Author's Note: Yay a new fic from me. I plan this to be a short story (since it just came from sudden… not to mention fleeting… inspiration). I will update my other story, Succession of Witches, soon enough it's just I have trouble with the plot. Yes I changed my pen name. I change it often. For those of you who don't know, the chapter title is from the Greek Mythology of the famous (and not to mention genius) architect, Daedalus and his attempt to flee imprisoned life in Crete with his son, Icarus. Here goes.

Chapter 1: Daedalus and His Imperfect Wings of Wax

For as long as I can remember, my troubled mind has the tendency to itch caused by the sight of imperfection. If the imperfection stays imperfect, then I will drown in my paranoia of making my next step, an imperfect one. Perhaps this is the reason why I married my husband, if not out of love. If that was so, then my marriage is contradictory for at times our matrimonial relationship is often drenched with imperfection, and sometimes wears the façade of perfection; which is why it's safe to say, meeting Sesshoumaru could be the best and worst day of my life. Obviously, one would say, "Then which one is it? Best and worst are antonyms! They are incompatible words!" Unfortunately and fortunately, one could only taste the bittersweet freedom he has given me… only to later sense the cruel after-taste of some vicious poison. If it weren't for his actions, I would not have transformed from a useless peasant into an idol of perfection.

After looking with much nostalgia at my past, I've concluded that if it weren't for him, maybe I wouldn't have flown above such a vast and majestic ocean as Daedalus had with his wings of wax. No… wait… Maybe I should be Icarus, for it was Sesshoumaru who fashioned such imperfect wings. It was he who caused my escape and downfall to the bottomless depths of … what I would call… the lowest and cruelest points of my life.

Paris, France

Winter

"STEP RIGHT UP, LADIES AND GENTS!" The enthusiastic announcer exclaimed through the horde of children and young adults, "Down here… you'll witness an angel born from the darkest corners of the underworld! A perilous beauty who roamed the vast lands of Asia accompanied by her haunted melody! Ladies and gents! I present to you…"

Her name, her talent, her deformity… I couldn't hear. Those frightening facts were engulfed by the waves of laughter and chants caused by the enticed crowd. While they cheered at the vulgar shape of her body yet enchantingly beautiful features of exotic Eastern her face, I gazed nonchalantly. This woman was a result of God's wrath, and in my head I cried at the imperfection and my inability… no… the impossibility of correcting this permanent hideousness.

The woman had six arms, three on one side and three on the other. Such vile display of worldly horrors was disgusting. Amidst the noisy crowd, she erected a bulky and rather large instrument sitting next to her on the state. It was a cello. While doing so with two arms, the other four set up a music stand, arranging pieces of music for her to perform (an act I found peculiar). Finished with her preparations, she slyly grinned at the crowd as she was positioned to play, waiting for utter silence to commence her show.

As if hypnotized, the crowd obeyed, forgetting how amused they were of her rather conspicuous imperfection. In an instant, she forced her bow across the silver strings of her cello, creating a peaceful yet hauntingly sorrowful sound. The excitement drained from everyone's faces. All happiness evanesced as she began to sing along with such a ravenous tone for an even sadder yet aggressive sound.

"Here's a sad story about a deer and a man…"

Her voice trapped us in the core of her music. Like a spider weaving its web, us insects are entangled on her silver threads.

"A romantic scene from a lullaby. In a clearing green, where his eyes met mine.
I was frozen motion. Oh! His bow was raised. Then the fleeting notion-that my life he'd save."

We were devoured by a hunter's kiss.

"But I saw it coming, flying through the air. Feathered backside humming. Miss me, hit me where…Where it will only hurt me, not a mortal wound. Leave me lying dirty, someone would find me soon."

Moment by moment, the horde of children began to weep not of sympathy with the sadness but of horror. The song shattered their view of reality as it began to mold the thought of imperfection in their infant minds.

"My life is not mine.
Like a dog or a wife.
He has taken his time.
He has taken my life."

Death was a concept evaded by carnivals, events/areas supposed to be drenched with life and joy. How could they allow this pitiful creature to produce such a melancholic song?

"I could see the steaming of his cloudy breath. No, I was not dreaming.
I was next to death. As I lay there twitching, then my legs he tied. There was nothing missing on the day I died."

As if the deathly spell was broken, the adults began to yell shouts of disapproval. "Boos" and other negative chants were thrown everywhere. However, the freak continued with her morbid song.

"I have never felt like this before.
Felt my body sinking to the grassy floor
No, I have never known a love like this.
Felt the flaming arrows of the Hunter's Kiss."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The night after the carnival incident, I was mesmerized by the song. Its words etched themselves in my mind, torturing me with their sense of defeat and anguish. Sitting there with the bowl of despicable (and untouched) oatmeal, I stared lazily across the barren and lifeless lot where the carnival took place. My life as it was situated was entirely imperfect. That reality seemed to have placed a degrading feeling in my stomach.

I was sitting on a perfectly square bench, its edges and shape precisely similar with my untouched bowl of oatmeal. I neatly placed the bowl on my lap, careful not to crease or cause folds on my peasant skirt. I clung to my wool coat, which tediously and painstakingly draped around my emaciated frame as I felt the chill of a winter breeze.

"Now where was mademoiselle last night?" inquired my obnoxious "care taker", his dialogue was heavy with a French accent. He ran the carnival and owned the property where it took place. He is in charge of "taking care" of the "freaks" he exhibits and the maintenance of the disastrous rides placed here and there. Recently, I had made a deal with him that if he had given me shelter, I will work in exchange. It was a bargain which I didn't keep my part of. "Zut! Avant soir, j'ai entendu tu as regardé Arachnid!"

My obnoxious care taker failed to remember that I, an orphaned Japanese immigrant, wasn't fluent in French. As a result, I responded with the usual, "Je regrette."

His expression boiled with immense anger as his face wrinkled at my sight as his putrid breath created steam in the cold air. He raised his hand in the air while grabbing my wrist on the other, ready to reprimand my foolishness.

"Pardon, monsieur…" interrupted a voice. I turned to look beside us to see a weary Arachid, her body concealed by a trench coat (along with her excess supply of arms) and a shawl. "I can't help but notice, le Care Taker is beating on a girl."

"What are you up to, you freak?!" He retorted with saliva flying in the air. "Don't think I have not heard of your foolishness last night!"

"I will gladly accept punishment later, after I do my morning shopping. But it seems this girl is being bothersome to you. Would you like me to relieve you of her presence while she accompanies me?"

One would think that a man such as he would never allow such thing to pass. Allowing me to accompany her means allowing himself to forget about punishing me in the first place. Instead of bluntly rejecting her with a scowl coupled with shouts, he spat on the ground, release his hold of me, and stomped away.

Arachnid smiled and nodded to me to follow her.

My time with this young woman, who appears normal if she wears garments which conceal her crude imperfection, was actually quite enjoyable. Without the arms, she was far from being repulsive and closer to being beautiful. While she softly held onto my head, I looked up to her, studying her smiling face. Her skin was porcelain, like the pale clay made of the dolls which come from a familiar country in my childhood. She had loose raven locks which fell on her temples as the remainder of her silky hair was held in a bun. Out of curiosity, I attempted with a perfect French accent a question of her origin, "Etes-vous japonaise?"

"Hai, I think you are too?" She replied with my language. Arachnid seemed to be delighted by our similarity. Forgetting all my previous thoughts and impressions of her, I nodded my head. Her kindness was like the sun. I've been covered by these winter clouds for so long, that feeling her radiant smile made me feel so secure once more. It made me forget that I was imperfect… that everything was imperfect.

"I'm a Japanese immigrant. I came about two months ago. Hajimemashte, I'm Rin!"

For about a while, we carried a conversation which regarded our past. Walking the ancient and stunning streets of Paris, we chatted of our lives (mostly about mine) as we made few purchases at the open-air food market.

"Bonjour mademoiselle Sara," greeted the corpulent fruit vendor. His meaty cheeks widened a smile for us. "And who is our little guest?" He lowered his head from his stand to peer at me. "Ah she is a pretty girl! Très jolie! Could she be your sister?"

Arachnid… no Sara (as I now learned is her real name) chuckled at his statement as she answered in French. "I wish! She is an acquaintance of mine. Her name is Rin. She recently came from Japan."

I bowed my head in the traditional Japanese greeting and said, "Bonjour monsieur. Je m'appelle Rin. Comment çava?" I almost stammered at my greeting, but I had hoped it was almost perfect.

The jolly man bellowed with amused laughter. "Here, an apple. Take it as a gift. Welcome to Paris, mademoiselle."

Was it coincidence? Was it serendipity? Was it the tides of fate? I didn't know. But back then it didn't matter. Ever since that instant, a handful of events were triggered. You could say it was point in which I departed my jail and flew where the winds would take me. During that solemn winter day, I toured part of Old Paris and the history engraved in its streets with Sara by my side. In a way she had become my sister and wove herself a thread which tangled with my life. Maybe she was Daedalus who fashioned my wings and Sesshoumaru was the ocean who embraced my fall and later used it to drown me in his world.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

I dashed past the townsmen along the clogged streets of Paris. It's once glamorous life is now being an obstacle for my errand, which was to buy a new set of strings for Sara's cello. Instead of purchasing from nearby music stores, she had instructed me to make my purchase in a store called, "La Musique de Jean-Marc." The owner, being rumored to be a senile old man yet a musical prodigy who sold valuable instruments and their accessories for reasonable prices, built his shop across the famous river of La Seine where one would hope to find the famous landmarks: la Tour de Eiffel, Notre Dame, Jardin du Luxembourg, and etc.

Crossing the brick bridge, I witnessed the beauty of the historic Seine. It was a river flowing with life and commerce where the very heart of Paris was founded. On the surface of its calm and surging waters… ferries, love boats, trading ships, and other sorts alike gently rowed themselves across and back. It was another scene which I found perfect, and knowing it was perfect pleased me.

Walking my way to the opposite bank, I decided to ask for more helpful directions. A tall man hidden stood out like a sore thumb. But it was not his dangerous height which irritated my brain. It was his conspicuous silver hair that was tamed by what would look like a hair tie… probably a foreigner. He was conversing with what looked like a tradesman next to a store.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur…" I said, poking his gigantic back. I was a child then, so when he turned around to face the girl who dared interrupted him, I didn't know I would be so trapped and afraid of the presence before me.

"Qu'est-ce que tu as fait?! Go back to where you belong, little girl!" scowled the tradesman. He seemed to be in the worst of moods, thus his ill temper. But that did not stop me for I was trapped in the other's inescapable gaze. The silver-haired foreigner was handsome indeed. Very handsome and he seemed young, very young. Maybe around his early twenties? He was dressed in a business man's attire and carried a suitcase. But I did not gaze in admiration. I gazed in fear. He carried such a piercing and cold stare, I couldn't help but be frozen.

"Is the child bothering you, sir?"

Next to this fearsome man, were other fearsome men who (I did not notice) hid themselves in black car (seemed to be used by the wealthy). They appear to be bodyguards, and having made that observation I knew I had to flee.

"It's alright," he said taking his piercing eyes away from me and back to the merchant. He spoke to him in French, which I did not understand, gave him the suitcase as the tradesman handed him a key in exchange and he grumpily walked away. Judging by the looks of what happened, this peculiar man purchased something of importance which the tradesman hesitantly parted with.

"My business here is over," he called to the bodyguards as they returned to the car, but one of them stayed by the car door, opening it for this powerful man. "And what about you, young lady? What business do you have with me?" He questioned nonchalantly, but I hinted some tone of an attempt in friendliness.

I was struck speechless. What was is this man? "Pardon my rudeness, monsieur… I was only begging for directions," I said. He smirked at my response.

"My dear monsieur, we'll be late!" called out a young woman from the car, her blond head poking out where the car door was left open. Her face was heavily covered with make up and she was dressed in sorts of fur and other expensive (not to mention useless) nuisance of clothes. Perhaps she was his concubine… or whore.

"It seems I have to leave," he told me. I nodded my head in agreement and I began to walk away. "But a child like you shouldn't wander around aimlessly in a city as big as Paris. Let me take you in my car. That will save us both some time."

He gestured for me to follow him, and I did. When I entered the car, I thought I've never seen something so grand (it was my first time being in one). I was awed and studied every part of the inside. The lady chuckled at my reaction. "Well, Sesshoumaru. I did not know you had a taste for younger girls. Who knew they also liked wealthy cars!"

Sesshoumaru, who sat next to this mundane woman (who clung on him so irritably), ignored her mocking of him (she practically said he was a pedophile), and said, "This young lady needs to get somewhere. Where do you want to go?"

I told him of my purpose in these streets, and so he ordered his chauffeur to go to my destination.

"That's good," he commented, "I know that store, and it's close by where I'm headed."

As we drove, I looked outside the window only to be fascinated by the car's overwhelming speed.

"She's a pretty little girl, monsieur," the woman said as she studied me carefully. "However she looks foreign. Maybe she's Japanese like you are, sir?"

The fact that Sesshoumaru was Japanese shocked me. He did not have the appearance of a Japanese man. Though I thought he was foreign, I assumed he was German of some sort. This fact made me laugh a little.

"Ah she thinks you're funny, monsieur!"

Sesshoumaru cocked an eyebrow at me but ignored our childishness. "Tell me girl, what's your name?"

"Je m'appelle Rin, madame," I answered, aiming to be polite.

She burst into laughter. "I am not a madame young one! I'm not so old." Sesshoumaru laughed along but it seems for a different reason.

"Mademoiselle Dominique, you are not so young either," he teased. She grunted at this and stared out the window.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Ah, Sesshoumaru! Welcome! Welcome! You have not visited my store in a awhile!" exclaimed Jean-March, the aged shop owner. In his store, there were many unfinished violins and cellos hung on ropes on the ceiling. On walls, there stood models of violins that were finished and a price tag was stuck on the wall adjacent to the instruments. Near the shop desk was a window where the more expensive violins were encased in a glass. They were all neatly arranged and the whole store was tidy. It pleased me. Above the store, I could hear a violin being played.

"My wife is upstairs, playing." He said apologetically, though I didn't know what was so wrong about it. Looking at us, he noticed my petite form. "Ah who is this little girl? Your daughter perhaps? HA! I never knew you settled down." I blushed at the thought of him being my father. Did we even look alike?

"This little girl," said Sesshoumaru, "was roaming the streets of Paris unaccompanied as she searched for your store. I thought it wise, since my destination is the warehouse down the street from here, to bring her here myself."

The old man chortled at this. "Who knew you could be so generous! Haha!" He placed the spectacles which hung about his neck over his eyes and observed me. "Now what does this pretty lady need from my store?"

I explained to him what I needed. Nodding his head, he said that he will return shortly as he walked to the back and entered what seems to be a storage closet. Sesshoumaru explained that he has to attend business, and departed.

"Sayonara, Sesshoumaru-san," I said in hopes that my Japanese will please him. Sesshoumaru just gave a blank stare and left immediately. I thought it odd that he did not return the gesture.

After that encounter, I never saw Sesshoumaru again. I thought that he had been a dream or some sort of an illusion. All traces of our meeting vanished and as years went by I had soon forgotten about him. Winter melted into spring, and spring gave way to summer, then summer evanesced into autumn. The cycle repeated and I thought my life as bleak as any winter day. I continued to work for the carnival under the harsh terms of my care taker but was often comforted by Sara, who seemed to have become more and more ill as times went by. She explained that her deformity made her body very weak. Her spinal cord grew frailer each day and her heart was weak due to a certain illness passed down generation through generation in her family. I was saddened by this. I writhed at the thought of Sara leaving me.

When Sara did die, I was already fourteen years old and I did not shed a tear. It seems God likes to take away anyone who becomes my family, and to spite him I held back any form of grief. Sara was given an improper funeral and the caretaker simply gave her body to the local morgue. This thought angered me. How can I pay respects to her grave? Solace became scarce in such an imperfect world. Though at my age, most girls would be budding and indulging in things that gave them beautification, I stayed at the brinks of poverty. Once in a while I would spy a young woman and envy her life while I pick up garbage, run tedious errands, or get beaten by the care taker. He even threatened that if I remain as useless as I was, he will sell me to a brothel. Won't someone rescue me?

Someone did. One summer night in Paris, France, I encountered Ichinose Sesshoumaru in the most unexpected of places. That night soon became the turning point of my life.

Author's Note: The end of chapter 1. How was it? Liked it hated it? Just give feedback. The song Sara/Arachnid sang is called Hunter's Kiss and it's by a band (which I love) called Rasputina. It's a very beautiful song. The name Arachnid came from the Greek mythology of a young woman named Arachnid who was extremely talented in weaving (a domestic honor back then). She was so talented she challenged the Goddess of Wisdom and Art, Athena to weave a better quilt than she. Angered by her arrogance, Athena turned Arachnid into a spider, so she could weave endless webs forever.

Forgive me if my French is terrible. I've only taken classes for a year.