that's it, that's the ask.
‘ it’s heavy, kleiner? ‘
luna’s narrow fingers brace the weight of his helm well enough, regardless; a strength runs through the family, the maximoffs, the eisenhardts, the multitude of names entwined within their families. erik, in turn, carries her close, tender and gentle and as if he’d never shed a drop of blood in his long and enduring life. this echo of fatherhood was one that was bittersweet to him; the years lost on pietro and wanda regained, to some degree, on luna, and tommy, and billy--she giggles when the crest of the helm slips over her brow, mussing her hair. mayhaps, some day, the helm--the mantle of magneto, as it was, the symbolic martyrdom of a king, though he did not think of himself as such by any means--might pass down, from his children, to his grandchildren.
he hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary. he hoped, beyond all hopes, in his life time, he would see mutant children flourish without the need for decades of resistance and revolution. he hoped luna would never have to see the things he’d seen, but that she could remember them, through the generational scars of history, through his faded numbers and innumerable marks.
can i wear it, zaydeh?
‘ for today, kleyntshiger. ‘
@omoon