I’ve farmed lavender for uncountable years; witches live a long time, after all. The quality of my lavender eclipses ordinary varieties – even mortals love my cultivars. I can make a powerful sleep potion from the oils of my blossoms. I could teach you, but mortality is precious – don’t waste it on sleep magic. Don’t waste it at all.
Like I said, witches live a long time, but not forever. I love you, child of man, and I want to give you the lavender farm when I pass. Bury me beneath the tree in my fields, and I will rest easy.
This was written for Joanne the Geek’s Flash Fiction Challenge #5, magic. The prompt word is in bold.