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The carousel, despite it being the nexus of the Krakoan community, was not particularly busy at the time, a state of affairs which suited Magneto quite well. Much had been done to establish Mutants in their own nation, a people apart. It had not been the future most had hoped for, but it had been necessary. It was a truth he had known for longer than most, a lesson learned and earned many times over.

Yet here he was, preparing to attend the most human of occasions, a ceremony that, should matters remain as they were for mutantkind, need never again occur for his own people. Before he had been Magneto, however, he had been Max Eisenhardt, born to a people that were bound together tighter than most, across borders jealously guarded by other peoples, but mostly ignored by them. It was a closeness, much like mutantkind, forged by necessity, from the predations of outsiders. It had damned and saved them countless times, and it was not something he could ignore, not forever.

So the helmet had been removed, the white and black of Magneto replaced with a finely tailored suit of the same colouring, a silver chain hanging from the centre of his waistcoat to one pocket. He had been told that this, along with the flat cap position atop his white shock of hair had become fashionable once more, but to him it was simply the style of his choice, from a lifetime of altering tastes among the wider human people. He supposed there were some advantages to being a man out of his era.

He had been preparing to leave for some time, waiting for no particular moment among the sparse spattering of mutants going to and thro. Their presence only amplified the debate within him, these were his people, not those beyond the portal. When he had finally exhaled and taken to cross the threshold, a familiar voice resounded within his head itself.

[i]"Hold a moment."[/i]

[i]"I will not be long, Miss Frost, I am sure Krakoa will survive for a day,"[/i] The sudden thought something had arisen that might prevent him from paying his respects was not a comfortable one, and it was one which convinced him, finally, that is was the right thing to do, even if simply for himself, and those who had been lost along the way. No reply was forthcoming from the telepath, however, and so he did as instructed, pausing, not wishing to risk any ire from a lack of patience.

Then he saw her, the crest of red hair over black and brown, drifting through the air itself. It was a sight many would enjoy, he was sure, but when he beheld her there was more to his understanding. Was that not how the humans depicted their divinities? The song of angels on high, Christ descending among them. As the woman who had been the Phoenix touched down, boot-clad feet onto grass, his mind considered just how much destiny shifted around her, around all mutants. Only her voice, spoken aloud unlike Emma's, snapped him from such considerations.

"Miss Grey, keenly observed as ever, although perhaps knowing the machinations of a certain mutual connection, I believe we may be heading in the same direction." Something of the Head Masterly tone entered his words as he spoke, it was not entirely deliberate, for their times at Xavier's school had never intersected, beyond the somewhat awkward number of times he had been trying to destroy the place. "While I do suspect of the two of us, she considers me the risk that needs managing, I may pretend at least otherwise, and ask if do not mind for me to accompany you?" He tilted one hand towards the portal, as one might have a carriage door, in ages past.