe" area. What the citizens of New Antoine failed to realize was that there is no absolutely "safe" area- evil lurks in every dark recess because there is always a dark recess available in the heart of every man for evil to lurk in. Ignorance, to the people of New Antoine and to Fantine's great annoyance, was truly bliss.

After a few hours, Jack's fever died down. He slept peacefully through the afternoon, and Fantine went back to work, but around the evening when Fantine checked in on him, he was cold and clammy. She had been soaking a rag in warm water when he began to speak.

"I need blood," he groaned.

Fantine stopped. "What?"

"I don't have any blood in me. He took it all."

"Who did?"

"You know him. Everybody knows him. He's the devil, I know it. He's the Bloodtaker. I told him he could have my blood if he let me live, and he did, but now I don't have any blood. Do you have any blood?"

"Jack, you're ill-"

"Listen to me! I need this blood. Couldn't you find someone with some extra blood to give?"

"You have plenty of blood, Jack."

"No, you don't understand! I don't have any! Please," he pleaded, grabbing her by the shoulders. She didn't think he knew the strength of his own grip at the moment; it was beginning to hurt her arms. "I'm begging you. I'll do anything. I'll pay you! Five hundred silver pieces!"

"You are not safe, Jack. Let me fetch you some medicine-"

"Please," he begged, his brown eyes bulging in a surreal way, "I don't need medicine, I need blood. If you have a heart, please!"

"Alright, Jack," she said, uncertainly, "I'll get you some blood. But you need to rest."

"Thank you," he pulled her into an ambrace. Fantine tensed up, unused to the action. He smelled… nice.

He smelled nice? What?

"Thank you so much."

"….You're welcome, Jack."

He continued to hold her for a moment longer, and he said quietly, "You are very beautiful."

Fantine pulled away. She gently laid him down and put the warm rag on his head until his breathing became slow and his temples relaxed. He still had her hand in his, and when she was sure he was asleep, she carefully pulled it out, took one last worried look at him, and went down to serve dinner to the guests.

As she was carrying a tray of chicken to a table, Mrs. Stew stopped her.

"What was the purpose of Anne taking half your shift, Fantine?"

"One of our guests wasn't feeling too well, Madame. I was making sure he was alright."

"Which guest?"

"A Monsieur Smith, Madame. He just signed in."

"Is this the same Mr. Smith who checked in about a year ago with another sailor and your baby?"

Fantine faltered. She was onto her. "I…"

Mrs. Stew leaned forward. "Don't think I don't see what's going on in my inn. As long as there's money paid for him being here, I won't say anything, but if I see one hint of trouble, he's out of here."

Fantine bowed her head. "Yes, Madame."

"I gave you a job and a roof over your head, young Miss Pascal, and you've been very good help, but if your think you can abuse my trust, I can take it away just as easily."

"I'm sorry, Madame."

"Go," Mrs. Stew resorted to a fit of coughs and pulled out a handkerchief. There were flecks of blood at the corner of her mouth. Fantine said nothing about this; she didn't want to make Mrs. Stew even more upset. So, she picked up the tray and delivered the food, just as ordered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Robert, come here. It's time to eat."

"What are we having, mama?"

"Chicken and carrots."

"I don't want carrots."

"I thought you liked carrots."

"No. I hate carrots!" he ran around the room in circles, yelling. "I hate carrots! I hate carrots! I hate carrots!"

"Shhh, quiet. You'll disturb the guests."

"Who's that man in the room next door, mama?"

"What?"

"I heard you talking to him."

Fantine paused. What should she say? Should she tell him he was his father? Would he be able to understand? Should she lie? "Eat your dinner, Robert."

Robert obeyed, sitting down and poking at his carrots.

"And don't play with your food."

"I hate carrots!"

Fantine went into the room next door with some more blankets and a bottle of tonic. She set the blankets down on a chair, took a spoon and poured the tonic into a mixture she had set on the table.

"I hope that's rum in that mug." Jack's voice came from behind her. Fantine turned to see him looking at her with calm brown eyes from the bed. She turned back, secretly relieved he wasn't raving anymore.

"You don't need any rum. Not in the state that you're in."

"Me mum- God rest her soul- used to say that rum is the best medicine for the heart."

Fantine carried the tonic over to his bed. "I really don't think you even knew who your mother was at all, Captain Sparrow."

Jack smiled wearily, his gold teeth glistening in the warm candlelight. "You are correct in saying so." He tried to sit up, weakly.

"No no, don't sit up. You're still too weak. Here, drink this-" she handed him the medicine. He chugged it down, then gagged.

"That's definitely not rum."

"It's better than rum for you," she said sternly.

Jack looked at her. Her accent was still terribly thick; he could barely understand what she was saying. Actually, now that he thought of it, he probably understood her more when he was drunk than now. It had appeared over the past year that Fantine's breasts- or lack of, anyway- had grown just a little bit. It could have been the candlelight playing tricks with his eyes, but they didn't seem quite so much like mosquito bites anymore. Seeing this gave him a strange happiness: his little girl bride was growing up.

"It's good to see ye again, lass." He said.

"Mama?" a little boy's voice came from the door. "Who is that man?"

Jack pulled himself up tiredly to see around Fantine. It was a dark-headed little boy with almond-shaped amethyst eyes, pointing straight at him. How rude.

"Oh," Fantine looked back at Jack, nervous. "Why, Robert, this… this is… ah…"

"Why, don't you recognize me, Robert?" Jack said, his voice rough and scratchy, making the boy jump back a bit, "I'm yer father!"

"Father?" Robert echoed, delighted. It was a strange and mysterious title- like Santa Claus.

"Aye, I'm yer ol' dad," Jack patted his knee, and the little boy came running excitedly to him.

"Oh God," Fantine put her hand to her head.

Author's Not-So-Occasional Nagging for Reviews: Seriously now. If I don't have reviews, I don't know if I'm doing well, or if I should even keep going with this story. Please review. Even the occcasional "man, your grammar is SO whacked up!" helps. Please? I'll give you a cookie!