Twa Milhoms

The fire cracked and hissed, but no one dared sit too close to it.

The body was gone—reduced to ash and bone—and still the silence clung to the camp like smoke. The air held the taste of iron and fear. Birds no longer called from the trees. Even the wind seemed hesitant to pass through Ikanbi.

Ben walked the perimeter of the camp slowly, his hands behind his back, his thoughts heavier than usual. He didn't look at anyone too long. He didn't want to see their eyes—not yet.

They had followed him when he told them to. They had seen a man die without a hand raised against him. They had watched a god burn someone alive from the inside without touching him. They knew now—this was no myth. No symbol. Twa Milhom was real. And Ben was his voice.

Behind him, Sema stirred the pot over the fire without speaking. She hadn't said a word since last night. Mala stood nearby, bow in hand, gaze flicking to the trees every so often, as if expecting the jungle to attack just for breathing too loudly.

Boji, as always, tried to act like it didn't bother him.

"So…" he said finally, tossing a small fish from hand to hand. "If we ever get bored of hunting, I vote we let Twa Milhom boil the lake next. Quickest fish soup in history."

No one laughed. Not even Laye.

Boji sighed and let the fish drop to the dirt.

Kael sat against one of the wooden posts near Ben's new house, sharpening a spear with a slow, focused rhythm. Joren mirrored him. They hadn't spoken all morning. Just worked. Watched. Waited.

Sema finally spoke, voice quiet but sharp. "If mistakes mean death… are we still free?"

Ben stopped walking.

Mala turned to her. "We didn't die. Because we followed him."

"That's not freedom. That's a leash," Sema whispered, eyes still on the stew.

Boji grunted. "Rather be leashed and breathing than free and boiled."

Ben looked up. "He didn't ask to be followed. He didn't ask to be worshipped. He didn't even punish the man because of himself."

Sema raised an eyebrow. "Then why?"

Ben's voice was steady, but tired. "Because he disrespected what gave us a second chance. And that disrespect could have poisoned everything."

They let that sit.

The newcomers worked quietly on the other side of the camp. A few had started to build simple huts, copying the bamboo designs. One woman, older than the rest, stood and hesitantly approached Ben.

"Will he… will Twa Milhom punish us if we pray to him? If we show thanks?"

Ben shook his head. "He doesn't want your prayers. Just your honesty."

She nodded and backed away.

Two men started arguing over fishing duty near the edge of the camp. One accused the other of nearly getting them all killed by standing too close to Toma the night before.

Ben stepped between them.

"No more blaming," he said. "You're here. He's not. Don't waste it."

The argument stopped.

But the glances didn't. Every movement Ben made—every word he spoke—carried more weight now. Not because of who he was. But because of what stood behind him in the trees.

That night, after the camp settled, Ben walked alone to the edge of the twisted bamboo forest. The stalks had grown even taller, thick and unnaturally curved, their surfaces smooth like polished bone.

He didn't call out.

But he spoke anyway.

"I never asked for this. You chose me. And now they look at me like I'm… more than I am. But I'm just a boy who wants his people to survive."

No voice answered.

But the bamboo swayed in a breeze that hadn't touched the rest of the forest. The leaves whispered above his head like old men murmuring in approval—or warning.

Ben stood there a long time.

Not waiting for comfort.

Not hoping for praise.

Just trying to figure out how to carry a god's shadow… and still walk like a man.

By morning, the air had lightened.

The fear hadn't vanished, but it had settled. Like coals beneath ashes—still hot, but no longer wild.

Ben found Boji sitting cross-legged near the river, trying to rig together a new kind of fish trap using a bent stick, four vines, and something that looked suspiciously like part of someone's shoe.

He muttered under his breath, "Too slow… too wide… fish are mocking me again."

A voice behind him, sudden and unmistakably human, said:

"Because fish are smarter than most men."

Boji jumped, the entire contraption flinging into the air. He whirled around—and blinked hard.

Twa Milhom was standing not ten feet away, hands clasped behind his back, watching him as if inspecting a child's drawing.

Boji's mouth worked open and closed. "Oh. Um. Hi."

The god raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who keeps poking bamboo like it owes you money."

Boji nodded quickly. "That's… accurate, yes."

Twa Milhom stepped closer, knelt, and with the rope from his shoulder began retying the trap—his fingers impossibly fast and precise.

"You bind the bait too tight. Fish fight, even when dying. Respect the bait, and the river listens."

Boji stared, slack-jawed. "Wait, are you… teaching me to fish?"

"I'm bored," Twa Milhom said simply. "Ben is too serious, and the others are too frightened. You at least attempt foolishness with confidence."

Boji grinned, chest puffing a bit. "You're saying I amuse a god."

"No," the god said flatly. "You distract me from murdering you."

Boji blinked. "Close enough."

Meanwhile, not far off, Ben watched the interaction with a raised brow. He approached when Twa Milhom stood again, wiping his hands.

"Taught him something useful?" Ben asked.

"I improved his chances of not starving," Twa Milhom replied.

They walked toward the bamboo grove again. The god moved like wind—no sound, no resistance.

Ben sighed. "I want to build something lasting here. A tribe strong enough to survive this world. But I can't do it alone."

"You have people."

"I mean more than that. I need structure. Roles. Families. I need someone… with me. A wife, eventually. If this tribe grows, it'll need mothers. Leaders."

Twa Milhom stopped mid-step.

Slowly, he turned his head.

"You…" he said, voice low and dangerous, "…want to marry?"

Ben shrugged. "Eventually. I'll need someone. Even gods had consorts, right?"

The god stepped closer, eyes narrowing with quiet menace.

"Boy," he said, "if my fiancée heard you mention god-wives in the same breath as your little 'tribal expansion plan,' she would boil your soul for nine million years in the deepest, loudest, darkest pit of hell."

Ben blinked.

Twa Milhom kept going. "She would wear your shame like a scarf. And I… would clap."

Ben raised his hands. "Alright. Noted. Loud and clear."

The god looked at him a moment longer, then suddenly grinned.

"But… you are right. You'll need someone to match your fire. And one day, you'll find her. Just pray she doesn't boil you first."

Ben chuckled, despite himself.

For a moment, there was no tension. No god and mortal. No fear.

Just a strange friendship—one built on fire, survival, and the deep understanding that neither of them truly belonged to this world as it was.

Boji shouted from the river.

"Hey! He fixed it! I got three fish!"

Twa Milhom nodded once. "He learns fast."

Ben smiled.

"So do we."

From the edge of the trees, Sema, Mala, and several of the newer survivors stood half-hidden in the underbrush, watching.

No one dared speak above a whisper.

They had come looking for water. What they found instead was a god showing a boy how to fish, a leader speaking plainly with something that could kill with a glance, and a boy with wild hair laughing like the world hadn't changed.

"Boji's going to get himself turned into smoke," Mala muttered.

"No," Sema said softly, eyes fixed on the trio. "Look."

Twa Milhom stood close to Ben—closer than anyone else ever did. They spoke quietly, like old friends in a place they trusted. The god's shoulders were relaxed, arms loose at his side. There was no fire in his step, no tension in his jaw.

He was at peace.

Boji, still knee-deep in the river, let out a triumphant whoop as another fish splashed into his new trap.

"Four!" he shouted to no one and everyone.

Sema shook her head. "He just made a god help him fish."

"And lived," Mala added.

"More than that…" one of the new survivors whispered. "He made him laugh."

They all fell silent again.

From a distance, it didn't look like command or worship. It looked like balance—a strange, impossible friendship between something eternal and something very, very human.

Ben wasn't giving orders. Twa Milhom wasn't hovering with divine menace.

They were speaking. Walking. Laughing, even.

Sema turned to the others. "That's why we're still alive."

One of the men frowned. "Because Ben's in charge?"

"No," she said. "Because he listens. And somehow… that thing listens back."

Mala stepped forward, gaze still fixed on Ben.

"For now," she said. "But we should never forget what we saw. Not just the power… the favor."

Behind them, the river shimmered. Birds chirped again. Ikanbi exhaled.

And for the first time since the burning, there was not just fear in their hearts—but the beginning of something else.

Faith.

Not in the god.

But in the boy the god walked beside.