The hall of Mount Olympus was quieter than usual that golden afternoon. Hera, lounging on her throne of clouds and white marble, drummed her fingers on the armrest, bored. The sky was clear, the muses were away, and not even Zeus had shown up to argue some divine whim.
She let out a long sigh — the kind that echoed through the corridors of Olympus like a summons for distraction. And, as if the universe had heard her, the great gates opened with a calm creak.
A familiar scent spread through the hall — dry, dense, with a faint trace of ancient stone.
"Took you long enough, Hades," Hera said without turning her head.
The god of the underworld entered as if walking on shadows — calm, immaculate, with the same enigmatic gaze as always. He carried nothing, but by his side walked a man. A young man, to be exact. Tall, pale, with dark hair and a neutral expression. He held his head high, eyes empty and fixed ahead. He didn't look uncomfortable. In fact, he didn't look like anything at all.
Hera raised an eyebrow.
"And this?" she asked, gesturing lightly with her hand.
"A gift," Hades replied. "For you."
Hera stepped down from her throne. She observed the young man closely.
"A gift with no ribbon? How odd."
"He's a servant. Not a trinket."
She moved closer, eyes studying the still face. He looked handmade — as unmoving as a statue.
"He's alive?"
"Yes. He breathes, moves. But he doesn't feel. Doesn't think. Doesn't speak."
"And why give me something like that?"
Hades shrugged.
"Because I know you prefer those who don't lie. And he has nothing to hide."
"Does he have a name?"
"No."
Hera crossed her arms. "And if I don't want him?"
"You can't return him," Hades replied with a smile. "He's yours now."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left. Just like that.
The servant remained where he stood. As if he hadn't even noticed the other was gone.
Hera took a step around him, then another. The servant didn't follow her gaze. Didn't seem to register her presence beyond the need to obey.
"Do you hear me?" she asked.
He didn't respond. Didn't move.
"Then follow me."
He followed. Without hesitation.
---
In the days that followed, Hera tested the limits of the gift.
She had him clean the hall floors, arrange the throne's cushions, gather flowers in the suspended garden. He obeyed with precision. Never asked for details, never questioned. He simply executed.
She dropped a vase on purpose. He picked up the shards without a sound. Didn't even look at her.
She pretended to stumble. He caught her before her knee could touch the ground.
"You've got reflexes," Hera murmured.
He said nothing.
By the end of the second day, Hera began to talk to herself. Not because she expected a response — she already knew none would come — but, for some reason, it felt lighter to speak near him. She shared her thoughts, her opinions on the gods, the mortals, the seasons. She commented on the beauty of the sky or Zeus's terrible taste in decor.
He listened to everything in silence. Never reacted. Never turned his head, never furrowed his brow, never moved a finger without being told. It was like speaking to a very patient wall.
"You never hesitate," she said one morning after telling him to cross a glass bridge suspended over a lake of acid. He went without a flicker of doubt.
Hera watched him, a strange discomfort pressing in her chest.
"You don't think about what might happen. Because you don't think at all, do you?"
He returned and stood beside her, waiting for the next command.
---
As days passed, Hera began taking him with her to other places on Olympus.
The other goddesses eyed him with suspicion. Aphrodite remarked that he seemed "unnervingly empty," and Athena, in passing, simply said:
"You know that thing isn't human."
"He wasn't made to be," Hera replied with a smile.
She never gave him a name. And he never seemed to need one. Whenever she gestured, he came. Whenever she pointed, he acted. The whole world could collapse, and he would still follow her without a trace of doubt.
Hera grew used to it. The certainty that, no matter how much the world around her changed, he would remain — still, obedient, constant.
But she also realized something else: no matter how much time she spent beside him, she couldn't project emotions onto him. It was like staring at the sea at night — cold, endless, unresponsive.
There was no spark in his eyes, no shadow of thought. He simply was.
And for some reason… that unsettled her.
---
One afternoon, Hera sat in the garden and picked a small pale blue flower. She turned to the servant, who stood near the stairs, unmoving.
She walked over and tucked the flower behind his ear.
"This doesn't mean anything," she said quietly. "But it suits you."
He didn't react. Didn't lift a hand to remove the flower. He stood as he always did, as if unaware. The next day, the flower had wilted in place. And he still wore it.
---
When Hermes showed up — as usual, full of chatter and speed — he spotted the servant beside the throne.
"So it's true," he said, hands on hips. "You accepted Hades' gift."
"It's a good gift."
"Good? He looks… like a living statue."
"That's exactly what he is."
Hermes wrinkled his nose. "Don't you find it strange? Someone who feels nothing?"
Hera stared at him for a moment, then looked back at the servant.
"It is strange, yes. But it's also simple. No surprises. No betrayal. No lies."
"But also no life."
She didn't answer.
Hermes flew off shortly after. And silence returned to the hall.
The servant remained in place.
---
Over time, Hera stopped expecting any sign of change. And that, in the end, became a kind of relief.
She spoke, he listened. She ordered, he acted. Everything happened as it should.
No mistakes. No delay. No emotion.
And Hera, who had lived centuries surrounded by impulsive gods and dramatic messengers, began to find that silence… almost comforting.
At the end of the afternoon, before leaving the hall, she looked at him and said:
"You're the only being here who will never disappoint me. Because, deep down, you can't."
He didn't answer.
Didn't hesitate.
As always.