What Would You Do For a Gallon of Sweetened Tea?

A tanna tree has been destroyed and, for the sake of my continued existence, I must plant another as soon as possible. 

For one of my age, tanna leaves make the only tea worth drinking. They filter the mana of the world into a product that can provide the sole sustenance that succors me. Made into a tea, sweetened just a little, it can make for a delightful afternoon drink, more than suitable for drinking by the pool in the bright noonday sun. After a few hours of recharging both body and soul, I can better refresh my mind in pursuit of my studies. 

The problem is securing enough trees to make brewing the tea worth it. Without the tea, I am reduced to a withered husk of a man, requiring bandages to protect me from even the weakest sunlight, the slightest breeze. With the enemies I have and those who would become my enemies if they knew of my longevity, some paranoia is justified; an expression of this is that I maintain several trees, as the lack of leaves is effectively my only true weakness: Without the leaves, I would be vulnerable to even the least of my enemies. 

The problem is that the tanna tree is weak, frail, and easily destroyed: an ax properly used, a fire in its branches, even age itself (as it only lives a few short scores of years). The irony that one as strong as I must trust one as weak as it to survive. Thus I plant as many as I can, but each requires blood, soul, and mind to germinate and flower, limiting the crop. The problem is finding a suitable sacrifice for it to take root and prosper. 

I may have found such a one. 

 * * * * *

I observed him from across the room. Christopher Barnes was in the center of a lively conversation, one in which he was clearly leading the others in a merry game. He was quick-witted, charismatic, and the crowd listened to him. As per standard vetting, I knew that he was a physics major who had been working at the local observatory since he was fourteen. He was also a natural athlete, having won several marathons. I allowed myself to smile: Here was the perfect combination of a powerful soul and mind, all in a healthy body. 

And then I noticed Paul Anderssen, and my smile faded. Anderssen was a desiccated corpse who existed solely to be a blight upon his own community of leeches: He sought out the best blood, making Barnes a mutual target. I was there just to watch my team of professional kidnappers obtain the boy, and I quickly detected Anderssen's team. The two were competing for the same target. Anderssen glared at me as soon as he saw me; I tipped my hat to him. 

The game was on. 

Anderssen had the early advantage. Through sheer force of will, he was able to trip up my team, slowing them down. A tray leaped into the path of one agent, while a cart moved just enough to block another. A customer tripped right into the path of the final agent. These distractions forced my agents to adapt, attempting new routes and dodging simple attacks. At that rate, however, they would never get close enough to Barnes to attain him.

Meanwhile, his agents were getting closer to our mutual target. I smiled; Anderssen glared harder, if such were possible, until the hate that dripped off him made the air between denser. Just as his agents were about to spring and take the boy, one of the girls listening to him stopped listening and approached him with the idea of getting closer. He went quiet, then smiled and allowed himself to be taken away. 

Anderssen's eyes went wide and then narrowed to slits. He gave me one final glare, grabbed his coat, and left. I chuckled a little, and then paid my check and left myself. I then caught up with the girl, who had had more than sufficient time to inject the boy with an anesthetic agent. I secured my prize, moved the sleeping boy to inside my convertible, even as Anderssen probably levelled curses at my name. I then raced to the location hidden in a copse of oaks deep within the local forest. 

 * * * * *

The ceremony is brief. In a local wood, I had carved out a hermetic circle in the ground; I pushed poor Christopher into its center. I forced him to his knees. His tears, his pleas, fall upon one blind and deaf to the suffering of mere mortals. My survival is at stake here, after all. I held his mouth open and inserted a seed into his mouth, then forced him to swallow the seed, itself not much bigger than that of an apple. Content that the seed had been swallowed, I grabbed his hair in my left hand and pulled out my khopesh with my right. I grimaced as the khopesh sliced his throat, and he became mere meat. He fell, and the circle glowed red with temporary power that receded into the body, linking the soul of the sacrifice with the life of the seed. The deed was done. 

I clean my blade with his shirt, sheath the blade, and walk back to my car. Another tree has been planted, my continued existence assured. I smiled as I enjoyed the briefest of joys: The thought of sweetened tanna tea, chill in my hand as I enjoyed the heat of the noonday sun. The life of an immortal holds few joys after the first handful of centuries; I look forward to the tea that this tree shall produce. 

In the short term, however, I looked forward to wind whipping through my hair as I got to the car to a good clip. This has been a good day.