Into That Wild Blue Yonder

1. A Drink at Midnight

Starcloud bustled with the light hum of tavern folk enjoying crisp drinks at the end of long work days. Chatter echoed throughout the room as dozens of patrons began their nights with light buzzes and content grins, eager to socialize and engage with their peers. Soft light cascaded from the dim electrical lamps to ease their sore eyes. Many a drink crashed onto the hardwood floors each night, but each patron did their part to keep the place clean.

At the end of the bar sat the most consistent patron, a darkly-dressed, gritty young man, staring into an empty glass. He sat silently in his corner oblivious to the world around him, unnoticed by the many people coming and going behind him, existing purely in his own space and no other. He held a blank gaze on his warped reflection at the bottom of his glass, mind empty and heart beating slow and steady.

"You good, Colm?" the barkeep asked as he approached, wiping down yet another glass.

"As usual, old man," Colm replied tonelessly.

"I ain't that old," the barkeep replied.

"Elves and humans live the same lifespans." Colm flicked a finger against the glass.

"Sixty-four ain't that old either way."

"Whatever you say."

The barkeep shook his head, his disapproval betrayed by a sliver of a grin, and poured another drink for the young man and let him be. Colm slid his empty glass away and glanced briefly at his new drink before taking his first sip. With a sigh relieving all his pent-up stress, he set the glass back onto the bar and leaned forward into a more relaxed position.

He could hear everyone behind him, bantering, flirting, bumping into each both other and the beams that kept the tavern standing. Groups of friends, young and old, men and women, reminiscing over times and opportunities lost and what might've been, what could've been. Just a bunch of regular people with regular lives, jobs, and friends.

Later than usual, he heard the door swing open much harder than necessary, drawing every gaze in the tavern except his.

The door slammed against the wall and a gaggle of young ladies waltzed through, giggling and snorting in their cliché, girlish manner. He had already learned the pattern of their laughter, their verbal mannerisms, even the pattern of their footsteps from how often they came in after him. Truth be told, most people in the room probably had an idea of who just walked in without looking. Colm just had the misfortune of knowing personally.

He hung his head forward a hint, hoping to make himself a little smaller to hide a little longer in spite of always sitting in the same seat. Every time, he tried to hide, and every time, he failed. Tonight was no exception. It wasn't even worth the effort, in the end.

"COLM!"

The girl shouted his name loud enough to draw everyone's attention again, though not for long. They all went right back to their drinks. Some people made way for the young woman to barrel forward with her friends to crowd Colm at the bar as if they knew their goal and wanted to help them pester him.

"Moira," Colm mumbled. He felt himself stiffen up as she drew near.

"Well, someone is grumpy," Moira replied.

"Rough night."

"Every night is rough for you," Moira said with a knowing shrug. "At least, that's what they all say."

"And who is 'they'?"

"Anyone who knows who you are, small as that number may be."