Wow, an original story from shadow?! Oh my goodness! When was the last time that happened?

Okay, I'm done. My point: my English teacher wanted me to write a story for her class. I've been doing a lot of writing lately in regards to fanfiction, so I thought I'd try my hand at an original story again. It has been a while, hasn't it?

Anyhow, tell me what you think of this story. I will warn you: for those of you who have read my stories before on this site, my style has drastically changed for the good. I would like some feedback on this, since it's been almost an era since I've done an original work. Thank you, and enjoy the story.

Moonlight Concerto
(Chapter One: Complete Disregard)

The streets of Venice could not be anymore melancholy that night, the light of the full moon trying to illuminate the souls of many that night. Alas, it did not succeed, for the people remained in bitter agony, struggling to walk down the streets.

There was one who displayed this anguish better than any of them could. She sat on a tall rooftop, a fiddle in her hands. Her wheat colored hair fell in long curls over her, sapphire eyes almost completely shut as they glanced towards her hands every so often. The elongated notes of the fiddle found their way into the ears of many, tantalizing with the heart of only those who really paid attention.

She only played for some, but the people she played for made others wonder. Some nights, only the poor tax collector could hear her as he wallowed in the resentment he had for his job. Other nights, it would be a mere child longing for comfort. Only once in a while did she choose not to play.

Tonight was nothing of the sort, however. She held her fiddle close to her, examining the streets below. It was hard to choose who she would play for—almost no one was happy. She usually picked the first person she saw, sighing as she saw that they were only lost inside their own selfish wills.

Her eyes caught someone of interest this time—a man in his younger years, walking down the street with a book in his hand. His hair was the color of copper, though, it was hard to tell this time of night. His brown eyes were fixated on the words of the book, never leaving them except to glance at where he was going once in a while. She smiled as she saw him; he reminded her of someone.

Her bow went to the strings, playing a tune similar to the others she played. It remained poignant, her heart becoming embedded in the music. She looked away from the man, closing her eyes as the music became louder.

It started to entice the man below, the book in his hands suddenly becoming a distraction. The thoughtful words placed on the pages seemed irrelevant now. He shut the book, trying to find where the music was coming from.

"Fair fiddle player," he said softly, his voice a rather even tenor, "where are you?"

The only answers he received were glances on the street, the people finding his words odd and misplaced. He spotted one of them, a rather middle-aged woman with a bag of groceries in her arms. He ran over to her, giving her a start as he stopped her in her tracks.

"Do you not hear the music?" he asked, his eyes curious. Her own orbs widened as she shook her head back and forth.

"I don't hear anything boy," she said to him rather hurriedly, her Italian accent rather thick. He grew a face of confusion, looking towards the sky again.

"You can't hear that?" he questioned, his pale hands gesturing towards the sky, "it is the sound of a fiddle, a beautiful one at that."

"You speak nonsense," she told him harshly, her grubby hands holding onto her groceries tightly. "No one is playing a fiddle—get your head out of those fantasy books."

She left him be, stomping away from him as she muttered various words under her breath. The man sighed, his brown bangs falling on the right side of his face a bit. He shooed them away, glancing around once more.

The violin was still playing.

His curiosity was aroused now, his book hanging precariously at his side. The music was entrancing him—it was like nothing he had ever heard before. Many questions popped into his mind as he listened to it: where is the music coming from? Who is playing it?

His biggest question, however, was why whoever was playing it was doing it so mournfully. It was then that he looked around, seeing the people that walked past him. Almost every face he saw was grim, a smile nowhere in sight. He shook his head, hearing the fiddle crescendo.

"If only you could play more cheerful music," the man said to himself, gazing at the sky once more, "maybe then the people will be happy."

"Right Icarus, keep dreaming."

The new voice startled him, but he recognized the French accent that went along with it. He turned around, laughing lightly at who he saw. The man was taller than he was, his clothes in somewhat disarray. His dark blond hair would have looked golden in any other light, but now it almost looked like a dirty golden coin. His brown eyes carried a light in them as he smiled.

"What are you doing in this end of town Al?" Icarus asked the other, holding the book firmer as he crossed his arms. "You usually stay away from here."

"I'd thought you'd appreciate it if I came to visit," Al replied jokingly, slinging an arm around the other's shoulders, "all you've been doing lately is sticking your nose into those books you love so much. You need another hobby."

"What I need is for you to go jump in the canal," he said sardonically, his eyes gesturing to a canal that splashed meters away. "I am busy at the moment."

"Naturally," Al snuck a glance at the book Icarus was toting with him, smirking. "What are you reading this time? Shakespeare? Milton?"

Icarus did not answer right away, his thoughts elsewhere. The violin was lowering its pitch now. It was mere moments later that he was shaken out of these thoughts, quite literally, by his friend.

"Is anyone in there?" Al asked jokingly, "you zoned out on me there."

"My apologies," the other responded, looking around. He then grew curious, looking at his friend with a glint in his eyes. The violin was growing louder, more passionate. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" his friend inquired, wondering what Icarus could possibly be hearing that he wasn't. "I don't hear anything."

Icarus sighed, looking to the ground. He glanced at Al once more. "I must be losing my mind then. I swore I could hear a fiddle."

Al's eyes widened at these words, a response that Icarus was not expecting. He thought for a minute, carefully considering his words. He had to shake his friend again to get his attention again when he wanted to speak moments later.

"So Levana's playing for you tonight then," he said in a conclusive tone, "ever heard the story?"

Icarus shook his head, somewhat surprised. It was not everyday that someone came across a story he had not read. Al, knowing this, grinned.

"A story you don't know? Well, I'll have to tell it to you. There's not much to it, except that every once in a while, these random people, like you, would hear a fiddle player. She does have a name, though: Levana. It's Greek for Moon."

"How do you know all this?" Icarus questioned, interrupting him.

"It's one of the biggest legends of Venice! I'm surprised you don't know anything about it!"

"I don't pay attention to the daily drabble around town like you do."

Al scoffed at this, pretending to be hurt from this comment. "It's not gossip, it's the truth." Icarus rolled his eyes, a smart-aleck look writing itself on his face.

"You just said it was a legend, which would imply that-"

The other sighed, rolling his eyes. "Ic, you're impossible. I have to get going—I just wanted to see what you were up to. Though, I've got a warning for you."

"What would that be?"

"Don't try to figure out where the music is coming from. Don't ask me why—I don't know. Just don't do it."

Before he could earn a response, Al saluted him mockingly, waving goodbye as he ran down the cobblestone streets. Icarus watched him go until he was out of sight, uncrossing his arms as he did. The fiddle's soft melody came back again, its music entrancing him once more. He closed his eyes as he swayed to it, moving back and forth. It was oddly soothing, even if it was a tad depressing.

Determination poured into his mind suddenly as he listened to this music, completely lost in it. He wanted to find whoever played this fiddle—he wanted them to play to a different tune. The city of Venice did not need anything more to make it seem even more upsetting.

His book fell to the ground hard, his footsteps padding into the distance. Every part of him said to turn back, that this was against his better judgment. He should not be running after shadows, especially when he was warned against it. He sneered at this thought as he kept running.

After all, it wasn't everyday he disregarded another.