Capítulo 11: Death Of The Mikaelson Family
The Mikaelson family sat around the long, wooden dining table in their dimly lit home. The table was laden with an array of roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruits—an unusual sight that had piqued the curiosity of the siblings. The crackling fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows on their faces, amplifying the sense of unease that hung in the air.
Niklaus leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the room suspiciously. "Father, what exactly are we celebrating tonight?" he asked, his tone carrying an edge of wariness. His gaze darted between his siblings, who seemed equally puzzled.
Beside him, Elijah sat stiffly, his usual composed demeanor tinged with concern. He adjusted his cuffs absentmindedly, his piercing brown eyes narrowing as he studied Mikael. "It's not like you to host a feast without reason," he said cautiously.
Rebekah, seated next to Henrik, looked between her brothers and their father, her blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face. "Are we not allowed a moment of joy?" she asked, though her voice lacked conviction. She glanced at her mother, Esther, who sat silently at Mikael's side, her face unreadable.
Mikael rose to his feet, towering over them with his imposing frame. His presence filled the room, his broad shoulders and stern expression demanding attention. He raised a goblet, his eyes sweeping over his children. For a fleeting moment, his usual stoic expression softened, a glimmer of pride and something deeper flashing in his gaze.
"A toast," he said, his deep voice reverberating in the silence. "To family. To our survival. And to the future we shall forge together."
The siblings exchanged uneasy glances, but they raised their goblets nonetheless. As they drank, Mikael's lips curled into a faint smile—an expression so rare it sent a shiver through Elijah's spine. Esther remained still, her eyes fixed on her husband, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
The meal continued in an odd quietness. The siblings conversed in hushed tones, their laughter subdued, their eyes flickering toward Mikael and Esther with questions they dared not voice. It was Rebekah who first yawned, her delicate hand covering her mouth as she blinked in confusion.
"I feel… tired," she murmured, her voice trailing off.
Niklaus frowned, his head tilting slightly as his vision blurred. "Rebekah…?" he called out, his voice faint and slurred. His goblet slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the table. One by one, the siblings succumbed, their heads falling onto the table or slumping back into their chairs.
All except Ivar.
He remained seated, his pale blue eyes heavy with the weight of what he knew was coming. His gaze fell on his parents, who watched him silently. Esther's expression was a mixture of sorrow and determination, while Mikael's face was unreadable—until the corners of his mouth tugged upward in approval.
Ivar sighed deeply, the sound filled with resignation. "Don't worry," he said, his voice steady but low, "I will do it myself." He reached across the table, his movements deliberate, and grasped a gleaming knife. The firelight danced across the blade as he lifted it, his hands steady despite the heaviness in his chest.
In his mind, a single thought reverberated. Freya, I'm coming.
With one swift motion, Ivar plunged the knife into his chest. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as blood seeped through his shirt, staining the white fabric crimson. His body trembled briefly before slumping forward, his head resting against the table.
Esther let out a choked sob, her hands flying to her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. Mikael, in contrast, stood taller, his chest heaving with what could only be described as pride. A deep, guttural laugh erupted from him, startling Esther. It was a sound she hadn't heard in years, filled with dark satisfaction.
"Ivar," Mikael said, his voice thick with emotion, "the best of my boys."
Esther stared at him in horror, her trembling hands reaching for Ivar's lifeless body. "Mikael, no," she whispered, her voice breaking. "This is madness."
Mikael ignored her, his eyes fixed on his remaining children. He picked up the knife from Ivar's grasp, his movements deliberate and calm. One by one, he approached each of his slumbering children. There was no hesitation, no faltering in his step.
With precision, he ended their lives, his expression stoic, though his jaw tightened with each strike. Blood pooled on the floor, staining the wood, the smell of iron heavy in the air. When the last of his children had fallen, he turned to Esther, his face streaked with blood, his eyes burning with an unsettling fervor.
"This," he said, gesturing to the carnage around them, "is the beginning of something greater."
He took the knife in his hand and pressed it to his chest, his lips curling into a grim smile. "And now, I join them."
With one final thrust, Mikael drove the blade into his heart, his knees buckling as he collapsed beside his children. Esther let out a scream, her voice raw with anguish, as she fell to the ground, clutching his lifeless body. The house fell silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound that remained, as the Mikaelson family met their fateful transformation.
A/N
Ivar isn't Immune to Magic yet, it is after his transformation that's after his transformation into a vampire.
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