Surrender

Vampire!Beckabeth.

Warnings: Het, Smut, PWP, blood, some mild horror. I suppose you could say it's a songfic, kind of. At least the song 'Surrender' inspired it, that and watching too much Dracula. So no worries, no sparkly vamps here ;P

1748

You belong to me…

Elizabeth awoke, forehead drenched with a cold sweat, not even the whispering breeze from the sea only a mile off able to sooth her as her breasts rose and fell raggedly.

Outside the moon shone full and strong, silvering the waves as they crashed on the shore, its constant rhythm like a drumbeat in Elizabeth's ears. She distrusted it, she found it eerie; the moon's light glaring, painful.

The waves sounded like a drumbeat at an execution.

Shivering, she rose from her bed and threw a shawl around her shoulders, going to the window of her small cottage and looking out at the serene landscape of the island she had lived on since Will had left her a month ago.

Will. Her heart ached for him, its throbs matching the drumbeat of the waves at the foot of the cliff below.

A mist was collecting above the sea. It would be a cold night. Elizabeth shivered, reaching out for the shutter when that whisper came again.

You belong to me…

"No,"

The word was a breath, a whisper, an instinctive defiant cry of the heart. Elizabeth belonged to no one, not even Will. That she knew in her heart of hearts, the darkest corner of which she visited nightly.

Shivering from her dream, the dream she could not remember, Elizabeth held her shawl tighter and returned to her bed, leaving the window open in her forgetful unease.

She stroked the tiny swell of her stomach, thinking on the life growing within her. The thought soothed, eased, bade her remember the need to keep up her strength and not to let silly nightmares upset her.

Nightmares were all too common for her, after the events of the past years.

As Elizabeth settled down once more, her eyes thought they glimpsed a tendril of mist creeping through her window, but it was too late as slumber took her, and she dismissed it as idle fancy before she slipped into sleep.

Who are you?

You know me.

I don't know you. What is this?

You'll find out soon enough, Elizabeth. After all, you belong to me…

I belong to no one.

You will do.

I don't understand…

Elizabeth awoke, her eyelids strangely heavy, an odd weakness holding down her limbs. Every part of her ached, and she moaned softly before forcing her eyes open to face another day.

She didn't pay any heed to the tiny tears on her neck, dull, grey at the edges and closed over.

The next night, the shutters were open and Elizabeth tossed and turned.

You again?

Me. It seems I really have underestimated your intelligence, Elizabeth.

I didn't think dreams were meant to be patronising.

Who says this is a dream?

I am not awake.

Yes, but a dream, my dear Mrs Turner, would indicate that this isn't real. And it is very real.

What…?

Soon, Elizabeth, soon all will be revealed…

The next morning, Elizabeth could barely move and when she found the strength, she saw her skin was bloodless and her entire body ached relentlessly. Her hair was straw like, and her lips were dry and cracked.

She frowned as the wind from the sea made her shiver. In a fit of unease, she slammed the shutters down with what little strength she possessed.

It was then that she felt the tears on her throat with trembling fingers.

There was no one she could turn to, none to help. Jack and Barbossa had sailed away into the mists of legend long ago, and Will was sailing the seas between the worlds.

Her father was dead and the mainland was a day's sail away, the young man who brought her supplies once a week not due for three more days. She had little strength, and it hurt to look at the sunlight that she had so delighted in, once upon a time.

What was happening to her? How could she stop it?

She feared for the life of her unborn child, barely more than a sense, a smidgen of new life within her, and her hand fell to her abdomen protectively. She would find answers, she would stay awake tonight, and see what plagued her each night.

She had heard tales of large bats which entered houses and barns to suck blood of livestock, and sometimes even from humans though only rarely. And she knew of tales of another creature, which the bat gave its name to, terrifying, monstrous, unnatural…

The vampire.

Could they even be real? Was that what was afflicting her?

For one moment, Elizabeth's heart cried out in anguish. Why me?

Because you're mine.

Elizabeth jumped, and knocked a cup from her table as she whirled around in shock. The voice had spoken in her ear, as clear and distinct as if someone stood in the room beside her.

Fear made her bolt, out the cottage, out of her little garden and away into the small palm jungle only half a mile away. Fear made her agile, swift, lending her strength she had missed.

The mist came on, up from the sea, rolling over the land with unnatural speed, chasing Elizabeth as she crashed through the undergrowth, thorns pricking her feet, branches pulling at her hair.

The mist pursued her, hedging her around, and she felt like the very trees were laughing at her, for the futile chase, because she would lose.

This was not an enemy she could fight with a cutlass, nor shoot with a pistol. She was powerless.

Strength failed her as helplessness assailed her, insidious, unstoppable as the mist that pursued her, surrounded her, fencing her in with impenetrable white, more cold than the icy seas she had sailed at the world's end.

She tripped, face first, onto the ground, dry, cracked old palm leaves rustling beneath her as she slumped onto them.

Sarcastic laughter rang in her ears, compounding the shivers rushing down her spine, as she panted. She touched her cheek and was shocked to find tears on her skin, her body throbbing in pain but none more so than her neck, and the tears on its lily white perfection.

Silence fell, and nothing moved, as Elizabeth shuddered in the undergrowth, all bravado gone, all strength drained.

"Who are you!" she screamed. "What do you want with me!"

Revenge. You destroyed me, destroyed my life, Elizabeth Turner, and now you are mine. Your blood, your body, your life…and your child…

"Why?" Elizabeth cried out.

It's just good business, Elizabeth…

She froze. She knew that voice, knew that phrase, knew that hateful cadence. But it was impossible…

Wasn't it?

You're almost there.

"No. No, he died. He died on the Endeavour, we killed him," she hissed, trying to find the strength to get up, but now something else other than weakness held her down.

It was like a physical weight holding her to the jungle floor, and she was powerless.

A sudden crunch of dead palm leaves and twigs made her breath freeze in her lungs, and her fists clenched in the undergrowth.

Footsteps.

They came nearer, and nearer, and Elizabeth thought her heart would burst with the fear…and the anticipation.

Kneel.

Silky. Powerful. Compelling. She was powerless.

She pulled herself up into a kneeling position, her body manipulated like a puppet, but she did not raise her head. It was no act of submission, but of fearful defiance.

If she did not look up, did not see…him, then he couldn't be here. He couldn't be alive.

Lord Beckett was dead, and if she did not look up, then he would remain so.

Two lacquered boots, highly polished, came into view as she began to shake, from more than cold. Her very skin felt alive, and she felt the will holding her telling her to look up.

But she would not.

A hand, a physical, real, flesh and blood hand fondled her curls and she exhaled raggedly.

An amused chuckle sounded above her head, and this time the voice spoke aloud, not in her head.

"You always were a strong one, Mrs Turner. Now look at me,"

The voice was gentle, but firm, and beneath its comforting tone, it warned her if she did not comply, it would turn cold and cruel, and her will, what little remained of it, would be taken from her.

Her will was a gift from him.

Slowly, Elizabeth looked.

Her eyes travelled shakily up expensive looking boots, polished to a mirror shine, to black breeches tightly held to slender thighs and hips, where the edge of a black satin coat, trimmed with silver braid, met her gaze. She continued on, glimpsing a waistcoat of similar design to the coat, and fluffy cravat hugging a slender neck, sitting below a face veiled in shadow.

Apart from the eyes.

The eyes shone, frigid as ice, haughty, mocking, cold.

Pure evil.

And she shivered as she felt herself ensorcelled, trapped in that icy gaze, paralysed like the bird before the snake.

His gaze said one thing. Mine.

His fingers traced her face, her delicate features, before pulling her hair back from her neck to reveal the tears on her throat. Her pulse leapt at his touch, her blood surging to the surface of her skin as if answering his call, and she shuddered at the coldness of his touch.

Any thought of speaking, of asking what was foremost in her mind, left Elizabeth as she glimpsed hungry desire in those cold eyes, and the stark planes of his immaculate face.

Surely that face should be scarred? Burned by the explosion that ripped apart the Endeavour? Shouldn't he be at the bottom of the ocean now, or in the belly of a shark? Or his body drifting on the waves, sightless eyes gazing up at unfeeling stars as it carried him on?

How had he survived?

But Elizabeth was mute, as Beckett knelt before her, pulling her forward bodily as his arms slid around her waist. His hypnotic gaze broken, Elizabeth tried to struggle but a strange lethargy was afflicting her and she could not fight him for long before he looked at her again, and she was limp in his arms.

She wore nothing but a shift, and it felt all too thin against the pervading ice of his body.

With one hand, he exposed the top of her panting breast, fingers caressing the bloodless skin softly, yet Elizabeth shivered, whether with revulsion or desire, she wasn't sure.

It couldn't be the latter. The man had killed her father, was responsible for the butchery of thousands, and was the reason for Will's enslavement to the Flying Dutchman.

She hated him.

But none of that could make her move from his embrace, could give her the strength to fight him.

Again that amused chuckle against her neck as she met his eyes once more.

"Why are you doing this?" she gasped, every word an effort and the slight surprise in those frozen orbs gave her some small satisfaction.

And hope. His control was not absolute.

"All in good time, my dear," he whispered, and her eyes fell closed slightly at the seduction in that tone, the promised delight of sinful nights spent…doing what? She was soon to find out.

His hand abruptly fisted in her hair, pulling her head to the side, wrenching a cry of pain from Elizabeth's lips as she flinched. Beckett merely chuckled as his lips ghosted over the flesh his fingers had uncovered, before lingering over the wounds on her throat.

"I promise you will enjoy this, Elizabeth. More so, because you will remember it this time," he breathed, before pain exploded behind Elizabeth's eyes, centred on the place where Beckett's mouth fastened onto her torn skin. But her body did not shrink away, she did not try to push him away but her body arched into his deathly kiss, even as he drank the life from her.

She was dimly aware he lowered her to the jungle floor, her arms limply resting on the dead leaves, his mouth still at her neck, drinking greedily. One hand released her waist to glide down to her leg, pulling it up to his hip before sliding his hand beneath the hem of the shift.

Elizabeth arched and cried out as his fingers, more skilful than she could ever have imagined, forced a burst of pleasure to wash over her skin. Combined with the pain and the lethargy caused by his assault on her neck, she was helpless against the wave of pleasure and pain, and a pleading moan left her lips.

Abruptly, Beckett left her neck, blood tingeing the pale skin around his lips and chin.

Her blood.

Elizabeth could only lie there, in his arms, and look up at him even as his fingers played and teased with her body. She was dimly aware that her fingers clutched his arms tightly.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked again, in a dry rasp of her usual voice. But some of her old defiance was rising again, even as her breath grew short from blood loss and lust. "We defeated your armada, destroyed your ship. Its over."

His fingers slowed, and Elizabeth bit back a moan. Roughly, he grabbed her hair, pulling it back so her head was pulled back at a painful angle.

"Not yet it isn't," he said, coolly, as if he wasn't pinning her down to the ground, as if he hadn't just drunk blood from her neck. "There is still you, and you will…you are mine. My revenge, my compensation if you will. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"How?" was Elizabeth's next hoarse question.

"Calypso. Apparently she holds just as much as a grudge against you as I do, and so she offered me a chance at revenge. It was just good business, Elizabeth, nothing more," he replied.

"But…why…a vampire?"

"Her own punishment for me, for my presumption in attempting to rule the seas. However, it is one I find quite pleasurable," he growled huskily, glancing down at her throat once more. Elizabeth felt the stray drop of blood leave her wounds, and shuddered as he bent his head to the bead of ruby liquid and licked it up, his tongue gliding its way up her neck to her jaw.

"I despise you," she snapped. "You murdered my father. You're the reason Will is captain of the Dutchman."

"The feeling is mutual," he replied, "but it seems our bodies do not agree."

In truth, Elizabeth could feel something pressing against her stomach, and she fought the urge to rock against him with what strength she had left.

But her body was not her own, not anymore.

A moment later, her lips were covered by his, rough, biting, all-consuming kisses that cut her lip. She fought to remain lucid, struggled to resist but he was relentless and she soon found herself kissing back with equal wildness.

Eventually she ripped her lips away, turning her head to the side but the movement opened the wounds in her neck, making her cry out. She felt his lips press against them, cool, soothing the fiery pain throbbing in her neck.

"Sleep, Elizabeth. Retain your strength, you will need it tomorrow night," he whispered in her ear, and her eyelids began to droop, but not before a bitter tear escaped that even now, she could not fight his control over her.

Oh, Will…

"Miss? Miss?"

Elizabeth was woken from her exhausted sleep by the concerned face of Sam, the earnest young man who brought her supplies once a week from the mainland. Gold, Elizabeth had aplenty, thanks to her status as the Pirate King, so he was well-paid for his trouble.

Elizabeth knew he fancied her. The fact was cause for consternation, making Elizabeth wish she could lose whatever power she possessed to make men look at her.

All the men who loved her ended up the same way. Her father, James, Jack albeit he came back again, Will bound to the Dutchman and all but dead, Beckett…

Where did that thought come from?

Beckett most assuredly did not love her, lust maybe, but love? Never. That emotion was alien to him, Elizabeth was certain. And why was she even thinking of this?

At the thought of Beckett, she once again was glad that she had buried the Chest holding Will's heart deep underground, within a cave which flooded with the tide. The Heart was safe, even with Beckett's new immortality.

Especially as Elizabeth had difficulty remembering exactly where she put it; only Will would know for certain, would sense its location.

He was safe.

"Miss?" Sam asked, staring into her eyes worriedly. "You alrigh'?"

Elizabeth was not alright. Her body ached, she felt unbelievably weak and breathing was almost painful. Her neck stung.

"I'm fine," she rasped, struggling to sit up. "What are you doing here?"

"I was just comin' to deliver your supplies an' when you didn't answer my knock…I was worried," Sam shrugged bashfully. Elizabeth sighed.

"You should go before the tide does," she murmured, swinging her legs out of bed. And immediately collapsed to her knees as pain flashed through her abdomen. Sam bent to catch her with a cry of alarm, as something warm and sticky flowed down her legs.

Elizabeth looked down and saw the blood. She fainted.

She had lost her baby. Beckett had murdered it, as surely as if he had plunged a dagger into its beating heart. Elizabeth had had visions of a little boy, with Will's unruly hair and her eyes, perhaps her temper and his father's sweetness.

But it was not to be anymore.

Sam stayed, looked after her as she recovered, but Elizabeth spoke not a word, nor did she move, consumed in her own misery. She felt empty, hollow, bereft of something she had not realised she had wanted so desperately.

When she had dreamed girlish dreams of love, of adventure, children had not figured much, even as she grew older. Even when she was engaged to Will, before…before him, she had not thought of children. They had not discussed it.

Now Will would never know his son.

To her relief, Elizabeth did not feel Beckett's presence close, nor did she feel him in her mind. He had released her temporarily, and she didn't know whether to thank him or hate him for that.

She would find him, and she would kill him.

She would have revenge.

She remembered some old stories, folklore she had read, stolen from her father's library, about legends from the East of the Continent, of beings which walked among the living after burial, and drank their blood after dark. Such stories had fascinated her, as a child, and scared her but now…now they would help her destroy Beckett.

He would come for her, and soon, she knew it. The last stage of the seduction, all obstacles eliminated, the final fight between them. And Elizabeth would kill him, she would be the victor.

The alternative was too horrific to contemplate. An eternity bound to him, a slave and a pet to his whims? Never.

Eventually, a week later, Elizabeth was sufficiently recovered to leave her house. Indeed, she felt almost rejuvenated again, stronger, livelier than she had been for a month.

It should have been weeks before she was healed, but Elizabeth suspected that something, or someone, had helped to heal her quicker.

Beckett.

That name was always growled, almost a curse, even in thought, and Elizabeth made sure to rub the doorways and window lintels of her small cottage with garlic, and she wore a small crucifix around her neck.

Sam remained with her still, and he was trying to talk her into going to the mainland. Elizabeth pondered the thought, wondering if the battle between her and Beckett might be better staged on a battleground not of his choosing, but hers.

It might be the smart thing to do, as Elizabeth was certain her body was changing. Her reflection was blurrier in her looking glass, even after she had polished it hard enough to scratch it, her skin had lost any hint of brown, her hair was lustrous and her teeth were almost unnaturally white, the canines lengthened but not monstrously so.

Was she becoming a vampire?

Her senses were sharpened, her body alert in ways she had not realised it could be, and despite her new physical wellbeing, her throat burned constantly. Food was almost repulsive and water no longer sated her thirst.

Oh how she wished she had shut her window that night, that first night he came to her!

A day later, Elizabeth stood in her small cottage, looking around at the place she had called home since that evil day that the Endeavour sank, Will became the captain of the Dutchman and she lost him forever.

A cloak covered her breeches and boots, the loose shirt and waistcoat hugging her slender frame, her golden curls tumbling over her shoulders.

The cross still around her neck. It made her feel ridiculous, and if it weren't for the fact it was necessary to keep…him away, she would have laughed.

Not anymore. There no more gaiety left in her.

With a sigh, she flicked her hood up, shielding her white skin from the sunlight. It did not burn her, but after a few moments it became…uncomfortable. It felt like her entire skin was prickling, as if ants were crawling all over her, but it faded when she moved into the shade.

Into the shadows.

Sam was down at the small jetty, preparing his little boat to take them far away from her island. Outside, it had been sunny and clear.

She frowned. He was taking a long time.

She had not told him about the attacks, the true reason behind her miscarriage, fearing he would think her mad. Besides, this was something she had to do alone.

She had to end what had started the moment their eyes had met, the morning of her ruined wedding, that had escalated after that meeting in his office in the dead of night, and now was expanding once more, with this latest battle between them.

It had always been a battle between them, and this time, Elizabeth would ensure it was the last.

On that grim thought, she turned and left, leaving behind all vestige of her old life, but unknowing she would soon return to the cottage one last time.

Outside, it was colder than Elizabeth had thought, and the sun was veiled by cloud. Shrugging mentally, she began walking down to the beach, eyes bent on the path but unseeing as she navigated the unsteady rocks.

She was halfway down the cliff path when she felt it.

Him.

His presence pervaded her senses, overtaking her, invading her body, making her heart leap in anticipation and her blood boil in rage. How dare he command such responses from her, after all he'd done?

She stopped, eyes searching desperately for any sign, any glimpse of him in the shadows, but there was none.

But he was there, somewhere.

Fear overcoming anger, she turned and ran to the beach, uncaring of the danger of falling, as she raced to the jetty and escape.

She called Sam's name urgently, but as she ran up, she saw him.

He was dead.

He lay beside the small boat, the waves lapping against its hull peacefully, a horrific contrast to the carnage beside it. His throat was torn, as if by a wild dog, and his eyes were wide open and glassy with horror.

Her breath caught, and Elizabeth cried out in pain and horror. Poor, poor Sam.

He had only been trying to help her, and Beckett had killed him. She fell to her knees, tears blurring her vision when a familiar, hated voice spoke.

"You cannot escape me, Elizabeth, and it is foolish to try. It will only get people killed," he smoothly said, as Elizabeth bowed her head, eyes fixed on Sam's unseeing ones.

"He didn't deserve what you did to him. Nor did my baby," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"I had nothing to do with your miscarriage," his voice replied tersely.

"Liar!"

The sound of boots on wood, then she felt him beside her, looking down on her.

"Look at me," came the gentle command, and Elizabeth felt his fingers curl under her jaw, making her shudder, self-loathing making her sick.

She looked at him, and the gleam in his cold eyes was not there, his face devoid of malice or deception.

"I had nothing to do with the death of your child, Elizabeth. On my word as a gentleman," he told her, as she glared at him.

"Sincerity from you, I should record this in a journal for posterity. Even so, was that what you told Will and Jack before you went back on your bargains?" she asked in a snarl. The amused smirk from her comment disappeared, to be replaced by an arrogant glare.

"I never gave my word as a gentleman to them. If I had, I would have kept it," he replied coldly.

"Only if it was in your interest," Elizabeth argued heatedly.

"True, which it is now. I am not lying," he retorted, and Elizabeth looked up into his eyes, and saw he was sincere. He had not killed her child.

Her neck throbbed, but with pleasure this time not with pain, and she looked away.

"Why Sam?" she breathed, tears threatening once more but she dashed them away. "Why did you do any of this? Why couldn't you leave me alone? Don't you think being left here alone for a decade without the man I love is punishment enough?"

Any strength she retained had long since left her, and she just wanted to get out. Out of this life, out of this suffering where everyone around her died, as if she was cursed, and die.

In that moment, she desired death, as she thought of her little baby, her son, her William Turner III.

His fingers once more forced her to look at him, and the look in his eyes was mercilessly tender. She did not want his pity, she wanted nothing of him.

"Kill me," she breathed, "Please, anything, just stop haunting me and put an end to this misery!"

He said nothing as she slumped forward, her pride gone, her anger quenched, her spirit steadily fracturing. His arms came around her, supporting her, and she had no energy to fight as he lifted her, carrying her away from that jetty and the bloody evidence of death all around, as Elizabeth's eyelids drooped lethargically.

Sleep, my dear, sleep.

She did.

Elizabeth awoke hours later, her vision blurred slightly as she opened her eyes, to stare at the familiar wall of her cottage bedroom, the rough stones gilded gold from the hearth nearby, the air cool against her feverish skin.

She relaxed against the bed, luxuriating in the sense of peace welling at her core, until she realised she was clad only in her shirt, the loose white garment ending at the top of her thighs. Her eyes snapped open, and a shudder raced over her skin as she remembered everything that had happened, and the monster who had brought her back here.

"You're awake," a familiar voice breathed, and Elizabeth sat up, staring at the man standing by her window, looking out at the moon, full in the sky. "It's a beautiful night."

"Since when have you ever cared about beautiful things? All you do is destroy," Elizabeth spat coldly. Beckett eyed her amusedly.

"You've recovered your spleen," he remarked, before turning away from the window and walked towards her.

Stalking was a better word, like a hunter with its prey, cornered at last. His gait was slow and unhurried, as if he knew she had nowhere to go.

Without thinking, Elizabeth backed up on the bed, pressing against the wall, as he eyed her hungrily. Remembering her safety precautions, she frowned at him, as he removed his coat, the burgundy garment falling to the floor soundlessly. Ignoring the sight of him in his waistcoat, which made her heart pound, she asked, "I thought vampires could not stand-"

"Garlic? Crucifixes? That I cannot come to you without invitation? That sunlight kills me?" Beckett chuckled, shaking his head as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, letting it join his coat on the floor. "I never could stand garlic, the smell of it raw anyway, and as for the other legends…all rubbish."

"All?" Elizabeth breathed, horrified.

"Yes. Sunlight annoys but it does not kill me, garlic does not repel me, I cannot die, Elizabeth," he grinned as she lunged for a knife she always kept hidden one of her pillows. He caught her wrist as she threw herself at him, knife raised, and pried it from her, throwing her down on the mattress, as he leaned over her. "And as for crucifixes, well…"

He reached down and pulled the chain from her neck with no more effort than if it was a paper chain. Stunned, as the tiny cross did not burn him, Elizabeth tried to fight again, but he subdued her easily, pinning both wrists to the coverlet with one hand, even as he threw the knife out of harm's way. Caught beneath him, Elizabeth could not block the hard, heavy weight of him, warmer than she had expected, his cold eyes now aflame, gazing down at her triumphantly, possessively.

The sight sent a shock, a pulse of desire straight to her core.

"You can't escape me, Elizabeth," he growled against her lips, reined power and menace in every syllable, as shame and desire coagulated and mixed in Elizabeth's blood. "You belong to me. You cannot kill me, you cannot resist me, and one day, you will be my equal. We will live forever."

Before she could speak, Elizabeth's lips were seized by Beckett's, powerfully driving all coherent thought, all resistance, all shame away until only desire remained. Her world shrunk, its walls closing in, extinguishing everything that had seemed important, until all that remained was his kiss, his touch, his body.

Hands no longer pinned, Elizabeth raised them but not to push him away. She pulled his body closer, needing the coolness of his to quench the fire in hers, tearing away his wig even as his teeth bit at her lower lip, drawing blood and licking it away in an exquisite dance of agony and pleasure.

She buried her fingers in the shorn hair beneath, feeling the short hairs prickle against her palms, the sudden pressure of lips against her neck making her spine arch. Her shirt was discarded, as was his shirt and breeches, her breath hitching on a sigh as their bodies melded together as one.

"Surrender to me," he whispered, making her shiver, helpless, powerless beneath the force of his body as he claimed her for his own, hands marking, lips soothing only to be replaced by sharp teeth which bit through tender flesh to drink her lust-infused blood.

At last, she sensed desire coalesce, beginning that steady rise to heaven that she had known once before, as she cried out, head tilting to the side, eyes closed, one hand not buried in his hair reaching blindly across the coverlet. Strong fingers found and enclosed its, squeezing, as teeth tore through the half-healed wounds on her neck, even as the world fell down, and her mind fled to another plane, one where satiation and pleasure alone existed.

She stirred, eyes opening to meet Beckett's own, a slight tinge of red showing in their stormy blue depths. Shame filled her momentarily, as she recalled how she had welcomed him into her body eagerly, too eagerly, before longing once more blotted it out. She felt warmth trickling down her neck, and knew she bled from his violent passion and hunger.

The final act was about to begin.

She felt his hand clamp around the nape of her neck, raising her up, supporting her weakened body, cradling her as the other rose to his chest. The nail ripped through flesh and muscle to set his blood free, and Elizabeth eyed the scarlet trail hungrily, suddenly more thirsty than she had ever been before, needing that ruby elixir more than water, than oxygen.

"Drink," he encouraged her. "Take the final step and be mine."

Shame checked her, as she leant her forehead on his chest, senses full of the scent of his blood.

Will, Father…I'm sorry.

"Drink," Beckett breathed, as she extended her neck, bringing her lips to the small incision. The moment the blood touched her lips, she moaned, drawing another from Beckett, before she hungrily licked up the trail of crimson down his torso, his hand tightening in her hair, before she latched onto the cut like a remora on the hull of a ship, and began to drink.

2011

It had been 263 years to the day since Elizabeth Swann had drunk the blood of Cutler Beckett.

263 years since she had relinquished her mortality, 200 of which had been spent as little more than a slave to Cutler Beckett.

She hated him, hated that he could draw her out so easily, hated that he could make her dead heart feel alive again, that her body thrilled to his touch. She hated his laugh, his eyes, his elegant voice…

And she loved him as well. The manipulative bastard had made her fall in love with him.

Which was why, in 1947, she had taken advantage of his absence one night to run, and keep running, putting as much distance between them as possible.

At first, they had returned to England, to high society, where Elizabeth had been forced to hide under an alias as Beckett's wife.

Which she effectively was. Luckily, though many had heard of the infamous Elizabeth Swann, high-born lady turned pirate, few had seen her since she was a child, so her true identity remained hidden.

Eventually they'd had to leave, since they did not age, and they went to Italy, and then France in time to see the French monarchy destroyed. After that, they had gone to Greece, and the Mediterranean, then to the Orient for many years, not returning to Europe until 1895. Elizabeth had seen the onset of war, the First World War, then the Russian Revolution, the Second World War, the dissolution of the British Empire, the Cuban missile crisis, the Cold War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of the Soviet Union, the Falklands, the Gulf wars, the Millennium, the 9/11 attacks, Iraq, Afghanistan…

When she had run away, she had wandered further than she had with Beckett, ignoring his call, fighting his power, evading his spies, going to Australia, to see the sun rise over Ayers Rock, then to Asia, to climb Mount Everest, to seek peace in the monasteries hidden away from the world.

In the 1980s, she had returned to Europe briefly, working as a model in Paris when Beckett's attempts to find her drove her to America. She had cut her hair in France, dying it dark brown, in an attempt to change her appearance, and she had worked in New York, LA and other cities, on the other side of the law.

In the shadows of the law, she was safer from Beckett. She could hide from him easily, change her name, disappear at will. She worked as a bounty hunter, using her supernatural gifts to her advantage.

She had kept tabs on her erstwhile sire. He, on the other hand, had set himself up as a businessman and philanthropist, legitimate, and powerful.

If only his groupies and associates knew what he really was.

The pain of the loss of her child, her life, and Will still burned inside Elizabeth. The loss of her father burned less sharply, a dull ache compared to the fiery stab she felt over losing her husband and child.

It had been that, mixed with horror, that had made her run from Beckett, and keep running, when she discovered she loved him. It was not a sweet love, a gentle love, a romantic one.

It was fiery, cruel, painful, dangerous; equal parts obsession and possession.

And now she was his equal. She supposed his words to her the night he turned her came true after all.

263 years after she had died and come back to life, Elizabeth Swann was free.

Which was why she was there now, in Budapest, haunting her former lover as he travelled on one of his lucrative business deals, meeting with several of Hungary's most influential politicians at the same time at his home in the city.

Where, tonight, she was going to let him catch her.

As she watched him circulate through the crowd below, impeccably dressed in an expensive, tailored tuxedo, brown curls artfully dishevelled, she smirked at how fashion had changed over the centuries.

Thank God.

Gone were the wigs, the corsets, the ridiculous layers of clothes even in hot weather which pervaded fashion up until the First World War. After that, clothing had become more comfortable, and it was now acceptable for women to wear trousers.

Hallelujah!

That night, for the occasion, she had chosen a one shouldered gown of burgundy satin, hugging her slim frame until it reached her knees, where it spread out, draping the floor as she walked. After growing bored with short hair, Elizabeth had grown it back, reverting to her original hair colour, and that night she had restrained it into a chignon.

She couldn't deny that one upshot of immortality was not having to wear corsets anymore.

Slowly, a catlike smile spread across her lips, as she reached out with her mind, the way he had taught her long ago, and called his name.

Cutler…

It was almost comical the way his head shot up, and his spine stiffened, before he turned around, ignoring the slightly bemused guests he had been talking to stare directly at her.

Elizabeth shivered as their gazes met, anticipation flooding her every nerve ending, when she saw the hunger buried deep in those icy blue eyes.

She would never tell him, but she had missed him as she'd wandered the world, and she suspected he had missed her. Not that they would ever tell one another that.

Some things were better left unsaid, like the fact she was in love with him.

She watched as he smoothly left the party below, disappearing from view, and she waited, seemingly nonchalantly studying the people below.

"You know, it's rather rude to show up unannounced, Elizabeth," a familiar, amused voice said behind her, and Elizabeth chuckled.

"Because I denied you the opportunity of welcoming me? Next time, I'll make sure to phone ahead," she said as she turned around, leaning back on the railing of the gallery they were stood in.

"And to what do I owe this pleasure? Or are you here for business?" Beckett asked, prowling closer as Elizabeth gave no sign of fleeing. She just smiled, and raised an eyebrow with all the imperiousness of a queen.

"Both, I think," she replied teasingly, as he trapped her against the railing, his hands encircling her wrists, his body against hers as she leant back into open air. She felt no fear, no danger. She was immortal after all.

"Sometimes," he began huskily. "I think life would have been easier if I'd just killed you all those years ago."

"Now where would the fun have been in that?" she asked sarcastically, a slight hint of bitterness creeping into her tone.

"Why are you here?" he asked, hands tightening around her wrists, enough to break a normal person's bones, but not hers.

"Have you forgotten what day it is, lover?" Elizabeth replied, teasing smile back in place. "I thought I'd break off our little game of cat and mouse for one night."

"I would hardly forget that night, now would I, darling?" he rolled his eyes, the endearment in his words more sarcastic than sincere. It had always been that way between them, never sweet, never gentle. His fingers left her wrists to rise to her hair, gently stroking a wayward strand back from her face, making her shudder.

She didn't try to hide it.

"You grew your hair again," he murmured, lovingly running his hand through her golden curls. He'd always had a thing about her hair, mostly because he loved burying his hands in it when they made love.

"I got bored," was the strained reply.

"And is that why you've come back to me now? Boredom? Was that why you left?" he asked, coolly, as she bit back a laugh.

"The answer to those questions is one you will never know,"

But he guessed. She could see it in his eyes, and frankly she didn't care. He would never make her say it aloud and own to the reality.

"So are you finally ready to re-take your place at my side?" he whispered, one hand leaving her hair and gliding down her spine to curve around her hip, pulling her into him roughly. "And my bed?"

"I think the correct term would be our bed, dear," Elizabeth muttered, as triumph rose in his eyes, and she smiled. "For the time being. I can leave anytime, you know."

"I am fully aware of that," he snarled. "That's what makes it interesting."

"Oh does the thought of no longer having me as your powerless slave upset you?" Elizabeth muttered caustically. Beckett snorted.

"Hardly. You were never completely powerless, or you would never have left," he retorted, moulding her body to his even tighter. Elizabeth gasped at the friction as their clothes rustled, trapped between their bodies, and twined her arms around his neck.

The hand buried in her hair pulled her mouth to his, as he aggressively kissed her, parting her lips and then proceeding to drive all reason from her mind. Elizabeth moaned, enthralled by the wildness in his kiss, the tension in his body, all of which positively screamed 'mine'.

Elizabeth knew her carefully arranged chignon was steadily being ruined, but didn't care, as she feverishly ran her own fingers through his, relishing the burnished curls beneath her palms.

Thank God wigs were no longer in fashion.

Their kiss reignited Elizabeth's body, setting it on fire, an imaginary heartbeat racing in her chest, calling out the animal she kept carefully hidden deep inside, where humans couldn't see it, except when she had to feed.

Luckily, with the invention of blood banks, she didn't need to kill anymore to survive.

When Beckett broke from her lips, both were panting and needy, as he ran his thumb over her swollen lower lip. Elizabeth took it into her mouth and bit just hard enough to break the skin, moaning as a droplet of blood slipped onto her tongue. A surprised gasp interrupted her ecstasy, as she opened her eyes to see her lover, eyes dancing with fire, hair dishevelled and chest rising and falling raggedly. She saw his canines had lengthen, as had her own, and she waited to be devoured as he eyed her hungrily.

He surprised her when he bent his head to just brush the gentlest of kisses over her lips, then took her hand. "Come with me."

Not a question, not a request, but a downright order.

Some things never changed.

As they left the gallery, Elizabeth's hand tightly held in his, she struggled for composure when all she wanted was for him to shove her against the wall and take her now. That tiny taste of his blood, spiced with lust and possessiveness, had reawakened her own bloodlust, and she wanted his teeth in her while she fed on him.

"What about your guests?" she asked coolly, hoping he didn't sense her lack of composure. A sharp glance told she was as obvious as day.

"I've accomplished all I needed to do," he replied tersely, looking ahead as he led up a stairway, into a private wing of the house.

His private quarters. Elizabeth had seen them on schematics of the house she'd stolen from the architect's offices.

"You mean you've finished alternately bullying, charming and intimidating those poor, hapless politicians into doing whatever you want." she remarked sarcastically.

"Its just good business, Elizabeth,"

That made her eyes roll again.

The room he led her into was opulent and luxurious, the dark cherry wood panelling lit by soft wall sconces, with open flames. It looked decidedly 18th century, even down to the furnishings, upholstered in deep green velvet.

Beckett noticed her scrutiny and shrugged, as she sat down on a chaise before a fireplace.

"I felt nostalgia for our birth century. There's just so little taste nowadays," he breathed, shaking his head sadly, crossing to a tantalus and pouring a glass of some deep ruby liquid.

Blood.

"I hope that nostalgia doesn't run to wigs and corsets," Elizabeth muttered, drawing a quiet laugh from Beckett.

"No, love, I certainly don't miss the wigs. Damned awful things, made my bloody scalp itch dreadfully," he snorted, handing a glass to Elizabeth and watching her while she sipped. It was good but no replacement for Beckett's. "Corsets on the other hand…"

"Don't even think about it," she eyed him balefully, quickly drinking the last of the blood and setting the glass down on a side table.

She stood and wandered into another room, revealed by an archway, conscious of Beckett at her back, and halted at the sight of the bed, in sapphire damask, as possessive arms twined around her waist, pulling her back against him.

"Welcome home," he breathed in her ear, as her eyes rolled back in her head and her body thrilled to his touch.

Satin was no barrier to his possessive hands as they skimmed over her body, following the line of her thighs, then her waist, the skin beneath heating, until Elizabeth was feverish and panting.

She kicked off her shoes, before turning and pulling him to the bed, uncaring about his amused bark of a laugh, or the smugness in his eyes as he followed her down onto its soft surface, their lips already meeting and fusing hotly.

She felt him pull her dress's shoulder strap down, baring her collarbone and the tops of the breasts to his tongue and lips, making her moan, hands buried in his hair. There came a ripping sound, and the dress fell away, soon followed by Beckett's suit and shirt.

With a relieved sigh, Elizabeth felt him bite her neck, even as she bit down on his shoulder, and her body welcomed him back into her.

"You know, you didn't have to rip my dress off. I was quite fond of that one," Elizabeth commented a few hours later, peevishly, from where she lay on Beckett's chest, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath her.

"I'll buy you a new one," came the weary response, as Elizabeth bristled and rose up on her hands and knees over him, meeting his innocent gaze.

She almost snorted. Cutler Beckett, innocent? He hadn't been innocent either dead or alive.

"I am perfectly capable of buying myself a new one, thank you very much," she glared at him predatorily, even as he smirked. His hand ghosted over the fresh bite wounds on her throat, until she arched her spine and almost purred.

"Need I remind you, you ripped my suit off as well," he murmured silkily, watching her as she rolled her eyes.

"You did half of the job," she pointed out wryly, glancing at the pile of shredded brown satin, white linen and black silk on the floor beside their bed.

"True," he conceded. "And I will take great pleasure in tearing the next dress off of you."

"This could get expensive," she replied teasingly, as he laughed beneath her.

"Yes, were it not for the fact I know you've amassed quite a large fortune from all that bounty work you've been doing over the past few years, not to mention the modelling in Paris," he mused. Elizabeth glanced at him sharply.

"You have been observant, haven't you?" she whispered, leaning into him as he tried to kiss her, but tauntingly holding herself back.

"As have you,"

"You didn't exactly make it difficult, Mr-Big-Shot-Businessman," she replied sarcastically.

"Old habits die hard," he shrugged, as he grabbed hold of her and kissed her hard. She groaned and sank into the embrace. He twisted her beneath him, making her twine her legs around his waist as he thrust into her again, their breath leaving them on a collective sigh. Elizabeth felt complete, felt alive again.

She belonged to him and he belonged to her, it was as simple as that. It was messy, and it was almost wrong, but they didn't exist in a normal world. They were immortal, and he was all she had left, and she would never let him go.

"Still wish you'd finished me off?" she breathed against his lips as he moved within her. He managed to raise one eyebrow arrogantly, teeth lengthening.

"Every day," he growled hoarsely, making her laugh before he cut her off by biting down on the curve of her breast, the action turning her amusement into a gasp, a gentle smile curving her lips as she held him to her by his hair, as he took her, heart, body and soul.

"Surrender"

Is this real enough for you?
You were so confused.
Now that you've decided to stay.
We'll remain together

You can't abandon me.
You belong to me.

Breathe in and take my life in you.
No longer myself only you.
There's no escaping me, my love.
Surrender

Darling, there's no sense in running.
You know I will find you.
Everything is perfect now.
We can live forever.

You can't abandon me.
You belong to me.

Breathe in and take my life in you.
No longer myself only you.
There's no escaping me, my love.
Surrender.

Hands up slowly.
Give into...

Breathe in and take my life in you.
No longer myself only you.
There's no escaping me, my love.
Surrender.
Surrender.
Surrender.
Surrender.

You will surrender to me.
There's no escaping from me.
I know you want her to be.
You must surrender to me.

Disclaimer: I own nothing