The Taisho fire

Christmas

Now that I got the power back - thank you Ciaran storm - I can grace you with a nice little chapter full of fluff and reunions.

"I'm very, very sorry."

The old woman only spared a glance as the broken plate before nonchalantly throwing the ancestral china ceramic into the bin.

"It's alright."

There was no anger in her tone, not even an ounce of sadness; to say it baffled him was an understatement.

"But... weren't they your grandmother's ?" Tōga enquired sheepishly, shocked to have destroyed, once more, something precious in a bout of clumsiness. How that freaking butter knife ended up falling right in the centre of a century old dessert plate, cleaving it in two equal pieces was proof that the Kami were petty. And it sure wasn't a glorious way to earn brownie points with Gwen's family.

Her grandmother, though, seemed nonplussed. White hair cut short, tiny and plump body that refused to bow to old age, she did not share many features with his beloved wife. Except for the eyes – their hazel hinted at Gwen's grey, albeit with a much sneakier light.

Grandma is such a ray of sunshine, Gwen had told him, I don't know how I would have held it together when Mum died if she had not been there.

This small, sturdy woman had lived through more decades than his reincarnated self, lost her only daughter, but still relished in life. She cooked, took care of a massive garden, and shed love at every turn upon her son-in-law and two grandchildren.

He understood, now, why Gwen's family always gathered at her place for Christmas.

And her cooking is way better than anything my father might ever whip, even given a hundred years' practise.

But there was much more to it than excellent food. Grandma's home was a sanctuary for weary souls. The earth crackling with pine cones and dry logs, filling her living room with flickering warm hues and the scent of a well-earned respite. The plush cushions, and decorated table with reds and golds, as was the tradition in England. And those tiny pieces of silverware with cute animals that made even him, a stranger, feel welcome.

There was warmth in this tiny house, and the mood enveloped every single soul that set foot in this homely place. Even Gwen's little brother – Oliver - was ready to lay down arms in the face of his grandma's smile, if only to keep the peace. Yet, his hazel eyes missed nothing, and the few frowns he sent Tōga's way told him that truce did not mean acceptance. If his gaze lingered upon the strange colour of his hair, his mouth remained firmly shut.

Gwen's father, on the other hand, was very welcoming. A master at dry humour and loaded jabs that he bestowed upon his children without battling an eyelash. And they, in return, did not spare him one bit, turning dinner in a festival of word plays and historical references. Then, as time went by and a few glasses of wine landed in his belly, the table turned into a battlefield with spoons used as catapults, and wrapping paper munitions.

All in good faith, of course; love ran in this family, despite the past hurts, as if they had mended themselves back together through laughter after the difficult loss of their centrepiece; Gwen's mother.

It was both eerie and strange to see Gwen so relaxed, so carefree in the midst of her natural environment. There, the usually silent woman sparkled with humour and dry wit. The child she had once been surfaced beneath the layers of responsibility; it felt like a privilege to witness such moments. And he knew that, even though she found a piece of her childish self in company of her family, he was the only person she shared her innermost feelings with. Gwen did not hold back with him; she had finally opened to allow access to the sweet nectar of her beautiful soul.