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F or three weeks they traveled, transforming every now and then just to prove to themselves that they could.

They made camp and had long, quiet talks by a campfire, enjoying the crackling of the wood and the sound of the breeze whispering through the tree branches above them.

Their pace was easier than when Alexander had sped north with Gytha, but still they covered ground far more quickly than Gytha could have imagined.

At last they reached the top of a hill, and Alexander stopped, his great white head turned toward Gytha. “This is where I stood when I saw you for the first time.”

Gytha strode up to stand beside him. Her bear form felt more familiar now, and with her animal senses, she could perceive more of the town than she could see.

The voices of the men by the river were almost clear, though they were far down the hill and out of sight among the trees.

The lake Alexander had painted was visible in the distance, though it would be out of sight once they descended into the valley.

The scents of pine and spruce and loam mingled with the faint hint of woodsmoke.

With a huff, Alexander transformed from a bear into a person, and Gytha followed. He slung the pack over his shoulder and looked at her.

“I’m terrified,” he said abruptly.

Gytha blinked. “All this time, and all the courage you’ve shown, and you’re terrified now? Why?” She stepped closer, looking up at him.

“Your family has every reason to hate me,” he said, gripping the straps of the pack as if to steady himself.

“I took you away from them. Dare I ask your father for your hand in marriage?” He looked across the valley at their little homestead nearly hidden in the trees, and his jaw tightened.

Then he looked back at her. “For you, Gytha, I can face anything.” And he smiled, sweetly and shyly, and put out one hand.

She slipped her hand into his and they set off toward home.

Together.