Well.

After a whole lot of fucking around on the site, I've finally managed to get things straight. For those who aren't aware, this is a rewrite of the original With Grace and Elegance, one of the more popular Worm fics on this site. Unjustified, in my own personal opinion, so I'm trying to rewrite it here, and turn it into something I can be proud of.

In all honesty, I can't guarantee anything as far as regular updates are concerned. I've been in a perpetual state of writer's block for a few months now, and my original pieces tend to grab my attention more than my fanfictions do. Who knows, this project may end up abandoned in a few months, or I may finally get around to finishing this damn story.

The entire thing is up in the air.

I awoke to the kindly rhythms of the ocean.

I was intimately familiar with the sound. Brockton Bay was a seaside city, and I had spent many an afternoon strolling down gritty beaches, dipping my toes in garbage-strewn water. But that ocean had never made a sound - it had been as meek as the city it bordered. So why…?

Oh.

Yes.

Right.

The Locker.

The Locker.

I screamed, raw and wet, and jerked upright. I could feel the mucus and the rot and the filth pressing against my skin, soft and soggy, studded with roaches and fleas, and -

Hands pressed against my mind, caressing it warmly. The ocean bubbled in the background. And a phrase, a word;

Home.

The scent of the sea hit me then, all salty brine and crisp water. There was a part of me that cried out, that rebelled, screaming. This isn't home, it cried. Our home is warm and wooden and has a broken step.

I shushed it, and lay back down. A song came to my lips, unbidden.

It was a quaint little thing, with a smooth, swooping melody.

Once the song had trailed off into quiet, I felt an urge to rise, and explore. To marvel at the world around me.

So I did.

It seemed to be a cold, dark, and very gentle place. A night sky studded with glittering, lonely stars, motherless, without their gleaming moon. Rough grey rock beneath my feet, lined with crags and wrinkles; a calm foundation to build a city on. And, of course, the ocean. Laying in all directions, midnight blue and black, swaying ever so softly.

That, I thought, is the centre of the world.

I lost track of time, staring out over that infinite expanse. It was so very broad, and so very deep - truly, a limitless thing.

But, eventually, I felt the urge to turn around. To see what lay behind me, in this magical place. And these small, quiet urges hadn't led me wrong yet, so I turned, and blinked.

At the centre of this small island was an encirclement of pillars that flowed into the ground. They were made of a smooth, marbled stone, but their bases were made of a craggy rock, as if part of the land it sat on. And as smooth as their bodies were, their tops were rough and uneven as well, jagged stone that scraped at the sky.

I took a step towards it.

Then another.

And another.

Just one more.

Two, maybe.

Before I knew it I was standing just a few steps away from the pillars. One more step would take me past their threshold.

Something welled up in my chest. A refined, elegant thing, made of coiling emerald vines and delicate pink flowers. And of blood, and ice. It pushed me forward, gently urged me to take that step.

So I did.

I'd expected something grand. An explosion of power, maybe. But such a power was nowhere to be found; the world stayed quiet, and the night stayed cold.

I carried on.

Amidst the pillars, directly in their centre, was a scarred stone table. Pitted and cracked, with chunks missing from the corners and edges. But still, there was a beauty to that simple block of stone - to me, anyway.

Another of those odd urges formed in my chest, pushing me towards that block of stone. A block of stone that seemed rather grand, and quietly regal, now that I looked again.

Once more, that small, quiet part of me rebelled. She cried out that this wasn't normal, that this wasn't right, that something was awfully, terribly wrong.

And once more, I ignored her.

A deep, throaty heat built in my chest, warming the underside of my skin until it was painful. I didn't doubt that if I looked down, an orange glow would be smouldering beneath my breastbone.

I buried the pain, buried the puzzlement, and, most importantly, buried that scared little girl in my head.

And breathed out.

A soft flame slipped from my mouth, a slender stream of tangerine that flowed through the air like water, and danced atop the stone table like a slender lady in a silken dress.

It was entrancing. I could have stood there for hours, watching those beautifully thin tongues of fire sway and swoop atop the stone. But I had a job to do, and couldn't afford to be distracted by pretty little things.

I reached deep within my chest, my soul, and extended my hand, palm facing the night. I coaxed that ice-cold energy from my chest, urged it to leave the safety of my soul and step into the palm of my hand.

My smile was beatific as I watched an ivory liquid coalesce in the soft skin of my hand, seeping from the cracks and wrinkles and pooling together like a slick oil. It started to elongate, a thin, oblong shape rising from the pool and reaching towards the star-studded sky.

With my other hand, I reached into my mouth, grabbed a molar, and yanked it out. I tasted blood. Then, the tooth buckled and warped, twisting inwards and outwards at the same time, leaving in my hand a hammer as dark as pitch.

I put the pale blade down on the table, laughed as the flames nibbled at my skin. I withdrew, set both my hands on the hammer, and squared my shoulders.

The hammer fell.

As I struck at it, again and again, the blade came together in my mind, from that pool of pale oil. A gently curving blade, lined with gold and lilac, outlandishly beautiful, and made to fit my hand.

Eventually, Time lost it's grasp on me. Eons passed, maybe, as I tailored the blade. But this world of mine stayed the same; the stars sparkled, the ocean swayed, the flames danced. And eventually, once I'd forgotten what the real world was like, I finished my blade.

And decided to speak aloud for the first time in a long while.

My voice was as crisp as it had always been.

"Scatter. Senbonzakura."

"Dad?"

"Yes, Taylor?"

"I'm going to school today."

Dad paused. "Are… are you sure? After what, uh, what... happened, last week, I thought you might like to spend some more time... out of school?

His voice was nasal and weak, yet full of nothing but concern for me. He'd nearly lost me, all that time ago - or was it a week? - and he was worried for me. Terrified, even.

I smiled, ruefully. "If I stay away for too long, I'll never go back. And I can't let myself get walked over all the time, right? I've got to stand up for myself, eventually. Might as well be sooner than later."

Dad smiled. The honest, open adoration on his face made me a little bit uncomfortable. "I think you know what's best for you, honey. And if you think you're ready, then who am I to stop you?"

I laughed a little bit. "Thanks, Dad."

I stepped away from the table, slotted my bowl into our mould-crusted dishwasher, and walked around the back of our room, to the lowest step of our staircase. The step still groaned uncomfortably when I stepped on it, even after so long.

Up the staircase, down the hallway, and to the right; that's where my room sat. Years ago, it had been gleefully decorated with poster after sticker after signed portrait, all bright colours and skewed angles.

I'd torn it all down about a year ago, after my first day of highschool.

Too many suddenly sour memories.

Nowadays, it was simple and spartan, dull grey and light brown. A bed, a dresser, and a desk. Nothing to remind of Emma.

Or Mum.

I flopped down on my bed, considered what I'd said to dad. I'd acted all brave and strong, but in reality, I was a nervous wreck. Even now, my fingers trembled at the thought of returning to school. And Emma.

Just the thought of her, and my heart knocked against my ribs.

I frowned, and raised my hand, fingers open and waiting.

Pink petals as soft as velvet slipped between the cracks of reality and coalesced in the palm of my hand, coming together in the shape of a blade, then bursting apart and fluttering downwards around my body. And left behind was Senbonzakura.

A shimmering silver blade that flowed smoothly into a hollow golden guard, then a lavender-wreathed hilt. Light enough to feel slim and trim, yet heavy enough to have power behind it.

Such a beautiful sword.

It softened my frown in such an easy, near-lazy manner that I nearly forgot it had been there.

The blade was still in its infancy. Still fresh, and raw. But soon, its shell would peel away like a spring-born flower opening to summer.

It would be magnificent, I was sure.

Hours Later

Some people were unforgettable.

Most weren't. Most were fairly average, the kind of person that slipped from your mind like sand through an open hand. But some people stuck around. Some people just kind of managed to cling to your memories, like a limpet.

Mr. Gladly was one of those people.

A teacher, trying to be one of the cool kids.

It was rather disturbing, really.

His class was important - to me, at least - being of Capes, and their impact. But, somehow, I'd developed a habit of tuning him out, and focusing all of my attention on the girl that sat just one row before me.

And how best to avoid her for just one more day.

Emma Barnes.

Today, more than other days, she had my attention. She'd been quiet, all day, even through two shared classes. Her friends and cronies had pointed and whispered, snickered and sneered, but she hadn't so much as glanced at me.

It was odd, out of character, and strangely terrifying.

Somehow, I found the idea of her ignoring and forgetting me far more horrifying than her abuse could ever be. And although I pretended to have no idea why I thought that way, I did, really. Because if she ignored me, if she stopped noticing me…

It would mean the complete loss of the girl that had once been my sister.

I couldn't stomach the thought.

So I made do with glaring daggers into the back of her head, outraged that she'd even think to abandon me, after all she'd done.

A little joke, just for me.

For the most part, anyway.

And then, when Mr. Gladly was leaning a bit too close to a blonde with a rather deep cleavage, she turned, and caught me glaring.

And smiled a smile of perfect teeth.

"So, Taylor," she said, "How were the bugs?"

I froze.

One.

Breath.

Two.

Breath.

Three-

I stood up, slung my bag over my shoulder, and strode towards the door. Mr. Gladly turned, said something that I ignored. The class muttered and grumbled, and I ignored them as well, left the class before I lost it.

I would've cried.

Or screamed, maybe.

So very close.

I needed to focus on something else.

Anything, else.

The corridor. The cool, quiet corridor, metre after metre of bare cement and tile, fringed with shiny locker. The emptiness, and the loneliness. It reminded me of the starlit world, slightly.

I breathed deeply, rubbed my face, and considered whether I had the strength to go back. The urge to just up and leave was strong. Very, very strong. The relief of defeat would be blissful, certainly. But-

I couldn't.

I wouldn't.

I was different now. Stronger. Tougher. I wouldn't be beaten down.

Ever again.

I breathed in, breathed out, touched my glasses, and readied myself to go back in.

And then Senbonzakura stirred.

Which changed everything, obviously.

I found myself marching down the hallway, away from the classroom - and Emma - an excited shake in my fingers. Senbonzakura took priority.

Always.

Mr. Gladly didn't matter, the Trio didn't matter.

Nothing did, really.

Not in the face of my newborn.

I'd dreamt about Senbonzakura's waking for a while now.

Not in the literal sense. Rather, the idea was always there, tickling lightly at my thoughts. Filling me with excitement, and anticipation. Sending shivers down my spine and trembles through my toes.

For someone who would understand all of me, instantly. Intrinsically.

Someone that might even become a friend, maybe.

But, just yesterday, I'd had another thought - one that filled me with dread, rather than hope.

What If I disappointed Senbonzakura?

What if, coming out of that beautiful starlit world, the first thing he saw was me, in all my ugliness? Senbonzakura was a blade so beautiful it shunned the sun - next to it, I was plain, and unimpressive.

He'd be disgusted, surely, for how could anyone not be? To find that your creator, the reason behind your existence, was nothing but a small, frog-faced girl with too-big knuckles and too-long ears?

I couldn't stand the thought.

So I'd racked my mind, searching for something to tell him that I wasn't as ugly as I looked, not really. I'd come up short; until an odd, out of place memory had come to me.

Of a soft sunset, and the smell of the sea.

And all of a sudden, I knew exactly where I'd greet Senbonzakura.

Only problem was, I had to trek across most of the city to get there.

Not the best way to be spending my afternoon.

But he was worth it.

He always would be.

And, then, a shrill scream tore me from my pleasant thoughts.

If it hadn't been the Docks, I would have ignored it. Brushed it off as some prank, or very odd laughter. But it was the Docks, and it definitely wasn't a prank.

I very nearly walked on by. It was something ingrained in my bones - you hear a scream, you keep walking. You ignore it, tuck your chin into your chest, and pray to god that it doesn't come you way. It had kept me safe, all my life.

And it stunned me, that that was the first thing to come to my mind.

Even with Senbonzakura in my soul.

Even with the very real ability to make a fucking difference.

I set my jaw, tugged the too-large hood of my sweater over my face and tilted my head downwards, then broke out into a sprint towards the nearest conspicuously dark alleyway.

A weedly man, cornered by a trio of green and red clad brutes. The ABB then, just some nameless, faceless mooks mugging some random guy off the street.

Everyone had to start somewhere, I guess.

I stepped forwards, searched for a witty one-liner to spout, came up empty. The thugs turned and glared, each as mean and lean as the other, weather-beaten faces shadowed by ragged brows. One stepped forward, tugged a clean and shiny switchblade from his pocket. The other two turned back to the man they had been mugging.

I opened my hand, and called on Senbonzakura.

I almost laughed, at the sudden, startling change that swept over the thugs face: one moment a grimy-teethed leer, the next, somewhat like a fish, bug-eyed and gape-mouthed.

He barked something in Japanese, loud, and with a tremble to it. The other two thugs abandoned the man they had been mugging - he ran, instantly. And then they saw me, saw my sword, and tugged slightly trembling guns from their waistbands.

My heart leapt merrily over a beat, and when it landed, it stumbled and faltered like a drunk.

They saw, smelt or felt my fear, somehow. That shake to their barrels disappeared. And when they took another look at me, saw my ratty hoodie and my knobbly hands, they grinned once more.

They stepped forward.

One,

Two,

Three - and three steps from me, now,

I raised Senbonzakura before my face, and tried to ignore the way my own blade shook, slightly.

They took another step.

And I panicked.

"Scatter, Senbonzakura!"

The blade burst into petals, leaving just the hilt behind, clenched knuckle-white in my grip. The thugs yelled in surprise and stepped backwards, and I jerked my wrist at them, the movement awkward and clunky.

And a river of cherry blossom tore through their chests, and ripped them into red chunks.

Blood splashed against the walls, gently, accompanied by the wet slap of raw flesh hitting cement. For an instant, it reminded me of mom, dicing a prime steak with quick, neat strokes of a small knife.

That...

Had been quick.

Just a stilted, fearful flick of my wrist, and -

Three grown men, with lives and memories all of their own, gone.

Torn into mincemeat.

And -

Me.

It had been me.

Not on purpose of course, never never never on purpose, but still…

Me.

Just,

Me.

There was a bit on my shoe, a fingertip, maybe, or something else. It was too small, too red, to tell.

I brushed it off. Sat down, heavily.

Hard.

I -

I needed someone to talk to.

Someone that would understand.

The Graveyard.

I stood up, and lurched out of the alleyway, socks sodden with blood.

The Boat Graveyard was a twisted, warped mass of rust and glass. Ship after ship tangled like a thick nest of thorns, licked at by the gently undulating ocean. It smelt of copper and iron, like old things gone to waste.

And just a little bit like blood.

Or maybe that was just my own, seeping from scratched hands and scraped knees.

A well deserved hurt.

I scrambled over a ship of crumpled rust, searching for that one perfect spot that seemed so perfect in my memories. The sun was starting to set, now; it was hard to tell, when rotted ships blotted out the horizon, but there were small rays of gold that peaked over their lips, and the clouds were starting to purple.

It took me nearly a minute, of scrabbling and scraping and scratching, but finally, finally, I wobbled over the brim of the last ship, and laid eyes upon an ocean finely gilded.

I didn't quite have it in me to be amazed.

But something in my chest lifted slightly, in the knowledge that I now had some sort of gift for Senbonzakura.

As recompense for being such a fool.

The tide was out, and just beyond the prow of the ruined ship sat a slender strip of golden sand, clean and crisp and lapped at by waves. I dropped down, landed awkwardly, and sat. Unconsciously, my knees curled to my chest, my arms wrapped around myself. Making myself small, and quiet.

Timid.

I tried to relax, tried to ease the tensions that clung to my sinews. But there was sand in my socks and blood on my hands, and I didn't quite manage. So I stayed tense, and wary.

And then, from behind me -

A whisper of air, and a cloud of pink petals that slipped into the ocean.

"Hello," I said. My voice wobbled.

"Hello, Taylor." His voice was calm and cool, lined with ice, and everything I had dreamed that it would be.

It didn't make me feel any better.

A soft, barely there sigh from behind me, and the ruffle of silk. Then, a soft hand on my hand. Gentle, and very cold.

I didn't speak, for a long while. And when I did, I was quiet, and small.

"What did I do to deserve this?" I asked. "The power to kill three men, with a flick of my wrist."

He didn't say anything.

I closed my eyes. "You don't know, do you?"

A heavy silence.

"Of course you don't."

I buried my face in denim.

"Three lives, just like that. In an eyeblink. That's - it's terrifying. Do you understand, what that means to me? Not just to know that I killed someone, but to know that I can do so again, with just a silly little wave of my hand?"

He stayed quiet, didn't say anything. I had nothing left to say, so I didn't either.

A minute passed.

And when he did speak, finally, his voice was cool, and crisp.

"I'm well aware of what killing feels like. To cut a throat, to sever a head. To have blood stain your hands red. It isn't a pleasant feeling. But it's a good thing that you did, Taylor."

"...why?"

"Now, you can understand. You can understand that you have something very special, dwelling in your soul - and something very dangerous. Something that could kill thousands, if you wanted it to. If you wanted us to."

I frowned, despite myself.

"That doesn't make me feel better."

"It shouldn't. Those men didn't deserve death - few do, really - but you gave it to them anyway, accidentally, no less. Three men, with lives all of their own, were torn apart. Because of your folly."

I shrunk.

"Life is precious, Taylor - regardless of one's standing, regardless of past sins. I don't want to see you waste it again."

I didn't have anything to say, really. I tried; to scream at him that it wasn't that easy, that life wasn't that easy. Or to whisper to him that I was too young, too fragile, to have to weigh human life in the palm of my hand. But, just like entering that alleyway that seemed so much darker in my memories, words failed me.

So I held my palm out to the rippling ocean, and called Senbonzakura to my hand.

I stared at it.

"How can something so beautiful," I murmured, "be so ugly?"

Senbonzakura laughed, and the only word I could find to describe it was dainty. It made me laugh too, a little bit.

"All swords are ugly, child. Everything else is simply… smoke and mirrors, I suppose."

I paused and considered his words. Decided on something, then and there.

Something that would define me for a long time to come.

"Not mine," I said. "My swords will be beautiful."

So I released Senbonzakura, and laughed as the pink petals turned gold under the sunset, and danced upon the waves.

I'd like to make something clear before people complain about it, as they did when I first uploaded this. Senbonzakura isn't against killing, at all. He's against killing wastefully, killing people that don't need to be killed. Someone like Jack Slash, or the Siberian? They need to be killed. But three thugs off the street - they don't deserve death. I feel like it's an important distinction to make, and it's part of what will probably end up being the main theme of the piece. Namely:

What makes someone the good guy?

A bit too similar to the original Worm, maybe, but It'll be approached very differently. Or maybe it won't be approached at all - Like I said, the future of this piece really is uncertain. I'd love to promise you guys that I'll work on this until it's finished, but... I can't, really.

Either way - thanks for reading. Reviews are, of course, appreciated, but don't feel forced to write one just because of my rather mopey attitude. Sometimes, it's just like that, y'know?