Jupiter's Almost-True Tales

[Jupiter]

The Eternal Bloom

To achieve eternal life—that was the ultimate goal of every alchemist. Nereus was no different. A brilliant scientist, he had surpassed all his masters; there was no alchemical equation he could not solve. Except for one—the Philosopher’s Stone. That mystery eluded him. As the years passed, and his youth gave way to the scars of time, his fear of death grew stronger. Reflecting on the arrival of the end always makes us wonder if we’ve done everything we wished to do.

On the night of his ninetieth birthday, beneath a towering cotton tree under the full moon, Nereus muttered to the sky: “I feel this is my final year in this flesh. Great moon, I have but one wish. Tell me your secret to immortality.” He slowly leaned against the trunk, no longer able to stand for long. His eyes trembled; his vision darkened.

The great sphere of light in the sky wavered oddly, piquing the curiosity of the old man—he had found his glasses. But he had been mistaken: it was not a full moon night. What shimmered above his head was a silver, incandescent orb, hanging from a branch.

“An exceptional fruit!” he exclaimed, trembling with excitement. His fragile arms reached for it. In his hands, it felt soft as silk, radiating warmth that spread through his tired veins. Its scent was exquisite, each breath filling him with renewed will to live. It felt as if he held life itself.

Had the night answered his prayer? There was no time for tests. Ignoring all protocols, he tore apart the silky threads wrapping the orb and discovered a golden, syrupy nectar. Without hesitation, he drank it.

Tears fell—unprompted—as if he were a newborn. Something soft brushed his face, his consciousness faded, and he fell asleep.

 

“Hey! Wake up!” a voice called. He felt the warmth of the sun above, but he still couldn’t see.

“Open your leaves!” said the voice. Leaves? Confused, he forced his eyes open and saw a giant tree before him.

“Who’s talking?” he asked, frightened.

“Are you blind? Over here!” replied the tree, impatiently.

“My name’s Oak. What’s yours?”

“Nereus... where am I?” he stammered.

“Nereus? That doesn’t sound like a plant’s name,” said the oak, amused.

“Plant?” he looked down, expecting feet, but instead found a young stem.

“Exactly! You sprouted a few weeks ago. Welcome to spring!”

Despite his confusion, an overwhelming joy filled his body. He no longer felt pain—only peace and calm in a beautiful, threat-free place. He remembered the fruit. Was this paradise? Exhausted by so much newness, the newborn plant fell asleep again.

He awoke once more. How much time had passed? The oak looked smaller—or had he grown? The sun blazed overhead, filling him with energy.

“Welcome to summer—sweet, sweet summer!” sang the grass at his roots.

“Finally! I thought you'd sleep forever!”

“Why did time pass so fast?” Nereus asked, still adjusting to this new rhythm.

He felt no hunger, no pain, only lightness.

“Time now passes quickly for me,” he reflected.

“Because pain used to give meaning to each second. Without it, what is my new reference?”

The sky darkened. The full moon was beginning to wane. It seemed to have given part of itself so that he could be here—like magic.

He could finally rest. Months now passed like minutes. Was this how immortality perceived time?

But peace wouldn’t last. Time passed, and the field grew silent. Trees turned yellow. The sun waned.

“What’s happening?”

“Winter is coming. You must shed your leaves,” said the oak.

“Winter?” cried the grass. “That's a lie! There’s only summer!”

[b][/b]

The idea of returning to darkness was unsettling. He chose to believe the grass—the denial was more comforting.

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” it insisted. “Old trees always lose their minds with age.”

Nereus, ever a scientist, knew about the seasons. But… what if he never woke up again? What if the magic broke?

At least the grass fed his hope that nothing bad would happen.

“Wait—where’s the grass?”

The green carpet was gone, its color drained. Cold winds blew oak leaves away, silencing the old friend.

“Help me!” Nereus pleaded.

“You must trust me,” replied the oak, nearly bare. “We must close our eyes to winter. If we see death, it could be the end. And believe me, she walks among us when the frost falls.”

“But what if it’s just a story? Maybe you only shut your eyes because you believe not doing so will curse you!”

But the last oak leaf fell. The silence returned.

The waning moon barely shone in the sky. Everything had gone inward. Everyone, except Nereus.

He refused the passage.

“Time will pass, and the sun will return. It always has, since I became a tree,” he reassured himself, staring at the lifeless hill as snow began to fall.

Time moved slowly now. Why? His roots ached—unable to draw water from ice. His leaves began to crystallize. It felt like needles piercing him.

He was afraid.

“I’m not ready to let go. I refuse. I’m not ready!” he cried, looking for the moon—but it had vanished.

“Where are you? What gift was this? Why must I suffer after so much joy?”

No answer. Everyone else had already heeded the oak’s call and retreated.

Only the howl of wolves remained. Through his blurred sight, a cold light emerged. A figure slid through the fog, followed by pawprints.

When we’re near death, they say: don’t look into the light. But he couldn’t look away.

A silver-haired woman approached the tree, her dress shimmering, skin aglow.

“Moon… why did you curse me? I asked to be immortal like you!”

She answered gently:

“My dear, every month I am born and I die. In spring, I am young—I take in life. As I grow older, I give back all I’ve learned to this planet. That’s what I did when I granted your wish.”

“But I’m in pain. Life passed by again so quickly. I didn’t enjoy any of it, and now I must leave!” he whimpered like a child.

With serene eyes, she replied:

“When I wane, I’m saying goodbye to a cycle. Yes, I meet death—but I am born again. I’m giving you what you asked for, Nereus. I’m giving you my immortality.”

With tired hands, he began to release the last of his frost-covered leaves.

“You will bloom again. You still have flowers to gift the world.”

His blurry vision began to fade. The pain softened. A peaceful sleep crept into his thoughts.

Why had he resisted for so long? he wondered.

And he held tight to the final words he heard:

“We’ll meet again in spring.”