The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

Ivar moved like a storm through the clearing, his blade flashing with a deadly elegance. Each swing was precise, each movement calculated, as if he were born for this moment. His jaw was clenched, his sharp blue eyes burning with cold fury as he faced the pack of werewolves. One lunged at him, claws slashing through the air, but Ivar sidestepped gracefully, his boots barely making a sound on the forest floor. With a swift motion, he drove his blade upward, piercing the wolf's heart. The beast howled once before collapsing in a heap.

The other wolves hesitated, their growls faltering as they watched their comrade fall. But the scent of blood fueled their aggression, and another charged. Ivar met it head-on, his blade carving through fur and muscle with brutal efficiency. His movements were relentless, almost primal, as though he had become a predator himself. His breaths came in measured bursts, each exhalation a sharp contrast to the snarls and growls surrounding him.

Niklaus crouched nearby, his chest heaving as he clutched Henrik's trembling form. His dark blue-green eyes darted between Ivar and the wolves, torn between awe and fear. Henrik whimpered softly, his small hands gripping Niklaus's shirt as tears streamed down his pale cheeks. The boy's leg was slick with blood, the makeshift bandage doing little to stem the flow.

"Ivar…" Niklaus whispered, his voice trembling. He hated how powerless he felt, his usual defiance drowned by the sheer brutality of the scene before him.

Ivar didn't respond. His attention was locked on the remaining wolves, their snarls growing more uncertain as the clearing filled with the lifeless bodies of their packmates. The pack's second in command —a massive wolf with jagged scars crisscrossing its muzzle—growled low, its yellow eyes blazing with fury. It lunged, faster than the others, but Ivar was faster still. He ducked beneath its swipe, his blade slicing clean through its throat in a single, fluid motion. Blood sprayed across the ground as the beast fell, gurgling its last breath.

The other wolves froze. For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant rustle of leaves and the labored breathing of the survivors. Then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they turned and fled, their retreating forms vanishing into the shadows of the forest.

Ivar straightened, his broad shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his blade, blood dripping from its edge. He turned to scan the clearing, his sharp gaze catching movement in the distance. One wolf stood apart from the others, its posture unnervingly calm. Its amber eyes gleamed with a strange, piercing intelligence, fixed not on Ivar but on Niklaus.

Ivar's brow furrowed, a flicker of unease crossing his stern features. Werewolves in their transformed state were savage, driven by instinct and hunger. Yet this one stood still, its gaze almost… knowing. It tilted its head slightly, and something about the motion sent a chill down Ivar's spine.

Niklaus felt the weight of the wolf's stare and froze, his hands tightening around Henrik protectively. His heart thudded in his chest, a strange mix of fear and familiarity washing over him.

The wolf held their gaze for a moment longer, then turned and ran, disappearing into the forest with the rest of the pack.

Ivar stared after it, his expression unreadable. There was something unsettling about the encounter, but he pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing matters at hand. He turned back to his brothers, his icy demeanor melting into one of restrained concern as his gaze landed on Henrik.

Ivar knelt beside them, his lips pressing into a thin line as he assessed Henrik's wound. The boy whimpered softly, his face pale and streaked with tears. Without a word, Ivar tore a strip from his tunic, his strong hands moving with surprising gentleness as he wrapped the fabric tightly around Henrik's leg. His jaw clenched as he tied it off, his frustration barely masked by his calm exterior.

Niklaus watched in silence, his guilt growing with every movement Ivar made. He wanted to say something—an apology, an explanation—but the words stuck in his throat.

"What were you two thinking?" Ivar said at last, his voice low but laced with quiet anger. His piercing gaze shifted to Niklaus, and the young man flinched under the weight of it. "Coming out here in the middle of the night, knowing how dangerous it is?"

Niklaus opened his mouth to reply, but Ivar held up a hand, cutting him off. He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension drained from his frame. "Forget it," he muttered, his voice softer now. He hoisted Henrik into his arms with ease, the boy's small form pressing against his chest. "Let's just get him home."

Niklaus nodded silently, his head bowed as he followed Ivar through the forest. The weight of his brother's disappointment was heavier than he'd anticipated, and his chest tightened with shame. But beneath it all was a flicker of something else—relief, gratitude, and a newfound respect for the older brother who had saved them.

As soon as they entered the settlement, Niklaus bolted ahead, his voice breaking through the quiet night. "Mother! Mother!" His cries were desperate, raw, filled with fear and guilt.

Esther emerged from the modest home in a flurry, her blonde hair unkempt and falling over her shoulders. Her sharp blue eyes were wide with alarm as she scanned the scene, her hands gripping the edges of her cloak. The moment her gaze landed on Henrik, limp and bloodied in Ivar's arms, her breath hitched, and a hand flew to her mouth.

"Ivar!" she gasped, rushing forward, her steps faltering briefly as if her legs threatened to give out.

Mikael appeared just moments after, his tall, imposing figure framed by the doorway. His eyes, sharp and dark, swept over the scene with a stormy intensity. His broad shoulders squared as he stepped forward, his voice a low growl. "What happened?"

Ivar, still holding Henrik close, shifted his weight slightly, his jaw tightening as he cast a glance at Niklaus. The younger boy stood behind him, his head bowed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Ivar exhaled heavily, his face a mask of calm, though a flicker of guilt lingered in his ice-blue eyes.

"It was my fault," Ivar said evenly, his tone steady yet carrying a hint of weariness. He didn't meet Mikael's piercing gaze, focusing instead on adjusting Henrik in his arms, his movements deliberate and gentle. The boy whimpered softly, his small fingers clutching at Ivar's shirt, and Ivar's expression softened for the briefest moment before the mask returned.

"I was out in the clearing, training," Ivar continued, his voice quieter now. "Niklaus and Henrik came to me, said they wanted to train too. That's when the wolves attacked. One got past me and reached Henrik before I could stop it. But I… I got to him before things got worse."

Esther's hands trembled as she reached for Henrik, her fingertips brushing his pale, tear-streaked face. Her eyes darted to the crude bandage on his leg, her lips trembling as she whispered, "Henrik… my baby…"

The boy stirred, his weak voice barely audible. "Mother…"

Esther straightened, her composure returning as a sharp determination flashed in her eyes. "Bring him inside," she commanded, her voice steady despite the tightness in her throat. She placed a reassuring hand on Henrik's forehead, her touch tender but firm.

Ivar nodded, his face hardening once more as he carried Henrik toward the house. Mikael stepped aside to let them pass, but his jaw was clenched, his brown eyes fixed on Ivar with a simmering intensity.

Once Henrik was laid on the small wooden table in the main room, Esther quickly gathered herbs and cloths, her movements swift and efficient, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her fear. She worked silently, her face set in grim focus, though her hands lingered with motherly tenderness over Henrik's wound.

Mikael turned to Ivar, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "You should've stopped them from being out there in the first place," he said, his tone sharp and accusing. His gaze bore into Ivar, unrelenting and stern.

Ivar stiffened, his back straight and his chin lifting slightly. "I didn't know they were coming," he replied, his voice even, though there was a spark of defensiveness in his eyes. "When I saw them, I did everything I could to protect them."

Niklaus flinched at the exchange, his guilt weighing heavier with every word. His hands twisted nervously in his tunic, and he took a shaky step forward, his voice breaking as he finally spoke. "It's my fault. I told Henrik we should go… I thought we'd be safe with Ivar."

Mikael's glare shifted to Niklaus, his brows furrowing. "You thought?" he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. "And what if your thought had cost your brother's life?"

Niklaus's head dropped further, his shoulders hunching as shame consumed him. Esther glanced up briefly, her expression softening as she looked at Niklaus. "Mikael," she said gently but firmly, her tone carrying a warning. "Enough."

Mikael's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue, instead turning away with a frustrated huff. Ivar placed a hand on Niklaus's shoulder, his grip firm yet reassuring. "He's alive," Ivar said, his voice quiet but resolute. "And that's what matters."

Niklaus nodded mutely, the tears he had been holding back finally spilling down his cheeks. Esther, finished dressing Henrik's wound, approached him and cupped his face in her hands. Her thumbs brushed away his tears as she looked into his eyes with a mix of love and sorrow. "You're safe," she whispered, her voice trembling. "That's all I care about."

Niklaus nodded again, his throat too tight to speak, and leaned into her touch, finding solace in her unwavering strength. Ivar stood a step back, his sharp gaze watching them all, his expression unreadable as he silently shouldered the weight of the night's events.