James pushed open the stained wooden door and was immediately hit by the strong smell of alcohol lingering in the air. Walking inside, he could hear the old jukebox playing classic rock in the corner of the room and the chatter of several customers frequenting the establishment. He reflexively looked over to his right and through the dimly lit interior.

A few of the regulars, gathered around a pool table at the back of the bar, were visible. Each gave a nod or a wave which he returned. To his left, tables and chairs littered the area, and there was a warm glow flooding down from the rotating ceiling fans perched above. Past the main congregation sat the booths, more of the usual faces giving a smile in his direction as he pushed through the cluster of seats. The atmosphere was always the best thing about Samson’s.

James had been coming here for as long as he could remember and Arthur for even longer. Each time he walked through the door it threw him back to his childhood; you would not think that a dive bar would be where you would learn the morals to lead you into adulthood, but this one was different. Growing up, he never had a normal family, and even though Arthur tried his best, he could not always be there for him or teach him everything he needed to know. That is where Samson’s came in. The regulars here were all people that had known Arthur or Samson in some capacity over the years, and quite often it felt like a small community as opposed to a bar. The lessons he learned here were some of the most important in his life.

Bringing his eyes forward he saw Arthur sat at the bar in conversation with Samson, who cut an imposing figure next to the older, frail man sat across from him. Making his way there, the barkeep pointed in his direction, making Arthur turn to greet James as he meandered towards them. Without even asking, a small glass was placed in front of him, and Samson was already pouring a double whiskey in anticipation of him sitting down.

“There he is.” He pushed the glass across.

“Sammy.”

Sitting down on a bar stool next to Arthur, James patted him on the back and lifted the glass up into the air, meeting another glass held surprisingly steady by his friend. Looking around, he noticed that someone was missing and waved at the barkeep, who was now stood down at the other end.

“Where’s Lucy?”

“She’s downstairs doing a stock take, have to keep her busy after all.” Samson chuckled.

“Can you tell her I’m here?”

“Of course. Hey! You better not still be interested in my daughter.”

“I would never dream of it.”

“You better not!”

James lifted his hands up to protest innocence just as Samson retorted; the game they had played for years. The barkeep cracked a wry smile and winked at Arthur.

The night went as it usually did, one whiskey after another, relieving the stress of another day of arduous work. It was not until a few hours passed that Arthur eventually swung the conversation back in the direction of James’ parents, the line of enquiry that he cut short in the depot that morning. He had been intrigued by their earlier talk, despite refusing to show it. Now with a few drinks in him, and the worry of an oracle box, he felt it was time to tackle it.

The old man took a large gulp. “So, ya wanted to talk about something this morning, right?”

“Yeah. Well, we don’t have to.” Slued was on his mind.

“Fire away.”

“Well, these dreams…it’s probably nothing, you know. It’s stupid.”

“Nah, come on, kid. Talk to me.”

“So…the dream has this voice, right, and it’s talking to me. Something seems so familiar about it, but I don’t know. It’s just a dream, right?”

“What does it say?”

“Something about Ertia? Atertia? Wait, Akertia, that’s it.” The alcohol was catching up. “Akertia is what she said to me. There is this light, or orb, or something. It all sounds idiotic when you say it out loud.”

Arthur nodded, but his eyes narrowed. “Sounds like you’ve been eating too much cheese before bed, kid. You should probably just ignore it.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“I know, I know. I just wondered if it was my mother, but I don’t really remember anything about my parents before the accident, you know.”

“They were good people. That’s all ya ever need to know, and they never deserved to go the way they did.”

“Being ploughed into by oncoming traffic at 80 mph? I mean, no one really deserves that, do they?”

“Have some respect, kid. That dark sense of humour will be ya downfall one day.”

“Sorry. Says, you. I know where I get it from at least.” They both chuckled. “I can barely remember anything about that day. Just the rain and the sound of metal on metal. The feeling of water around me, maybe.” He sighed. “It’s all so vague. So much of it is vague.”

“I’m just sorry ya got stuck with me.” The old man nudged his shoulder.

“Pfft, you would be lost without me, so it’s for the best I’m here now. Mr. Slued said ‘hello’, by the way. Supposedly, he knew you. Called you ‘Mr. Lyall’.” James shook his head into the air to make Arthur’s second name sound far posher than it was.

“Did he? Ya get his first name when you spoke to him?”

“Yeah, Nomad. Nomad Slued. He was really weird, asked me all these strange questions about the package before dismissing me from his presence. Not sure who the hell he thinks he is. Kind of name is Nomad Slued, anyway?”

“Can’t remember him at all.”

“Well, he was pretty insistent about saying ‘hello’. Supposedly you two haven’t spoken in some time.”

Arthur sat quietly for the next few minutes, slowly sipping his whisky and running the name through his mind. Nomad Slued. Nothing he recognised. Nothing from the past he could grasp on to.

As James trailed off the thought and looked over towards the end of the bar, he finally spotted the familiar face he had been hoping for – Lucy.

Her vibrant, orange hair could be seen from miles around, cut into a choppy bob with partial sections pushed back behind either ear. Before he could even contemplate looking away, she locked her vivid green irises on him. The light freckles on her face adjusted with her expression and lined the bottom of her dark, alluring eyes. As she walked towards him, her rose-tinted lips crept into a playful smile thrown in his direction as she cocked her head.

He had always had a massive crush on her, even when they were both kids. Samson had taken her in when she was young, and they had led such similar lives — she understood. Over time, as they both grew through their teenage years, that closeness slowly shifted to something more. It teetered on the edge for years, even now. It always seemed they were both just too scared to take that chance, or that’s what he told himself. The only problem for James was Samson; he never had the nerve to deal with him as an inevitable consequence of any move he made, never mind if it all went south.

“Hey, rockstar.” Reaching over the bar and hugging him, she turned to his right immediately afterwards and eyed Arthur. “Samson is looking for you.”

The old man nodded knowingly, and made his way past James to the backroom, aiming for the cellar. Lucy looked back to the hot mess sat in front of her, before starting their usual game.

“So…when are you finally going to ask me out for a drink again?”

“Oh, that’s easy! About five seconds after Samson dies. Listen, Lucy. I fear for my life when he is around. I once looked at your elbow when he was next to me, and I’m pretty sure he was thinking about the best way to break my neck. Besides, we’ve went out and consumed alcohol in each other’s company before, and I literally come here almost every evening and drink with you five feet from me.”

“You know what I mean! And, you know he’s just teasing you. He’s a big softie at heart. Besides, if he had a problem, I’d just kick his ass.”

“You would kick his ass?”

“Yeah, I’d kick his ass.”

“I really don’t think you could kick his ass.”

“I’ll kick your ass if you aren’t careful.”

“What? I could kick your ass while Samson is kicking my ass.”

They both fell into laughter.

********

Arthur made his way down the stairs to the damp cellar and passed the wooden shelves lined with alcohol. Avoiding the metallic barrels strewn about, he arrived at the hidden handle. As he swung open the wall, Samson stood over several volumes scattered atop the writing desk at the far end of the room. Entering and closing the wall behind him, the ashen-haired man walked over to the books.

“Anything?”

“Not really, Lucy found several references to people being ‘slued’, naturally, but not a Mr. Slued, unfortunately.” Samson continued to thumb through a book.

“There must be something, he has access to an oracle for Christ’s sake. This isn’t some low life.”

“The list of Andrealesians who were present when these devices were conceived or could gain access to one is small, but without a name, we are literally stumbling around in the annals of darkness. It could be someone we don’t know at all.”

“James said he called himself Nomad Slued. I just can’t remember any Andrealesian by that name. Not that I’ve ever met anyway.”

“I can tell you right now without checking, there will no doubt be several mentions of nomads, but used as a name, it’s new to me.”

“Used as a name.” Arthur mused.

“Would Aker know?”

“Perhaps. Regardless, I’ll let him know. Been so long since they really made a move. It may give him a heads up if this guy is looking for people like Jame–.” Arthur stopped in his tracks. Rushing over to the cabinet and pulling out a piece of paper, he searched for a pen in the desk drawer. “Damn it! He is toying with me. He made sure to tell James he knew me. That god damn…I can’t believe I didn’t realise this sooner.” He scribbled down the letters, turning it to Samson.

Looking down at the paper he realised the conclusion that Arthur had drawn.

N o m a d S l u e d

D a m n e d S o u l

Samson whispered. “It can’t be.”

“I–it’s him. It was Bifrons.”

“The Keeper of Damned Souls? I thought he was dead?”

“Apparently not. Either that or someone wants me to remember what happened all those years ago.”