Humans on Halemyth

Jorem had been on Halemyth for seven days before he saw another human, and by then, he wasn’t sure if what he saw was real or just a projection of his own loneliness, which had started to take on shapes in the fog when he wasn’t paying attention, whispering in voices he thought he’d forgot

ten. 

The woman was standing half in the shade of a split-branch tree, mud dried on her boots and something sharper than suspicion in her eyes, something that looked like she’d already survived things no one had names for, and she didn’t speak when she saw him, didn’t raise a hand or call out, just stared like she was waiting for him to do something first, maybe prove he wasn’t another thing trying to eat her or breed her or barter pieces of her away for trade. 

He didn’t flinch when he met her eyes, didn’t try to smile or welcome her, because he didn’t trust that anything kind would come off right anymore, not here, not now, and instead he just nodded once, like this wasn’t strange, like he saw other humans all the time near the marshes, and then he looked back down at the water and kept scrubbing at the blood on his hands. 

She didn’t leave. That was something. She stood there a while, then moved closer and sat on the same side of the stream, not right next to him but not too far either, close enough that they could hear each other breathe if the wind died down, and she watched his hands like she didn’t trust what they were capable of, but also couldn’t look away. 

He could feel her trying to decide if he was a threat, and he didn’t blame her, because everything on this planet was a threat, and most of the threats were shaped like things that used to be familiar. 

They didn’t exchange names that day. Not even an attempt. She took the ration brick he offered with no thank you, no hesitation either, and chewed it like it was sawdust but better than going hungry again, and that was enough of a conversation for now. 

He didn’t sleep much that night. He doubted she did either. The ground was cold and the air made everything damp, and even though the nearest Veyari hive was probably six clicks west, they both knew the things moved faster when they wanted to. He didn’t hear her crying or pacing or whispering to herself. Just silence. Like she was conserving everything, voice, heat, hope. 

By the next morning they had a routine. Not one they spoke aloud or planned, but a rhythm settled in anyway. He’d scout food. She’d scout threats. They didn’t step on each other’s roles. Not yet. Not until the day it rained acid and they ended up huddled under the same tangle of exposed roots, too close not to touch knees once or twice, though neither of them mentioned it, and when he finally said his name, it was almost like a dare. 

“Jorem,” he said, like it wasn’t important, but she caught it. 

She didn’t give her name back until the next day. She waited until he’d killed a blade-tail for breakfast, and he thought maybe the gesture earned him the smallest sliver of trust. She said her name was Renna, and something in her tone made it clear she didn’t want him to repeat it unless he had to. 

She didn’t smile. He wasn’t sure she knew how to anymore. 

He didn’t blame her for watching him like he might turn. Everyone wanted something from humans here. The Harrowflies wanted blood, the Veyari wanted ownership, and the Khelen wanted legacy, and she had every right to wonder what he wanted, even if he didn’t know yet himself. Maybe just someone else who remembered how Earth soil smelled after rain. Maybe someone who wouldn’t look away when his hands were dirty. 

She argued with him on day ten. Not just snapping or rolling her eyes, but real argument, like she had energy for more than surviving. He said something cruel, he didn’t mean to, but it came out that way, something about her not liking his plan and maybe she’d rather be with the Khelen if she missed being told what to do so badly, and her face changed in a way that felt like watching ice crack across a frozen lake. 

She told him maybe the Khelen would rather have him anyway, since he seemed to know everything and still got them nowhere. 

He didn’t chase her when she stormed off, not at first. He stayed near the fire, throwing dry moss into the flames like that would fix anything. But after sunset, when the cold started sinking in, he went to find her. 

She wasn’t far. Just a little past the rise, sitting on a flat rock that had probably been a seat for something bigger a long time ago, chewing on a root and not looking at him. 

He sat beside her, not close enough to crowd but not too far to seem indifferent, and he didn’t apologize, because he didn’t think she wanted one, and maybe he wasn’t good at that part anyway, but he said, “I’m not good with people.” 

She didn’t answer. 

He said, “But I don’t want to do this alone.” 

And that was enough. She leaned her shoulder just slightly toward his, just enough that he knew she’d heard him, maybe even believed him, and they sat like that a long time, not touching more than that, just breathing the same foul air and watching the night bugs swirl around something dying in the marsh. 

He started drawing a map in the dirt after a while. He didn’t know if she was watching, but he kept his hand steady, drawing the ridges they’d crossed and the paths they’d blocked with traps, and she stayed beside him the whole time. 

Maybe they weren’t lost. 

Maybe they’d just been waiting to stop walking alone.