The little voice at the back of Herschel’s head had been yelling nonstop about what a failure he was, how he was a disgrace to all free terrans, and how much everyone in his life was disappointed by him. He knew silencing it was as simple as accepting the plentiful xenodrugs offered to him, but there was a sort of triumph in proving it wrong. 

Working backwards through his list of supposed transgressions was going well. All of his old friends and surviving family members were delighted to hear from him. They expressed how much relief they felt getting to speak with him again, even if it was just via the overnet. They told him how much their lives had improved since the dissolution of the Terran Accord. The hobbies they were finally able to pursue, the personal reckonings they were able to realize. (It turned out that his cousin Joshua was now Joanna, and she’d never looked happier.) 

They begged him to come home for Passover, and Connifred assured them they’d be there. It was the first time Connifred had unambiguously put his foot down and exerted dominance over Herschel’s life. Such displays were few and far in-between, and so far none of them were in opposition to Herschel’s wishes so much as they were clear affirmations of things that were going to happen. 

Next on the list was the assertion that he was a disgrace to all “free terrans”. This one began debunking itself as soon as Herschel spent time living outside of the Terran Accord. The prideful, blustering talk of “freedom” was no longer everpresent. Under the Affini Compact, it seemed people didn’t feel the need to constantly assert how free they were when they were busy living their lives and doing what they wanted. 

That only left the failure part. This one was harder to rectify as by all reasonable metrics, he was a failure of a soldier. He almost got himself killed and ended up surrendering to the enemy. His fumble didn’t even buy his fellow soldiers time to escape or regroup. Connifred ended up being the one to debunk this notion during one of their many quiet afternoons reading. 

“Herschel, how are you at cultivating bioluminescent bacteria?” The question seemed to come out of nowhere. “On that same note, what’s your success rate for ambushing prey at the bottom of the ocean?” Connifred’s questions came off as genuine, which only made them more confusing. 

Herschel looked up at Connifred for clarification. “You do know humans aren’t able to do either of those things, right?” This had to be leading to something, and Connifred seemed to consider Herschel’s retort before plainly stating: “You’re quite the failure of a Mushusha then, aren’t you?” 

“Excuse me?” Herschel was mentally grasping at straws trying to figure out what Connifred was playing at. The affini clarified, “Saguaros’ floret Roq is a Mushusha” as if that was supposed to make everything suddenly make perfect sense. Connifred took note of his floret’s baffled deminor, adding “It doesn’t seem to bother you that by both metrics I’ve laid out you’ve failed at being a Mushusha?” 

Herschel’s confusion began morphing into indignation as he closed his book in preparation to give Connifred a piece of his mind. “No Connifred, it doesn’t.” 

“So then why does being a failure of a soldier bother you?” Herschel defensively threw out the obvious answer: “Because I’m not a Mushusha, but I was a soldier.” Connifred wrapped Herschel in his vines, gently pulling him into an embrace.

“You weren’t a soldier, sapling. You were a prisoner being paraded around as a soldier. They had you fighting for your life, trying to stay afloat in the cruel system that was the former Terran Accord. You are many things, but a soldier and a failure are not among them.” Herschel trembled as he hugged Connifred tighter. “Thank you.”

<> <> <>

The topic of the Haustoric Implant was weighing heavily on Herschel’s mind. He flipped between learning everything he could about it, to trying to get any thoughts of it out of his head, often multiple times throughout the day. Every floret of every species the affini domesticated had some variation of it, and terrans were no exception. 

The process itself bonded the floret to their affini; chemically, physically, spiritually. A piece of Connifred’s core (the nucleus of his entire being) would be used as the basis for the implant. Herschel had gotten a look at Connifred’s core a few times now, and each time was a mesmerizing, deeply personal affair. It lay at the center of the bundle of vines that made up his body, and was the source of the nigh imperceptible “song” that radiated from his being. In essence, Connifred would be giving Herschel a piece of his soul. 

Along with getting the implant, Herschel would also be getting a new arm. This was a much easier topic to focus on, and Connifred seemed particularly excited about it. Still,  fear kept closing in as the scheduled date loomed closer. Xenodrugs and words of encouragement from Connifred kept Herschel anchored and in generally high spirits. 

Connifred would be right there with him when he was put under for the procedure, and right there when he woke up. They’d then go back home and take it easy while he recovered, for however long he needed. As for what would happen after that, Connifred had something specific in mind which he refused to elaborate on. All in all, anticipation was what really gnawed at Herschel. 

When the big day came around, finally arriving at the clinic was almost a relief. The last thing Herschel saw before going under were Connifred’s twinkling eyes. He was going to be fine. 

~~~

The first thing Herschel saw when he woke up wasn’t Connifred, but Saguaros standing over him. “Hey cutie, all the medical stuff went perfectly. You did such a good job being so brave, and everything is going to be okay.” She held his left hand in hers, and while not uncomfortable, the action lacked the familiar warm feelings Connifred’s touch brought him. 

“Where’s Connifred?” Herschel scanned the room but found no sign of the familiar affini. Every sensation was magnified, from the feeling of the blanket against his skin to Saguaros holding his hand. More acute than that though, were the emotional sensations. His confusion was palpable, as was the rising tide of worry which threatened to drown him. 

“You’re going to be okay.” Saguaros’ words rang hollow as the familiar feeling of soothing xenodrugs began flooding into him without the accompanying pressure of the injector. The last thing he saw before sleep took him was Saguaros’ pained expression.

<> <> <>

Herschel returned to the waking world slowly. He was in a dim room on a soft bed, with a heavy quilt over him. He breathed in the familiar scent of cloves and pine, and felt Connifred’s hand in his. Something was off though. The more wakefulness filled him, the more subtle inaccuracies he began to notice. 

He was the only one in the bed, which meant that the familiar hand he was holding was ….his hand? The vines were undoubtedly Connifred’s, but they flowed from his shoulder down to a facsimile of an appropriately-scaled hand. It was relatively unresponsive to his attempts to move it, and the sensations from it were dulled compared to his other arm.

Mentally filing these new developments away under “things I can worry about later”, Herschel took a deep breath. He had more pressing issues to deal with. He maneuvered his aching, sensitive body towards the edge of the bed and as he slipped off of it, his feet met something chitinous and furry.

“Lembic, Herschel has awoken.”