*** 2001: A week earlier ***

The ancient lowered himself in the bath, quietly enjoying the thrill of the bubbles floating up against his skin. He let the warmth spread through him and sank deeper into the bath, letting the back of his neck sink in as well. He moaned slightly as the heat overtook him.

Something something was wrong. He stared at his arm.
It itched intensely. Almost as if the tattoo on his wrist was burning.
He wanted to curse the permanent markers he'd been using lately and started scratching. Hoping it wasn't the tattoo, he could avoid his watch if need be, but not The skin was darkening, slowly but steadily. His breath grew heavier and he sat up, staring at it. He gulped deeply, unaware that his hand was moving to his neck. He shivered as his fingers touched the line of his neck, making sure it was free. Empty of anything that could cover it up.

Methos whispered a long forgotten prayer, but the mark grew ever darker. It was itching increasingly. He pushed his arm under water and scratched it some more. Then taking a hard brush he began scrubbing it with all his might. Anything to make the slowly appearing mark disappear again. Blood flowed from his broken skin, but the mark returned unmarred as soon as it was cleared.

He ignored the redness in the water, he ignored everything really, as he kept trying to get it out of his arm. And with his blood his strength left him as well. He ended up sinking back in the water, bowing his head under water. Maybe if he died, the mark would fade again. He didn't believe it, but anything had to be better than this.

He slowly started dying and his last sight focused on a man in a dark robe. He died of fear as much as from blood loss.

**** 1983 ****

Methos could hear them talking, whispering in low muddled voices. He crawled up, trying to move back up to the bars. Remembering a second too late how angry the master would be if he saw it.
Their steps were near silent, not close to matching their usual arrogant strides.
Their faces were hidden as always, inside masks and hoods.

One of the men approached him. Another held his arm. The first ones voice was low but harsh. The other pulled him up, seemingly furious, but the first one stood in his way. Only when the third intervened did they both go silent. Their stares enough to burn a hole through him.

The first one aimed his staff. Methos bowed, knowing it was better to just get it over with. Only to have the second one interfere, pushing down the first ones staff one more time. The man pulled down his mask and Methos recognized his face. He didn't protest as the man pulled him closer in a hug and whispered comforting sounds over him while kneeling down.

The demon-servant took his hand, pulling him up and motioning at him to follow. Methos obeyed, shrinking back at the sight of the other cages. The servants voice continued in whispered tones, his eyes stood friendly. Methos swallowed deeply and grabbed for all the courage he could muster.

"Shh"
None of the demons spoke as they walked through the cave. Methos stared at the wondrous sights. A bit fearful as the demons released some of the other creatures from their cages. One of them threw him a cloak and Methos pulled it on, seeing some of the other slaves do the same.

He stared into the face of the demons, wondering why his terror had almost left him.

*** 2001 ***

"So you still remember?"

"How could I forget?"
Methos trembled as he touched the symbol, the mark of his slavery.

"Even after the Obliviatum spell."
Methos almost grinned at the wizards surprise.

"Us 'swordsmen' are immune to most forms of magic remember?"
His face held a smug grin for a moment, wry and sort of harsh.
"You're the one who told me, remember?"

"Yes. A good thing that the Department for Care of magical creatures didn't."

"A very good thing."

They both stood staring out the window.
"It only took Voldemort the death of two 'volunteers' and the murder of several Muggles just to bind you to him."

Methos shivered just thinking about it, remembering the rituals.
"Just the memories of seeing him kill those children, using their deaths, their hearts to create the binding potion. It's often made me wish your magic would work on me. If only to make me forget."

"Is that why you gave in? To forget?"

"I didn't..." But Methos couldn't lie, not even to himself, he had given in. Voldemort had pulled up the memories of his actions, he'd grabbed hold of Methos darkest memories and had shown them to him. He'd collapsed and by any god, he'd given in.

"It was easier being young again." was what he finally said.

"Lies often are."

"What if he gets me again Severus? What will he do?"

"I ... we won't let him get you." Severus words stood cold, holding a deep promise inside. "Simple as that."

"I owe you."

"No you don't."

"I owe you wizard. I always will."