The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The chamber was silent, save for the faint hum of the runes and the labored breathing of the old man and young woman who lay sprawled on the cold ground. Their faces were ashen, their bodies trembling with weakness, yet their eyes were wide with shock as they looked up at the two figures standing before them.

Ivar and Silas faced each other in perfect stillness, the air between them thick with an almost tangible tension. It wasn't just their identical appearances that made the sight unsettling—the same sharp jawline, piercing green eyes, and unruly brown hair that caught the dim light in the same way—but the way they stood, their stances mirroring each other with an eerie precision. They even smirked the same, a subtle curve of the lips that conveyed both amusement and a hint of menace.

Ivar tilted his head slightly, his emerald eyes narrowing as he studied Silas. The faintest flicker of intrigue crossed his face, a subtle shift in his gaze that suggested he was analyzing every detail of the man before him. His hands remained at his sides, relaxed yet poised, as though ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Silas, now fully restored, moved with a smoothness that belied his previous desiccated state. His fingers flexed experimentally, as if testing the strength that had returned to him. A slow grin spread across his face—a grin that mirrored Ivar's exactly—revealing sharp teeth that glinted faintly in the rune-lit chamber. His gaze roved over Ivar with an almost predatory curiosity, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly as though he were both amused and intrigued.

The old man coughed weakly, drawing the attention of neither figure. The young woman, tears still streaking her pale cheeks, clutched at her cloak, her wide eyes darting between the two men. A cold chill ran down her spine as she realized the depth of their resemblance—it wasn't just physical. The way they carried themselves, the faint shifts in their expressions, the very air around them—it was as if they were reflections of each other in every way.

Silas took a step forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. The sound seemed to echo unnaturally, amplified by the oppressive silence of the chamber. He tilted his head in the same manner Ivar had moments earlier, his gaze never leaving the man before him. His smirk deepened, and he spoke, his voice low and smooth, carrying an almost musical cadence.

"Hello, me." Silas's piercing green eyes flickered downward, locking onto the small vial resting in Ivar's hand. The soft glow of the chamber's runes reflected faintly off the cure's crystalline surface, casting delicate patterns of light that seemed to dance with each subtle movement of Ivar's fingers. Silas's smirk faltered for the briefest of moments, his gaze sharpening as he took a step closer, his posture brimming with restrained intensity.

"And what," Silas began, his voice carrying an unsettling calm, "do you plan to do with that?"

Ivar's lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. His grip on the vial tightened subtly, his fingers curling around it as though he were holding a fragile piece of the world itself. "Destroy it," he said simply, his tone dripping with quiet certainty. His emerald eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint, daring Silas to challenge him.

Silas stilled, the smirk on his face returning with an almost predatory edge. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features before he smoothed it away with practiced ease. He spread his arms slightly, his movements fluid and deliberate, as though commanding the very air around him. "I'm not going to let you," he said, his voice firm but not raised, the conviction in his tone cutting through the tense silence. "I have use for it."

Ivar's laughter was soft, mocking. He tilted his head, studying Silas as though he were a child grasping at something he couldn't hope to understand. "A useless use," he said, the words sharp and biting. His eyes bore into Silas's with a knowing glint that made the other man's jaw tighten. "Because the girl you want to die for, to destroy the other side for... she's not dead."

Silas's brows furrowed, his smirk fading into something darker. He tilted his head slightly, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. His silence was palpable, heavy with disbelief and barely concealed anger.

"She's very much alive," Ivar continued, his voice almost teasing, "and in a state worse than yours."

Silas's expression hardened, his green eyes glinting with a mix of fury and confusion. He turned away abruptly, his movements sharp, as though trying to escape the weight of Ivar's words. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides as his jaw worked silently, the sound of his breathing heavy in the quiet chamber.

"So Qetsiyah lied," he said finally, his voice low and laced with venom. He turned back to Ivar, his eyes narrowing. "She told me Amara was dead."

Silas threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally in the chamber. It wasn't a joyous laugh but a bitter, hollow one, filled with years of anger and betrayal. As his laughter subsided, he leveled a cold, calculating gaze at Ivar. "Go ahead," he said, the smirk returning to his lips, though it no longer held amusement. "Destroy it. But first, tell me where to find Amara."

Ivar raised an eyebrow, his smile widening ever so slightly. "Find the Travelers," he said simply, his tone almost bored. Without another word, he conjured a flame in his free hand. The fire danced and flickered, casting shadows across his sharp features. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the flame to the vial, the glass cracking and blackening before shattering entirely. The cure crumbled to ash, the faintest wisp of smoke curling into the air.

As the embers faded, Ivar's expression shifted, a trace of smug satisfaction flickering across his face. "Oh," he added, his voice casual as though discussing the weather, "and do me a favor—put your jealous ex in her place. I don't want any witchy nonsense from her, or I'll have to end her bloodline."

Silas's lips curled back in a snarl, but Ivar didn't give him the chance to respond. With a swift movement, he crouched beside the old man and young woman, his expression softening ever so slightly. He bit into his wrist, letting his blood flow, then held it out to the pair. "Drink," he commanded, his voice low but firm. The old man hesitated, his hand trembling, but the young woman grabbed his wrist with desperate fervor, her lips finding the wound as she drank deeply.

Once they were revitalized, Ivar stood, his commanding presence drawing their gazes upward. He extended a hand, his grip strong as he helped them to their feet. Without a word, he led them out of the chamber, his steps purposeful and unyielding.

As they reached the base of the island, Ivar frowned, his eyes scanning the empty expanse of the shore. A low, frustrated sigh escaped his lips. "I gave the boat to Ayanna," he muttered, more to himself than to the others. "And she's long gone."

He turned to the duo, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Guess you're stranded," he said, his tone laced with faint amusement. He began to rise into the air, his movements smooth and effortless, the wind stirring his hair as he ascended. "Don't worry," he called down to them, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the waves. "I'll send meals for you. Just kill yourselves and wait for your delivery."

With that, he turned and soared into the sky, leaving the old man and young woman staring after him, their expressions a mixture of confusion, awe, and dread.