The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

News of Ivar's devastating victory spread like wildfire, reaching even the farthest ranks of the enemy army. Harald Finehair, known for his unshakable confidence, stood in stunned silence, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. Jorgensen, his trusted war chief, was equally frozen, his usually boisterous demeanor replaced by wide eyes and a pale face.

"The reports must be exaggerated," Jorgensen muttered, though his voice wavered. "No man can take down an army alone."

Harald's lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenching as he processed the sight of his retreating forces. The look in his men's eyes told him everything—pure, unadulterated terror. He glanced toward the distant walls of Kattegat, his chest tightening with unease. "We're not dealing with a man," Harald finally said, his voice low and cold. "We're dealing with a monster."

Without another word, Harald gave the signal. The horns of retreat blared, echoing through the snowy expanse as the once-mighty army turned and withdrew, leaving behind the corpses of their comrades on the bloodstained battlefield.

---

Inside the gates of Kattegat, Ivar sat on a stone bench in a dimly lit corner of the main hall. The firelight danced across his sharp features as he cleaned the blood from his blade with methodical precision. His expression was calm, almost detached, but his movements carried a practiced efficiency, each swipe of the cloth purposeful.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and Ayanna stormed in. Her fiery presence filled the room, her long cloak swirling behind her as her boots clicked against the stone floor. Her emerald eyes blazed with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Ivar!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the crackle of the fire.

Ivar didn't look up, his focus remaining on his sword. His hands moved with steady control, the rhythm of his cleaning unbroken.

"Why did you do that?" Ayanna demanded, her voice rising. "Why would you show them what you are?"

At her words, Ivar's hand stilled. Slowly, he set the blade down on his lap and looked up, his icy blue eyes locking onto hers. His gaze was sharp, piercing, and utterly devoid of remorse. He rose from the bench with a fluid grace, the faint scrape of his sword against the stone echoing in the silence.

Then, he vanished.

In an instant, he reappeared directly in front of Ayanna, so close that she instinctively stepped back, her breath hitching. Ivar leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at her, his expression both calm and menacing.

"I did," he began, his voice low and measured, "what I have always done. Long before I became what I am now." His gaze softened slightly, though the intensity remained. "I missed the feeling of fighting. The rush. The clarity. I wanted to feel it one last time."

Ayanna's expression wavered, her anger mingling with confusion and a flicker of something else—concern, perhaps. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Ivar tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just enough to be noticed. "And don't you ever," he continued, his tone dropping into a dangerous whisper, "speak to me like that again."

His words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, the tension in his posture easing as he turned and returned to his bench. He picked up his sword and cloth, resuming his task as if nothing had happened.

Ayanna stood frozen for a moment, her chest rising and falling as she fought to regain her composure. Her hands trembled slightly, though she quickly clasped them behind her back to hide the reaction. She glanced at Ivar, who sat hunched over his blade, his focus unbroken.

For all his sharp words and fearsome presence, there was something haunting about the way he moved—the precision, the care, the quiet. Ayanna's anger melted into a complicated mix of emotions, though she said nothing more. Instead, she turned on her heel and strode out of the hall, the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance.

Ivar exhaled softly, his shoulders relaxing. For a moment, his hand paused mid-motion, his reflection staring back at him from the polished steel of his blade. His lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile—a flicker of something not quite joy, but satisfaction. Then he returned to his work, the firelight flickering in his eyes as he prepared for whatever battle might come next.

A few days later

The salty breeze of the fjord carried a chill as Floki's workshop stood at the edge of the shore, its wooden structure dimly lit by the flickering light of a single lantern. Inside, Ivar stood with Ayanna, his leather coat faintly stained with the remnants of old battles. Ayanna's sharp eyes flitted between the tools of Floki's trade, her arms crossed as she leaned casually against a beam. She was composed, though a faint tension lingered in her furrowed brow, betraying her inner thoughts.

Floki worked at his bench, his hands skillful and precise as he tightened the final ropes of the ship that would soon carry Ivar and Ayanna away. Lagertha stood nearby, her posture regal but softened with gratitude, her silver hair catching the warm light of the lantern. The sons of Ragnar—Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd—formed a loose semicircle, their expressions a mixture of reverence and curiosity as they regarded Ivar.

Lagertha's voice broke the silence, her tone steady yet tinged with warmth. "Ivar," she said, her piercing gaze meeting his, "you didn't have to do what you did for Kattegat. But you did, and for that, I thank you."

Ivar's lips curled into a small, almost boyish smile, though his piercing eyes retained their depth of ancient knowledge. "It wasn't for Kattegat," he replied softly. "It was for the fight itself. I needed to remember…" His voice trailed off, leaving a note of wistfulness in the air.

Bjorn stepped forward, his broad shoulders squared. "You fought like a god, like someone untouchable," he said, his voice low and contemplative. "But I don't understand you. What are you really?"

Ivar merely chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to hold more secrets than answers. "Something you're better off not knowing," he said cryptically.

The moment lingered before Ivar, with Ayanna at his side, moved to the ship. Together, they began to push it toward the water. The vessel groaned as it slid down the wooden ramp, its hull cutting into the waves. Ivar climbed aboard with ease, his movements fluid and controlled, while Ayanna followed with a grace that seemed almost unnatural.

As Ivar began to unfurl the sails, a sharp, commanding voice pierced the air. "Wait!"

He froze mid-movement, his keen hearing recognizing the speaker before his gaze even shifted. Ivar the Boneless had pushed himself to the edge of the pier, his crippled form trembling but his voice unwavering. "Make me like you!" he demanded, his eyes wide with an almost fanatical intensity.

Everyone stilled. The sons of Ragnar exchanged wary glances, and Lagertha's face hardened with concern. Ivar the Boneless continued, his voice growing steadier. "I overheard your conversation with Ayanna. I know you're not… human. I want it. I want to be like you."

Ivar's lips parted in surprise before curling into a slow, deliberate smile. His gaze turned to Ayanna, who met his eyes with a knowing look but said nothing. "You're certain?" Ivar asked, his voice low, resonant, and dangerously calm.

The Boneless nodded, his chin lifting defiantly.

Ivar moved before anyone could blink. One moment, he was on the ship; the next, he was standing directly in front of his namesake, the snow around him swirling from the sudden displacement of air. Lagertha and the brothers froze, their faces ranging from awe to alarm.

"You're sure?" Ivar repeated, bending slightly to meet the Boneless's level.

"Yes," Ivar the Boneless hissed, his breath quick and shallow.

The air thickened as Ivar's smile grew sharper, almost feral. His fangs extended, glinting under the pale light. There was a collective intake of breath as he bit into his wrist, his movements deliberate and methodical. Crimson blood welled from the wound, rich and dark, and he held it out.

"Drink," he commanded, his voice both inviting and commanding.

The Boneless lunged forward, his hands shaking as he grasped Ivar's wrist and drank deeply, his throat working with frantic urgency. The onlookers watched in stunned silence, their disbelief mingling with a primal sense of dread.

And then, without warning, Ivar snapped the Boneless's neck with a quick, brutal motion. The sickening crack echoed through the air. Lagertha gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, while the brothers surged forward, their weapons half-drawn.

"Stop!" Ayanna's voice cut through the tension, her tone sharp and unyielding. "Do not interfere."

The brothers hesitated, their fury warring with confusion.

Minutes passed, the tension palpable, before the Boneless gasped and sat up abruptly. His hands flew to his legs, which trembled as they began to straighten. Tears streamed down his face as he stood on unsteady feet for the first time. "Am I… like you?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Not yet," Ivar replied, his tone almost indifferent. He turned to the group, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. "To complete the transition, you must drink human blood."

The Boneless's eyes widened.

Ivar sighed impatiently, reaching for a knife. He sliced into his palm and let the blood flow into a wooden cup. Holding it aloft, he addressed the group. "If any of you wish to become like me, drink this and kill yourself. Then, drink human blood. That's the only way."

He thrust the cup toward the Boneless, who hesitated, his newly healed legs shaking.

"Your choice," Ivar said simply, before turning and walking away, Ayanna trailing behind him, her expression unreadable. The sound of the waves swallowed their footsteps as they disappeared into the snowy night.