A/N: This is my very first fic! So I'd appreciate some R&R.
This fic is based very loosely upon the life of Edgar Degas (with quite a few artistic liberties taken. hehe ^^;). Also, the story was inspired by the song Tiny Dancer by Elton John, so the title and chapters are mostly going to be lyrics from the song.
I do not own Tiny Dancer or Inuyasha. The material presented in this piece belongs to their respective owners. Not me.
Now, on with the show!
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Chapter 1: The Boulevard Is Not That Bad
It was a rainy, dreary Parisian day in 1874. Perfect weather to match the artist's dim mood. A carriage carrying the artist in question turned down a cobbled street. The rhythmic sound of the rain melded with the uneven din of the carriage wheels rolling over the cobblestones and provided background music accompanying the theme of the artist's day. He pushed aside the window curtain to view the buildings along the narrow Parisian street being splattered with gritty, dirty water as his carriage sped down the lane. He adjusted the narrow ribbon necktie at his throat as the buildings passed by.
Retreating into the dark gloom of the carriage interior, the artist solemnly looked at his hands - the long, alabaster fingers, the broad palms, the well-manicured fingernails. He listened to the steady clomping of the horse's hooves upon the road, the sloshing of the carriage wheels through the water-logged streets, and, if he strained, the quiet pitter-patter of the rain upon the roof of his transport. All of these mundane, monotonous sounds served to further disenchant the artist.
A loud clap of thunder punctuated his thoughts. He looked once more out the window and saw pendulous black rain clouds approaching on the horizon. They seemed to enunciate the gravity of his situation. In an attempt to prevent the further dark clouding of his mind, the artist once again drew back into his shelter and again looked at his hands - such utile and able appendages. Despite his deteriorating eyesight, what he saw was perfectly clear.
He saw the end of an era.
The artist could feel his carriage coming to a slow stop. He quickly brushed the seemingly incandescent silver hair out of his eyes before preparing to exit the vehicle. When the side door opened, he stepped out under the umbrella that his driver and manservant held for him. They had stopped in front of a large, regally pillared building. He turned and viewed the road over which he had just traversed and saw an almost identical (were it but for the gigantic size) carriage rapidly approaching. As the second driver pulled up, the artist took the umbrella from his man and quietly commanded that he fetch the proprietor of the establishment.
The manservant shortly reappeared with a short, squat little old man shuffling behind, an old umbrella with rusted and broken spokes in his small hand. At an almost imperceptible hand motion by the artist, who was now standing like a black and white pillar in the washed-out rue, the second carriage driver began unloading the cargo in his carriage, which was packed into several large wooden trunks.
The short, bald proprietor fidgeted in anticipation, for upon seeing the astounding quality of the trunks being removed from the carriage, he could see that the contents encased were, without a doubt, valuable. He then directed his attention to the solitary artist, who was standing stoically underneath the black umbrella he held in his hand. The little man tilted his head skyward and looked down his long nose so as to eye the stranger (more importantly, potential client) from his well-dressed feet up to his face, where, with a singular nervous twitch of his grey mustache, he saw the face of a man ready to go into battle. The tall artist's honey-chestnut eyes glared down at him with an unnameable fierceness.
Clearing his throat, the fat manager addressed the artist. "Good afternoon, Monsieur. I am the proprietor of this most noble establishment, as per requested. How may I serve you today, sir?" He finished with a bow and a flourish and looked expectantly at the handsome stranger before him.
The artist calmly stepped forward and replied in a deep baritone, "I have come to sell my wares. Am I correct in assuming that this is the proper location to do so?"
The little manager let out a wheezing chuckle and exclaimed with a look of great humor, "My, a man of such obvious wealth as yourself must have no need of visiting such an auction house!" He let out a rolling belly laugh and slapped his leg with a fat, short-fingered hand.
At this, the artist piercingly glared at the old man, who audibly gulped and fidgeted under the imposing stranger's cold stare.
"Ahem. My deepest apologies, sir. It was indeed not my intent to offend. If you would but give me your name, your man and I can begin an inventory of the possessions you wish to sell at auction."
The artist turned, for he had heard a steady noise approaching. A smaller, less elaborately decorated carriage drove up and stopped crassly next to his own, which was now splattered with dirty water and bits of gravel. At this obvious slight, the artist gave a barely visible sigh of exasperation.
Upon seeing the carriage occupant, of shorter stature and the same silver hair, step out onto the cobblestones, the tall artist turned his head away with a look of contempt, and stated a single thing to the waiting man.
"Sesshomaru."