The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The crisp air was heavy with tension as Ivar the Boneless approached on horseback. The animal's breath puffed in visible clouds against the cold, its dark coat slick with a sheen of sweat. Ivar's posture was relaxed yet commanding as he gripped the reins loosely in one hand, his other hand resting on the hilt of a dagger at his side. His piercing eyes, a cold, calculating blue, swept over the gathered brothers before settling on Ivar with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

Sliding off the horse with a practiced ease that belied his infamous impairment, Ivar the Boneless landed lightly on the snow-covered ground, his movements smooth and deliberate. The faint smirk that played at the corner of his lips did little to mask the intensity in his gaze as he walked toward the group. His leather-clad boots crunched softly in the snow, and the sharp click of his crutch added a measured rhythm to his approach.

Bjorn was the first to acknowledge him, his massive frame turning slightly as his eyes met Ivar the Boneless's. The subtle tightening of his jaw hinted at his unease, though he masked it well with a curt nod. "You've decided to join us," Bjorn said, his tone neutral but firm.

Ivar the Boneless chuckled softly, a low, sardonic sound that seemed to ripple through the icy air. "And miss the chance to crush Harald Finehair and that sniveling worm Jorgensen?" he replied, his voice rich with derision. "I wouldn't dream of it." His gaze flicked briefly to Ivar, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "It seems we're all here, even the... newcomers."

The tension between the two Ivars was palpable, a silent clash of wills that played out in their locked gazes. Ivar's smirk widened slightly, a glint of challenge flashing in his eyes. "Careful, Boneless," he said lightly, though his voice carried an edge. "I might take offense to that."

The Boneless merely raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. "Offense? I was being generous." He turned his back on Ivar, dismissing him with a flick of his fingers as he addressed Bjorn. "What's the plan, then? Or are we waiting for them to knock on the gates?"

Bjorn's nostrils flared, but he kept his voice even as he replied, "We'll meet them head-on. But we need to hold the gates long enough to rally the full force of Kattegat."

Hvitserk stepped closer, his blond hair catching the firelight from the nearby torches. His usual grin was absent, replaced by an expression of keen focus. "Harald won't wait," he said, his voice quieter but no less intense. "He knows how we fight. He'll look for any weakness."

"Then we give him none," Ubbe interjected, his calm demeanor a steadying presence amid the mounting tension. His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, his fingers tapping an almost imperceptible rhythm as he spoke. "We hold the line and make him pay for every step he takes."

As the brothers continued to strategize, Ivar the Boneless moved toward his horse, his movements deceptively casual. He reached up and stroked the animal's neck with a gloved hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His lips curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained sharp and calculating. "Let them come," he said softly, almost to himself. "The more, the better."

Ivar watched him from a distance, his expression unreadable. The flicker of a smirk crossed his face as he observed the Boneless's subtle movements—the tension in his shoulders, the precise placement of his crutch, the sharp flicker of his gaze as he scanned the horizon. There was a raw intensity to him, a hunger for battle that mirrored his own in a way that was both intriguing and unsettling.

The ground beneath their feet began to tremble faintly as the distant sound of marching grew louder. The rhythmic thud of boots on frozen earth, accompanied by the clatter of armor and the low hum of war horns, sent a shiver through the air. The enemy was close now, their dark shapes emerging from the snowy horizon like a tide of shadow.

Bjorn straightened, his massive frame radiating authority as he turned to face the approaching army. His face was set like stone, but the fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever. "This is it," he said, his voice carrying over the gathering wind. "They come to take what is ours. Let them try."

Beside him, Ubbe and Hvitserk exchanged a brief glance, their silent communication speaking volumes. Hvitserk's grin returned, sharp and wolfish, while Ubbe's expression remained calm, his focus unshaken. Sigurd adjusted his grip on his sword, his lips pressing into a thin line as he stepped closer to the gates.

Ivar the Boneless mounted his horse with practiced ease, his movements fluid despite his condition. He looked down at Ivar, his smirk twisting into something darker. "Stay out of my way," he said, his tone laced with mockery. "Unless you want to be trampled."

Ivar's response was a low chuckle, his sharp eyes meeting the Boneless's with unflinching confidence. "I'll be sure to leave some scraps for you," he replied, his voice smooth but carrying an unmistakable challenge.

As the enemy forces drew closer, the brothers of Ragnar prepared for the storm to come. The flickering torchlight cast their shadows long against the walls of Kattegat, the firelight reflecting in their eyes like the glint of steel. Together, they stood at the threshold of battle, their movements precise, their expressions fierce. The weight of their legacy bore down on them, but it also drove them forward, united by blood and bound by the unyielding spirit of their father.

The chill in the air grew sharper as the sound of crunching snow reached Ivar's ears. Turning his head, he caught sight of two figures approaching in the distance. One, with his familiar stooped gait and wiry frame, was unmistakably Floki. The other was a woman who moved with quiet grace, her steps light yet deliberate as if the snow bent to her will. Ivar's sharp eyes narrowed, and a frown creased his brow. Without a word to his brothers, he turned and began striding toward them, his movements purposeful and swift, the crunch of his crutch digging into the icy ground adding a deliberate rhythm to his approach.

The sons of Ragnar exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. Bjorn's jaw tightened as he folded his arms across his chest, watching Ivar's retreating form. Hvitserk cocked his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, while Ubbe's brows furrowed in silent thought. Sigurd, as always, stood slightly apart, his eyes narrowing as if trying to discern the reason for Ivar's sudden departure.

As Ivar drew closer, Floki's face lit up with his signature manic grin, though his shoulders were slightly hunched as if weighed down by unspoken thoughts. His long, wild beard glistened with frost, and his pale eyes shone with an intensity that matched the erratic energy he always carried. Ayanna walked beside him, her dark cloak trailing softly in the snow. Her serene face was a striking contrast to Floki's restless energy, her gaze steady and calm.

Ivar's frown deepened as he stopped just a few feet away from them, his eyes flicking between Floki and Ayanna. "What are you doing out here, Floki?" he asked sharply, his voice cutting through the icy air. "Are you done with the boat?"

Floki's grin faltered for a moment, his shoulders twitching in a way that betrayed his discomfort. "No, not yet," he said, his voice rising and falling with his usual unpredictable cadence. "There are still—"

"You should be back finishing it," Ivar interrupted, his tone cold and unyielding. His crutch dug into the snow as he leaned forward slightly, his jaw tightening. "This battle is not your concern. I'll handle it. Go back."

Floki opened his mouth to protest, his hands twitching as if they were eager to shape the words into something sharp and cutting. But before he could speak, Ayanna reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm. Floki froze, his pale eyes darting toward her. She looked up at him, her dark eyes calm but firm, and gave a small shake of her head.

The tension in Floki's frame eased slightly, though his lips pressed together in a tight line. His gaze softened as it lingered on Ayanna for a moment longer than necessary, and then he exhaled, a breath that misted in the cold air. "Fine," he muttered, though his voice carried a reluctant edge.

Ivar's piercing gaze moved to Ayanna, his brow furrowing as if trying to decipher the silent exchange between the two. Then he sighed, the sound heavy with irritation but also something deeper, something more personal. "Floki," he said, his tone quieter but no less intense. "The reason I'm pressuring you is because I need that ship. The sooner it's ready, the sooner I can finish what I need it for—and the sooner I can get back to my family."

For a moment, the weight of Ivar's words hung in the air, his normally cold and calculating demeanor giving way to a flicker of vulnerability. His expression softened almost imperceptibly, though the fire in his eyes remained. Floki tilted his head, studying Ivar with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Ayanna's gaze shifted to Ivar, her calm demeanor unshaken. Her hand remained on Floki's arm, a silent anchor that seemed to steady him. Floki's lips twitched into a faint, almost reluctant smile, and he gave a small nod. "I'll finish it," he said quietly, though his voice carried a note of resolve this time.

Ivar straightened slightly, his sharp gaze lingering on the two for a moment longer before he nodded curtly. "Good," he said, turning abruptly and beginning to make his way back toward the gates.