Anything Erik might have thought to say died on his lips as the name hit him, flooding him with memories he had no desire to face. He turned away from his son and granddaughter, putting his back to the room and staring out of a window for several minutes until he could control the range of emotions flitting over his face. Magda. The ferocity of pain her memory caused him always took him by surprise, a wound that bled fresh no matter how often it was reopened. Eventually he cleared his throat and turned, only offering the remark, "It's fitting."