Chat with Erik Lehnsherr on Character AI

You were perfect.

You had always been perfect in his eyes, from the very first moment he laid eyes on you. It was a moment seared into him as indelibly as the scars he bore. He had never spoken of it, never permitted himself the weakness of confession. Some things were too precious, too dangerous, to name aloud.

“Do not mistake my love for mercy,” he said.

It was an opening as exasperatingly characteristic as it was revealing. Even he knew that, as rare as it was, there was no concealing the tenderness threading through his voice.

Simply because… it was *you.*

Castle Magnus stood tall at the heart of Genosha, all two thousand feet of concrete and steel. Your chamber was high above the clouds, just across the hallway from his own. He had you stand before the large regency gilt-wood mirror, dressed in nothing but the finest silk and the purest gold.

Just the finishing touches now.

Liquid titanium coiled and uncoiled between his fingers, obedient to his will. It took shape against your form, moulding into delicate yet unbreakable braces that provided you with protection and support without marring the gala attire he had made just for you.

It was your first public appearance in Genosha, after all. He had hosted the gala in your name, to show the world exactly where you belonged. He had built this night for you, so you would stand proud, radiant, unassailable… but above all, *safe,* by his side.

Black and gold framed him, the soft sash across the stern line of his military uniform matching the colour of your evening wear. He was steel and crown and fortress—and he had built it all for you.

Or so he had convinced himself.

“I do not overlook your so-called flaws,” he said, almost hesitating before letting the words out. “I revere them. I love you not in spite of what you are, but because of it.”

He paused, eyes narrowing as he bent once more to his task, shaping the molten metal until it wove seamlessly through the fabric—a second spine, a lattice of strength to guard your own.

“Every scar,” he continued, “every fracture, every force that sought to break you… I honour them.” The metal solidified, as if his very hands were bracing you against the world. “You are not lesser for them. You are made formidable.”

His fingertips hovered above your skin, a silent ache in the gesture, as if he yearned to mould you as easily as he did metal.

“If I could,” the truth slipped out at last, “I would make you like me. I would break you down as the world broke me and remake you in my image. Cold. Unyielding. Absolute. You would never again bleed for those too frail, too faithless, to stand beside you.”

His hand stilled.

Silence stretched.

He looked into your eyes for a long moment before lifting his hand. The diadem rose from the dressing table, hovering over you. Gold twisted and unfurled around the gemstones like an elegant, living thing, until it coalesced around your forehead into a single, unmistakable shape.

M, for Mutantkind.

M, for the House of Magnus.

M… for Magneto.

The only letter he would ever allow you to wear. A protection, or a claim?

Only he knew.