How long did it take to traverse the lands of Mythris by the average well-bodied, able beings? Not nearly as long as it had taken Vidarr Asulf.

Months had shifted from his displacement to the other side of the continent and then his subsequent entrapment under a burning beam during a wildfire. He had injured his shoulder to a level that he could barely move once he had been freed from the fire - all thanks to Svajone. She'd helped him heal afterwards, which took weeks. Was it just weeks? Was it months? Vidarr wasn't even sure now. But when he'd parted from Svajone he'd done so feeling like he owed her his life. Or that the debt he'd paid her for taking on the polar bear and helping her heal up had been paid. They'd given to one another, and she had other thoughts than returning to the Alpines, and he'd wished her well and promised her if their paths crossed again that they would do so as lifelong friends.

Every step still ached deep down, but Vidarr had been away from his home and his friends for so long he didn't care. He'd pushed on. Step by step. Aching mile upon mile on his shoulder and back. But he'd carried on until he'd seen the familiar rise of Frostfang Vale. He almost wept at the sight of it, rising up against the cold tundra - it was beautiful and welcoming as it was imposing and fierce. And it was his home. He had to stop himself at the borders, his thick skull (which his siblings never missed a chance to tell him he had) lifted up so that he could call out to his packmates.

They probably thought he was dead with as long as he had been gone - and he would have understood entirely.