Blackbeak Bluff take the halves and call them brothers

She repeated the name he'd given to her as if she could not wrap her mind around it. “And I will not answer to it,” The Viking Jarl told her in sharply, holding firm. “It is the name of a boy that has been dead for a long time,” He emphasized. “I was called the name Kjalarr by a phantom in my dreams: scarred, large, one eyed. It could have been my father, Ragnar, or it could have been the Allfather." Had Ragnar not boasted of being descended from the God King numerous times? Did that not mean that blood of Odinn ran through their veins if only faintly, if it were true at all? She was not happy, he deduced: ah, he seemed predisposed to picking fights with all of his “siblings”. First Charon, then Floki (a rift that which was thankfully mending), and now this woman calling herself his sister. “I don't know,” Kjalarr told her honestly, his shoulders rising and falling with his hefty sigh. He was mourning Caiaphas' death — it was a heavy weight and his grief clouded his mind — and his memories of his siblings aside from Floki ceased to exist, though whether it was because he had been the the closest to his twin, or a byproduct of the trauma he'd suffered when he'd been a young boy, nearly being eaten by a bear and swept out to sea before he could even take care of himself he didn't know; and wasn't all that eager to uncover. That was all in the very distant past, anyway.

“I'm not saying you're lying,” He wanted to clear the air on that, just in case she thought he was accusing. “You know the name Jorunn and so very few know of it, so there has to be truth to your words,” after all Ragnar had many children. They were just his last. “You are familiar to me.” It was something, at least.