Stavanger Bay Life's a little sideways

Kjalarr was not sure what drew him into the embrace of the day, nor to what inspired him, so very suddenly, to go to Stavanger Bay. He still felt the sting of the anger at who had desecrated Ragnar's grave and the habitual territoriality of what had been his — of what he should have been ruling — but he had been more concerned with establishing his place in Saltwinter, and going on scouting trips and guarding the sound's borders. It kept him occupied, so much so that the bitterness within his heart had begun to fade, because he'd allowed it to be buried by what was more pressing to him. The Frostfur's still loved him, and he had a home in Saltwinter. He was doing well for himself even if his selfishness and decisions had burned bridges along the way. So be it. Besides, Ragnar had killed his own brother — a bridge couldn't burn any worse than that; by comparison to his late father Kjalarr was practically a patron saint or something.

An unrest had settled in the viking's heart as of late, though he had not truly paid much mind to it ...that was until he noted a too familiar silhouette in the shallows of the ocean. It was if a puzzle piece had slid into place. Kjalarr didn't need to see Floki to know that it was his twin. He just knew; he knew in the way one knew how to draw breath. The unrest intensified as his steps ceased, studying the low hang of his twin's head wondering if Floki's emotions manifested themselves within Kjalarr in the form of restlessness. An itch to take action of some kind ...but for no reason that had been apparent to Kjalarr. 

For a moment, the favorite of Odin considered turning around — leaving the scene as abruptly as he'd been drawn to it, with Floki never the wiser. But the truth was: it had never been Floki Kjalarr had wanted to hurt. It had never been Floki that Kjalarr wanted to sever from his life. Only Charon. It was only Charon that Kjalarr had any sort of issue with. “Floki,” Kjalarr called to his brother in the mimicked accent of their deceased father, feeling a surge of protectiveness swell within his chest. Someone had hurt him and the instinct to make them pay for hurting his baby brother twin was strong but he knew nothing of the situation. For all he knew, he was the cause of it ...and that hurt Kjalarr more than he could ever say.

Kjalarr was many things, but a coward was not one of them: thus he remained rooted to the spot, knowing that he would not relent even if Floki ignored him. “What is wrong?” Because Kjalarr did care. Of course he cared. Floki, for better or worse, was his soul mate — in the manner of one soul split between two bodies — his better half and there was no switching that off, no matter the distance and chasm of emotions between them.