“Greetings, friends,” Tes said. “How do you do on this lovely morn?”

The man by the fire lifted his low-brimmed hat from his face, and a smile filled with worn, yellowed teeth spread across his face.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “It’s you! I thought that was you over there. With my sight, I can’t tell anymore what’s a person and what’s a talking tree stump!”

Francine wanted to ask how she resembled anything like a chopped down tree, but she was suddenly struck with an even greater question. “Wait,” she said, looking between her brother and the stranger. “You two know each other?”

A deep, red blush crept up Tes’s neck and the stranger nodded, completely at ease at both of their presence, something that in that moment, Francine never thought she’d experience. It was already weird enough whenever she felt the eyes of her family on her, watching her every move like hungry lions or bored children. But as more mortals came over, attracted to them like moths to a flame, she was overcome with an intense need to fix her flaws. She picked the leaves from her hair, repositioned her stance, even threw away her cloak to stand beside her brother at her full height. She heard Tes stifle a chuckle as she rubbed mud from across her cheeks, but held back her fists. She would get her revenge, as soon as the eyes left from her face.

“Welcome,” an elderly woman said, dipping her graying head toward the two of them. “We have waited for your return with baited breath.”

“Th-Thank you,” Francine said, smiling uncomfortably. She shot a glance at Tes, a look that read, What is this old bat talking about?

Thankfully, her brother wasn’t cruel and didn’t keep her in a state of confusion for too long. Reaching over, he took the first man by his shoulder and pulled him into a tight hug. “This is Brother Betrand and his family. They come from outside of the Woods, by the Rolling Plains, but pass through our home once every year for their pilgrimage.”

Pilgrimage? Recognition passed through Francine like a mist. No wonder the mortals didn’t act like they normally did. Those usually visited once a year, and busied themselves within the confines of the outpost. There, they were able to experience the beauty and awe-inspiring majesty that lied in the heart of the Woods, but without the fear of stumbling upon one of its residents. But the pilgrims were different. Francine had heard stories about them, large throngs of mortals who not only visited their home, but actually stayed. The reason for it was unclear; some reports said that they had their own god that they, too, worshiped, an older folk that surpassed the Great Elk, Nosin. Others claimed that they did so to pay respects to the Mortals of Old, their brethren from long ago, before Father or even the Brothers were born. But the main idea was that they were supposed to journey through the great forest, the few people who dared to not only walk among the Forestkind, but also venture further than any other mortal would. It astounded her then and it certainly still did now.

Francine nodded, keeping one eye on the encroaching elders, but one thing still didn’t make sense. “But how do you know them?”

Brother Bertrand answered for Tes. “A long time ago, when I was but a lad, he saved me from a lion. I owe him my life, and I make sure to walk down this area whenever we visit to offer my gratitude.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Tes said, then turned to Francine. “Brother, this is Francine, my sister. She may not know much of you, she’s always… busy.”

Now Francine wanted to punch him, but was distracted when Brother Bertrand walked toward her, placing his hand on her cheek. She back drew rigid. His palm felt rough, like flint, against her smoother skin, and although his eyes were watered down from their probably once-bright brown, there was something in them that made her feel as if they could cut through her like knives.

It reminded her of the way that the Elders would watch her, as if knowing something but refusing to say it.

They reminded her of Father.

Francine stepped away. Tes’s smile fell, and went toward her, but Brother Bertrand held up his hand.

“This one’s a fighter, my friend,” he said. “She has no interest to listen to talks from old men. She wishes to play, no?”

Francine looked at Tes. There was something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite understand. Sadness? Emptiness? Disappointment? He had the gall to be disappointed with her, when he was out there, running around with the very people that she had just gotten reprimanded against? She wanted to be angry, at him, at the mortals that stared at her. But all that she could come up with was to clench her fists. Her heart was beating too hard in her chest for her to think to do anything else.

“I have to go,” she said and turned around to stiffly walk into the trees.

Behind her, she heard Tes calling her name, but she ignored him. The last thing that she wanted to do was go back and see Brother Bertrand, or rather, let him see her.