A/N: I hope you enjoy this story of mine that I completely re-edited. :)

the-moons-shadow

: Fallen Feathers: t w i l i g h t ‘ s b e c k o n i n g :
‘where every feather has a story stained in blood’

‘Blood drips down tainted wings
Silent screams fill the air,
Cutting the sweet scene,
Of freshly fallen snow.

Bitter memories pushed to the surface,
Lies, thoughts forever hidden, become painful reminders,
That every fallen feather,
Holds a story, stained in blood.

With these broken wings,
I will soar with the hope,
That maybe not every fallen feather,
Is lost in the crowd.’

+ P R O L O U G E +
‘As Two Sides of the Pendulum Swing’

She stood with regrets and sorrows not known to everyone; even her parents. Just like the stars, she held a mysterious glow. Her hands had been stained with blood.

She stood alone.

Because not everyone is as nice as they preach; and that one small error in your book sends everything down a deadly spiral. She felt like a caged bird; her wings bloodied and broken from trying to free herself from her prison of iron bars.

This is what if felt like when the death of your clan was all your fault, and you could have stopped it but instead, stood in terror.

She felt like a falling feather, being brought back to earth by force, and no one would care if you died when you hit the ground.


Tears slowly fell down her pale, cold face. Head bent low in shame, and arms wrapped around herself to protect herself from the cruel world that loomed before her.

She promised herself that this was the last time she would shed a tear in regret; in shame. Because if you weren’t strong, you’d become a puppet in the world’s twisted game, and just like a puppet, your strings could be pulled at any moment.

Life at 12 wasn’t as great as her mother had promised.

- x -

He looked up from his book to hear the wind whistle wildly outside his window. Already he enjoyed the pleasures of rain and the wind that blew outside. It soothed him, and gave him a sense of peace.

He smiled, content, that he had a good book in his hands.

“Arknine, are you going to spend all day up there?” a feminine voice called, annoyed at the person huddled on their bed, a book propped on their knees.

His ears flattened and he rolled his eyes to heaven. He loved his mother but did she have to yell about everything?

“Arknine?!” the voice called again, but more irritated in its call.

“No, mom!” he shouted in response. Better to appease her than annoy her more with his “opinions” as his father liked to call his thoughts on things. They were his opinions, but his father hated people with opinions. But that in itself, he thought, was an opinion.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, he dug right back into his book, the whistling wind and the heavy rain fall his music that played softly for an audience of one.

Life at 12 was as great as his mother had promised him.

- x -

Two sides of the pendulum swung in different directions bound to meet eventually. Life was more than black and white and held deep secrets that only the wind whispered in its lost song.

Two stories were being woven; their feathers plucked, and their lives forever intertwined. The sun was coming soon and the twilight was beckoning forth its power, hidden within the fog of the night.