The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The field was quiet, blanketed in snow that muffled every sound, though the air hummed with an undercurrent of tension. Ivar's boots crunched deliberately with each step, the faint sound carrying through the stillness. His gaze was fixed on the small group ahead—a boy with unruly hair, not yet a man, standing protectively near Freya, while another figure, more poised but equally at ease, rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Henrik's voice carried faintly in the wind as he spoke to Freya, his tone gentle but laced with determination. Despite his youth, there was an undeniable strength in the way he stood, his small frame radiating resolve. Finn, ever composed, murmured something soothing, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm their sister.

Freya, seated on a low, frost-covered stone, looked between them with wide, watery eyes. Her usually unflappable expression had crumbled, replaced by a mixture of relief and vulnerability that softened the sharp angles of her face. Her hands trembled slightly, clasped tightly together in her lap as if grounding herself. A tear traced its way down her cheek, though she made no move to brush it away.

Ivar slowed his pace as he approached, his gaze flicking over the scene with an intensity that belied the calmness in his features. His presence alone seemed to shift the atmosphere, a subtle weight pressing down on the field. Henrik was the first to notice him. The boy straightened instinctively, his youthful bravado flickering briefly before a small, hesitant smile broke across his face.

"Ivar," Henrik called, his voice cracking just slightly, betraying the child still buried beneath his courage. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate but cautious, as though unsure of the reception he'd receive.

Freya's head snapped up at the sound of Ivar's name, her breath hitching audibly. For a moment, she simply stared, her tear-filled eyes locking onto his, searching for something unspoken. When she finally moved, it was as if the floodgates had broken. She stood abruptly, nearly stumbling in her haste to reach him, her composure unraveling completely.

"Ivar!" Her voice was thick with emotion, cracking under the weight of her relief and disbelief.

Ivar's steps quickened almost imperceptibly as she closed the distance between them, though his expression remained controlled, a faint crack in his icy demeanor the only sign of the storm beneath. When Freya reached him, she hesitated for just a heartbeat before throwing her arms around him, her grip desperate and unyielding.

He stood still for a moment, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides as though unsure of what to do. Then, with a quiet exhale, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. His grip was firm, protective, the embrace of someone who had spent years mastering the art of control but now found it slipping away.

Freya sobbed against his chest, her shoulders shaking with the force of her emotions. "I thought—I thought you wouldn't come," she choked out, her voice muffled. "I thought I was alone."

"You were never alone," Ivar murmured, his voice low but steady. There was a sharp edge to his tone, not unkind, but resolute, as though he were willing the truth of his words into existence. He leaned down slightly, his chin brushing the top of her head. "Not while I'm here."

Freya's sobs gradually quieted, her trembling subsiding as the warmth of her brother's embrace seemed to steady her. Slowly, she pulled back, her tear-streaked face searching his for reassurance. Her hands lingered briefly on his arms, hesitant to fully let go, as if afraid he might vanish again.

"Ivar," she began, her voice hoarse and uneven, "what happened? Dahlia… Did she…" Her words faltered, fear flickering in her eyes.

Ivar's gaze softened, though his features remained calm, almost unyielding. His hand reached up, brushing an errant strand of hair from her face with a gentleness that felt at odds with the storm of power beneath his composed exterior.

"Dahlia is dead," he said simply, his tone devoid of triumph or cruelty, only finality. "You don't need to worry about her anymore." His eyes flickered briefly to Finn and Henrik, ensuring they understood as well. "It's over."

Freya exhaled shakily, relief washing over her face, though it was short-lived. Her knees wobbled slightly, and she swayed on the spot. Ivar's hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow before she could fall.

"You're weak," he said, his voice sharper now, laced with concern. His eyes narrowed, taking in her pale complexion, the faint tremor in her hands. "She's already affecting you."

Finn took a step closer, his hand hovering near Freya's shoulder, his expression grim. "What do you mean? Is she—"

"I'm fine," Freya interrupted, though her voice lacked conviction. She straightened herself, trying to shrug off Ivar's hold, but her movements were sluggish, as if a weight were pressing down on her. "I just need… time."

"No," Ivar said firmly, his grip tightening just enough to keep her upright. His gaze bore into her, the steel in his eyes unmistakable. "You don't have time."

Freya opened her mouth to protest, but Ivar raised his hand, silencing her. A faint glow began to emanate from his fingertips, crimson and alive, like molten fire encased in liquid form. Freya's eyes widened in alarm, but she didn't pull away.

"I won't let you die because of her," Ivar said, his voice low but resolute. He stepped closer, his towering presence commanding as he placed a hand over her heart. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of her clothes, and she gasped softly, her body stiffening.

"What are you—" Freya began, but her words were cut off as the streak of blood extended from his fingers, thin and precise, piercing into her chest like a needle. Her breath hitched, and her hands instinctively grasped his forearm, though she didn't fight him. Her eyes searched his face, questioning, pleading for an explanation.

"This is Lifeblood Link," Ivar said, his voice quiet but unwavering. His expression softened slightly, a rare crack in his icy demeanor. "Your life is mine now, Freya. As long as I live, so will you."

Freya's lips parted, but no words came. She felt the warmth spreading through her, a surge of vitality coursing through her veins, erasing the cold that had taken hold. It was overwhelming—comforting and terrifying all at once. Her grip on his arm slackened, and her body relaxed as the process completed.

When Ivar finally withdrew his hand, the crimson streak dissolved into nothingness, leaving no mark behind. Freya swayed again, but this time it wasn't from weakness. She looked at Ivar with wide eyes, her emotions a tumultuous storm—relief, gratitude, and something bordering on anger.

"You linked my life to yours," she said, her voice trembling. "Why… Why would you—"

"Because you're my sister," Ivar interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. His jaw tightened, and he took a step back, creating a sliver of space between them. "And because I'll be damned before I let her win, even in death."

Freya's lips quivered, her tears returning, though this time they were silent. She took a shaky breath and nodded, her expression softening. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.