I wonder what they see as I tend to my garden. I can feel their stares, hear the mutters they exchange behind their hands. Do they wonder how I got these scars, or do they make up stories and listen to rumours?

The slashes that mar my face happened long ago, in this very place. I am more than a gardener, I am the caretaker, the curator, and at times, the guardian. This little patch of land on the side of the temple holds a secret that few know. Fewer each time someone comes to steal it. 

The scars represent the closest I came to failure. My blood fertilised the soil that day, but so did theirs. Their bones too. Nothing goes to waste.

I prune a shoot from the most sacred plant. The one that I must defend with body and soul. Popping it in my mouth, I chew on the bitter leaf. No point in letting that go to waste either. 

I feel the movement rather than hear it. I move to my left just as the blade comes down, so close it nicks my ear. I turn and have a knife in my attacker’s gut before he can recover. He goes down quickly, blood gurgling from his mouth. My triumph is short-lived as a sword goes through my chest, and I go down, wheezing, falling on top of the first thief.

It’s cowardly to go through the back, but they always do. I suppose thievery isn’t an honourable pursuit. I feel little pain as blood floods my mouth. The second thief kicks me over, but my eyes are so blurry I can’t make out his face. I can see the sword though, ready to take my life.

The blade hovers over my throat, and my vision clears to see the sneer across his face. He’s one of those. This is as much about the kill as the theft of the sacred plant. He wants to see the fear in my eyes as I face the truth. I am about to die. 

Only I’m not. I cough a globule of blood as my chest knits roughly back together. It will scar, but nothing more. The eyes of my attacker widen as the truth dawns on him. Did he really think I’d guard the key to eternal life without sampling it myself? 

I’ve been doing this for five centuries, and it’s always the same. The hubris. I don’t enjoy the kill, but there is something satisfying as the arrogance drains away, giving way to the inevitability of death. This one is no different. His blood soaks the ground, feeding the Everliving Vine.

As long as the thieves come, the red flowers will bloom.