The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

Ivar was never the same after that day. Watching Dahlia disappear with Freya, his little sister's frightened face etched into his mind, shattered something within him. Her trembling form, the soft defiance in her voice as she tried to protect them all, haunted his dreams. And his own uselessness—standing there, powerless—filled him with a rage that burned hotter every passing moment.

The wooden sword he'd clung to that day now lay discarded at the edge of the field, its splintered edge a cruel reminder of his weakness. Instead, Ivar wielded steel, the weight heavy but purposeful in his hands.

Each day began before dawn, his breaths visible in the cold morning air. The sun had barely begun to rise, its weak rays stretching over the frost-covered earth, when Ivar started his drills. His muscles screamed in protest, his hands bloodied and raw, but he didn't stop. He swung the sword in precise arcs, his movements sharp, deliberate, and unrelenting. Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the blood on his palms, but his face remained stony, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ached. Every slash, every parry, every lunge was fueled by a singular thought: I will never be weak again.

His body grew leaner and stronger, his once-boyish face sharpening with the hardness of discipline. Dark circles hollowed his eyes from nights spent training instead of sleeping, but there was a fire in his gaze—a cold, unyielding determination that no one could extinguish. His movements became fluid, efficient, like a predator stalking its prey.

---

The day Mikael returned was gray and cold, the kind of day that hung heavy with unspoken grief. Ivar was in the courtyard, shirtless despite the biting chill, practicing strikes against a crude training dummy he'd fashioned from burlap and hay. His strikes landed with ferocious force, each blow punctuated by a sharp exhale. His shoulders heaved as he stepped back, assessing the damage he'd inflicted before attacking again.

Mikael approached silently, his footsteps crunching against the frost-covered ground. His expression was as cold as the weather, but his eyes betrayed a deep, seething pain. Ivar didn't notice him at first, too focused on his relentless assault on the dummy. It was only when Mikael spoke, his voice low and rough, that Ivar stilled.

"You work hard."

Ivar turned, his breathing heavy, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cold. His eyes, filled with a mixture of anger and guilt, locked onto Mikael's. He nodded curtly, saying nothing. Words felt pointless.

Mikael stepped closer, his towering presence casting a long shadow over Ivar. His gaze swept over the boy, noting the calloused hands, the rigid posture, the steely determination in his eyes. "It won't bring her back," Mikael said, his voice carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier.

Ivar's jaw tightened, his grip on the sword so firm that his knuckles turned white. "I know," he said, his voice low but steady. "But it'll make sure no one takes someone from me again."

Mikael studied him for a moment, his stern face unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or recognition. "Good," he said. "You've already learned the lesson most never do."

---

That night, as the wind howled outside, Mikael stood in the doorway of Ivar's room. The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening his blade with deliberate strokes. The dim candlelight illuminated his face, highlighting the hardened features that seemed far too mature for someone his age.

Mikael leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. "Do you know why I train my children the way I do?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

Ivar didn't look up. "To make us strong," he replied, his tone flat.

"To make you unbreakable," Mikael corrected, his voice carrying an edge of both pride and regret. "The world is cruel, Ivar. It will take everything you love if you're not strong enough to hold onto it. I failed Freya. I won't fail again."

At the mention of Freya's name, Ivar's hand stilled. His eyes flickered with pain, but he quickly masked it, resuming his work. "She was better than all of us," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mikael's jaw tightened, and for the briefest moment, his stoic façade cracked. He exhaled sharply, his gaze distant. "She was the best of us," he admitted, his voice heavy with sorrow. "And I let her down."

There was a long silence, broken only by the soft scraping of the whetstone against metal. Finally, Ivar spoke, his voice firm. "I'll be ready next time."

Mikael's eyes softened ever so slightly. "I know you will," he said. "But strength isn't just in your body, Ivar. It's in your will. Your resolve. Never let anyone break that."

Ivar nodded, his expression unchanging. But deep inside, the words ignited something—a flicker of pride, a sense of purpose. He wasn't just training for himself anymore. He was training for Freya, for his family, for the promise he'd made to himself: Never again.

---

As weeks turned to months, Mikael watched Ivar from a distance, his pride growing with each passing day. The boy trained harder than anyone Mikael had ever seen, his movements becoming sharper, his focus unshakable. Mikael didn't offer praise—he didn't need to. The respect was in his gaze, in the small, approving nods he gave when Ivar wasn't looking.

And Ivar? He thrived on it. Each approving glance from his father was fuel to the fire that burned within him. He would be unbreakable. He would be unstoppable. And one day, when the time came, he would be ready to face Dahlia again—and this time, he would win.