That smile.

It still haunts me, I can still see it, even here in this place, this cold, dank dungeon of malice.

I want to hit her, to slap that smile off of her face, like I always did, when she was young.

But now she is grown, and I cannot touch her.

How is it that she can be glad, blissful, while my daughter, reared as well as we could rear her, lies dead, along with the students she followed into battle.

I can see her face, lined with happiness, fringed with her wedding veil, and it kills me.