The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The salty tang of the Atlantic air filled the sails of the ship as it creaked and groaned, cutting through the icy waters with deliberate purpose. The sea stretched endlessly around them, a vast and unforgiving expanse that mirrored the cold determination in Ivar's eyes. Ayanna stood at the stern, her cloak billowing in the wind, her sharp gaze darting between the group of stranded strangers they had taken aboard and Ivar, whose calm demeanor made her stomach churn.

The strangers huddled together near the mast, their faces pale from both the cold and the ordeal they had endured before Ivar had intervened. A young woman clutched a ragged blanket around her shoulders, her wide eyes fixed on Ivar with a mix of gratitude and unease. Beside her, an older man with a thick gray beard leaned heavily on a crude staff, his weathered hands trembling as he muttered prayers to some long-forgotten god. The others sat in tense silence, their collective fear palpable, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Ayanna's eyes flickered with suspicion as she studied Ivar, who stood at the bow, his figure framed against the rising sun. He was motionless, save for the subtle movement of his fingers as they drummed against the hilt of his sword. His lips curled into a faint, almost predatory smile, but his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. Ayanna's expression hardened, a deep furrow forming between her brows.

"This isn't like you," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. She turned her gaze to the strangers again, her sharp features softening with pity. "They have no idea what they've gotten themselves into."

Ivar finally broke his silence, turning slowly to face her. His movements were unnervingly smooth, like a predator stalking its prey. The faint smile on his lips widened into something sharper, more menacing, as he locked eyes with her. "Let's go," he said, his voice carrying an edge that sent shivers down the spines of those who heard it.

Ayanna's jaw tightened as she squared her shoulders, her piercing gaze unwavering. "What are you planning, Ivar?" she demanded, her voice low but firm.

Ivar tilted his head, his expression unreadable. He stepped closer to her, his boots thudding softly against the wooden deck. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and the firelight in his eyes seemed to dance with something dangerous, something primal. "Do you really think I owe you an explanation?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with an unspoken warning.

Ayanna's fists clenched at her sides, but she didn't back down. "No," she admitted, her voice steady. "But I'd like to think I know you well enough to know this isn't kindness."

Ivar chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent chills down her spine. "Kindness?" he repeated, his smile widening. "No, Ayanna. This isn't kindness. This is opportunity."

The strangers exchanged uneasy glances, their fear growing as they overheard fragments of the conversation. The young woman with the blanket tightened her grip on it, her knuckles turning white, while the old man's prayers grew louder, more desperate.

Ivar turned his attention to the group, his gaze sweeping over them like a blade. "You'll live," he said, his voice cold and detached. "For now."

The way he said it sent a wave of dread through the strangers, and one of the men—a burly fisherman with a scar across his cheek—rose to his feet, his expression defiant. "What do you want from us?" he demanded, his voice shaking slightly despite his attempt at bravado.

Ivar's smile faded, replaced by a look of icy indifference. He stepped toward the man, his movements deliberate and unhurried, like a predator savoring its prey. "What do I want?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want you to do as you're told. That's all."

The man's defiance faltered as Ivar drew closer, the intensity of his presence suffocating. Ayanna watched the exchange with a mix of exasperation and unease, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She could see the cracks in Ivar's calm façade, the faint flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

As the ship drew closer to the rocky shores of Nova Scotia, the tension aboard was palpable. Ivar's sharp eyes scanned the coastline, his mind already racing ahead to whatever plans he had in store. Ayanna, meanwhile, kept her distance, her gaze lingering on the strangers with a sense of foreboding.

When they finally reached the shore, Ivar was the first to disembark. His boots crunched against the pebbled beach as he strode forward with a commanding presence, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of some dark, otherworldly creature. Ayanna followed closely, her movements precise and controlled, though her eyes never left him.

The strangers hesitated, their fear of Ivar outweighing their relief at reaching land. The young woman clutched the old man's arm, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are we safe here?" she asked, her eyes darting nervously toward Ivar.

The old man shook his head, his expression grim. "Safe? No, child. But alive. For now."

Ivar turned back to the group, his smile returning as he gestured for them to follow. "Welcome to your new beginning," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Try not to disappoint me."

As the strangers reluctantly followed him, Ayanna lagged behind, her thoughts racing. She cast one last glance at the horizon, her expression a mixture of determination and unease. "Whatever you're up to, Ivar," she murmured, "I'll find out. And when I do…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging in the salty air.

Ayanna's words hung in the air like a storm cloud, her voice trailing off with an edge of warning. Her dark eyes were alight with defiance, but before she could finish her thought, Ivar's smooth voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"You can't do anything, Ayanna," he said, turning toward her with an air of casual dominance. The faintest smirk curled at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were sharp, unwavering, and cold as the ocean wind. "So stop with your meaningless threats and let's be on our way."

His tone carried the weight of finality, a verbal wall meant to crush dissent. He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the pebbled shore with a deliberate, measured rhythm. His movements were fluid yet unrelenting, like the tide, and his cloak swept the ground behind him, leaving faint trails in the sand.

Ayanna squared her shoulders, refusing to back down. The fire in her gaze burned brighter as she tilted her chin upward, her jaw tightening. She could feel the tension between them, a taut string ready to snap. "You don't scare me, Ivar," she said quietly, her voice low and sharp, like the blade of a dagger. Her fists clenched at her sides, her fingers digging into her palms as she fought to maintain her composure.

For a moment, Ivar didn't respond. He simply watched her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though he were assessing her resolve. The corner of his mouth twitched in a fleeting expression that could have been amusement or annoyance—it was impossible to tell. Finally, he leaned in just enough for his presence to fill her personal space, the scent of sea salt and leather faint but distinct.

"Good," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His smirk returned, sharper now, and tinged with something darker. "Fear would only slow you down. But don't mistake defiance for power, Ayanna. It's a dangerous game."

His words were calm, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge to them, a subtle threat that lingered in the air like the chill of the sea breeze. Ayanna held her ground, though her heart pounded against her ribcage. Her defiance was unyielding, but deep down, she felt the weight of Ivar's presence pressing against her like an unseen force.

Behind them, the strangers watched the exchange with growing unease. The young woman clutched the old man's arm tighter, her wide eyes darting between Ayanna and Ivar. The fisherman with the scar shifted uncomfortably, his bravado from earlier completely drained.

"Do you think she'll stand up to him?" the young woman whispered, her voice barely audible over the crash of waves.

The old man shook his head slowly, his eyes distant and heavy with knowledge. "She might try," he replied, his voice grim. "But standing up to a wolf doesn't make you less of a sheep."

Ivar straightened and turned his back to Ayanna, his smirk fading into a mask of calculated indifference. Without another word, he began walking toward the jagged cliffs that loomed in the distance, his steps steady and purposeful. The group of strangers hesitated, their collective fear weighing heavily on their movements.