*** 2001 ***

Someone was coming. Methos could hear the presence rumble in the air. He moved up from his chair, grabbing his sword as he did so. Harry had burried himself in a schoolbook, though it was obvious that hiding wouldn't help him blank his memory from the scenes of death. Methos could only pray that the kid had more luck at it than he did.

The door stood solid in his way, both defending them and keeping him from knowing who woudl be threatening them. Even so prepared, he still startled as he heard three balanced knocks on the wood. Harry sat up, placing the book on the cabinet next to him. Methos finally saw that he'd been hiding the remains of his wand behind the book.

"Back." Methos hissed the word at him, anything to scare him away.
The boy barely listened halfway, taking no more than a step back, still standing at ready.

There was no way to know who'd be awaiting them outside, who would threaten their safety. All he knew was that something were wrong with the Buzz. It felt off, down at it's most basic core. Wrong enough to make him break out in cold shivers, knowing that had once been him.

"Get to your room. Keep it locked. Your magic won't work this time."
The boy looked at him, slightly confused, almost as scared of him as off the man behind the door.
"It's a Swordsman, like me. We have a natural immunity to magic. You can't even kill us by natural means."
Methos tried to give him a sense of confidence, but it seemed the boy saw right through him.
"Just get to your room and stay there. I'll take care of this."

"But what about you?"

Methos groaned as he realized the boy was just like his father, concerned about anyone else but himself.
"Someone has to stop him." he muttered. And unfortunately that someone was him.

"I can help."

"With what?" Methos could hear his anger rise in his voice, making him sound harsher than he'd intended.
"Getting yourself used as a hostage? Stealing my attention away when I'm supposed to concentrate on saving myself.
Stay out of the way kid, it'll do a lot more good."

The boy seemed about to protest, but finally backed down and headed up the stairs. Damn boyscouts, always made him feel guilty for whatever wrong they felt he did to them.

*** 1983 ***

The lights were skittering around him, Methos tried to catch them, he almost held on in the palm of his hand, but it got away just before he could grab it. His head tilted, following the pattern of the lights against the walls, around him.
"Lights."
He slowly tried the word out on his tongue, tasting it on his lips

"Yes Methos, lights."
The woman looked at him, a gentle glance towards him as she did.

He touched the fabric of his robes as he got up, once again trying to catch the light.
"Pretty."
He wanted to tell her how beautiful the things were, but it was impossible to explain the wonder of it in the mere few words he'd managed to learn, hating himself for sounding stupid to his new owners.
He didn't want to lie to the mistress. He got up, trying to catch the light once more, but slipped over his robes and accidentally knocked down the box in front of him, it closed as it fell.

He backed of, terrified as the lights faded away.
What had he done, had he broken the spell?

She came closer to him, holding his chin in the palm of her hand.
"Don't worry."
She put the box back and opened it again.
"See, the light's still there."
He couldn't understand the meaning of the words, but he felt comforted by her kindness.
"Severus will be here in a few hours."
Methos smiled as he recognized the name. It was one of the words he actually knew and he liked Severus.

The woman left him alone and Methos was once again fascinated by the lights, how did they get caught in the box? He stared in awe as the woman just aimed her staff at the dinerplates and they started to clean themselves.
Methos was still waiting for an order, though he couldn't help but question the use he could be to beings this powerful.

"Do you want some?"
Methos stared at her, unable to understand. Then she pushed him a plate with food, a knife and some kind of metal object that he couldn't name for the best will in the world. He stared at the knife and touched it. It was sharp, made of some strange glittering ore. So shiny and smooth that he could see his own reflection gazing at him from it's surface.
It startled him and he managed to cut himself on it's blade.

She looked up and grabbed a towel,but before she could even cover the wound, lightening flashes erupted around it, healing the injury.

The magics, they were still imposed on him.
Methos closed his eyes ... remembering other flashes of eyes that had once filled his eyes.
Fire and blood.
He stood still, unable to move, as countless deaths played before him. All too many of them ending with the heavens fire coming down upon him.

Killer.

That's all he was.
A wretched beast, capable only of death.
Yet he didn't remember why, or anything else. All he remembered were the deaths, and that they were actions of his hands.
Gods have mercy.
What had he done?