He'd need supplies. And time. That, probably, more than anything. Tristan was a tree and now and somewhere in the world, anywhere in the world, a tree was a man. That was his fault. His responsibility.
He would need to check his records—if he was lucky the equivalent exchange laws means that it would be the same species of tree. That would narrow his search field considerably. Luck, however, had been in short supply of late.
It had been rash. Giving a life to something—now someone—who never asked for it. Who could never be prepared for it. Someone set up to fail from the beginning. By him. He had no business granting life.
Or taking it away, surely. But he looked at her now—deep in conversation with a pine marten that had decided to spend the morning's journey with them—and he could see the swelling along her temple and the cut that had stained her face red. He could see Tristan extending his hand, intent to spill more of it. All of it.
He'd do it again.