The goddess had said this before she died: you need to watch over him. He needs your sentry to survive. The goddess' words weren't heeded. Little baby Jupiter tottered on lava as his parents small-talked with their kingdom. Well, it must have been small talk, because nothing seemed to happen afterwards other than his mother's face collapsing in agony, anger, annoyance. He knew not to touch them then. He'd fly off into the sun one day, but if his hands were burnt and charred, he wouldn't survive even a third of the journey.
The prophecy was simple: the firstborn to the kingdom will metamorph into a celestial, purify themself so that only stardust remains. Live in the sky forever. The astrologers were baffled; you don't just become a star. They should have heeded the goddess.
Jupiter was sixteen when he expanded and collapsed all at once. He still lives, they say, and the astrologers were right, in a way: people just don't become stars. They become almost empty space. Nobody knows if his hands were burnt when they left earth's orbit forever.
