Morrie & Lachlan
It suited her? Morrie could not help but her eyes a little at his words, and his grin. Bright and beautiful hardly suited her, and nothing Lachlan could say about that would convince her otherwise. Still, she supposed she appreciated the sentiment, even if it was a bit empty. Her brother had often been a voice of encouragement throughout her life, one who defended her honour and sought to lift her often mercurial spirits, at least until he left. Even if she didn't believe his words now, it felt nice on some level to know that he still thought that his role.
"It reminds me of a dress mother would wear," Morrie admitted. "I always remember her in vibrantly colourful clothes, never pastels."
Perhaps it was because the anniversary of their mother's passing had only been a week ago, but though she had been out of Morrie's life so much longer than she had been in it by now, the woman had been on Morrie's mind a lot lately. She could scarcely remember her face, but she remembered her essence, her perspective, and so many of her words. She remembered that her mother, like Morrie, had also been moody and mercurial. A few years before his death, her father had once admitted while drunk that Morrigan was so much like her mother -- looked like her, talked like her, acted like her -- that he could hardly stand it. It had been a painful moment, but ultimately... Morrie was glad that she was more like her mother than her father. She was aware that she probably idealized her mother's memory, that at eight years old she would not have been able to see her inevitable human faults that her mother must have had, but she treasured the memories she had of her mother nonetheless.
After all, something did not have to be faultless to be treasured. She looked to her brother, a very good example of that point, and asked, "How are you adapting to being home? Or do you feel that Castyll is your home, and I have taken you from it?"