**The servant still wore the withered flower tucked behind his ear.**
It had faded with time, lost its color and shape. But he hadn't removed it. And Hera, though she never mentioned it, hadn't ordered it taken off either.
Days on Olympus continued without major surprises. The gods bickered as always. Hermes came and went, Apollo argued with Artemis over petty reasons, and Zeus disappeared for hours — which, to Hera, was actually a relief.
The servant remained there. Silent. Motionless when not needed. A faithful executor of any command, no matter how absurd or dangerous.
Hera, for her part, began to notice small things.
She was sleeping better. Eating more regularly. Had stopped breaking goblets during meetings. And no longer yelled at the handmaidens.
She didn't notice these changes. They happened like someone who stops wearing a ring: the absence is subtle, yet strangely comforting.
Sometimes, she spoke just to fill the silence. Not out of loneliness — that was a mortal sentiment. She simply saw no reason to keep quiet. A habit, perhaps. Or routine.
"You're not much of a companion. But at the same time, you don't bother me," she said one afternoon, watching the golden fish in the sacred pond.
He stood beside her, without the slightest movement.
---
When Zeus finally returned to Olympus, bringing storms and thunder as always, he noticed the servant the moment he entered the throne hall.
"Who's that?" he asked, frowning.
Hera didn't even look up.
"A gift from Hades."
Zeus stepped closer to the servant. He observed him like someone smelling something burnt.
"He doesn't blink."
"He doesn't need to."
"Is he... alive?"
"Yes. Just... incomplete."
Zeus frowned deeper. The servant stared at him — not stepping back, not showing fear, not even respect. Just... staring. Or rather, keeping his eyes fixed in the direction of whoever was speaking, like a curtain drawn open that doesn't watch the play.
Zeus huffed.
"This is an insult. A toy like this in the hall of the gods?"
"He's not a toy. He's my servant."
"You already have hundreds of servants."
"And they all complain. This one doesn't."
Zeus crossed his arms.
"He doesn't feel. Doesn't think. Doesn't speak. Where's the joy in that?"
"That is the joy," Hera replied calmly. "He doesn't cause trouble."
Zeus stepped even closer to the servant. His eyes lit up like thunderclouds on the verge of striking.
"Do you respect me?" he asked the boy.
Nothing.
"Do you know who I am?" he insisted.
Silence.
"Do you... fear me?"
The servant simply looked at him. No hesitation. No reaction.
Zeus exhaled louder.
"This is an offense."
"No," Hera finally rose from her throne. "This is neutrality. And you're not used to it."
She descended the steps and stopped beside the servant. He didn't move. Didn't even look away from Zeus.
"If he bothers you, Zeus, you can leave. The door is the same one you came through."
For a second, silence weighed. The thunder that always followed Zeus seemed to hesitate. But then he laughed — that thunderous laugh, like a bolt splitting the sky.
"Oh, Hera... Always so difficult. Keep your mute doll. But don't say I didn't warn you when he turns against you."
"He won't," she said. "He has no will."
Zeus vanished in a flash of lightning — louder than necessary.
---
As the weeks passed, Hera began to change her routine.
She walked more slowly through the corridors. Noticed the ancient paintings on the columns. Stopped at the windows just to watch the clouds drift by.
The servant was always one step behind. Silent. Loyal.
She began paying attention to the tasks she gave him. Before, she'd send him anywhere without thought. Now, she avoided exposing him too much to others. She preferred to ask him to tidy the hall or organize old scrolls. Quieter things. Calmer things.
One night, she passed through the gardens and saw two minor gods whispering, casting curious glances toward the servant.
"Stay away from him," she said, not even raising her voice.
"He wouldn't hear us, even if we said something," one of them muttered.
"You don't know what he hears or doesn't."
They backed off. Hera kept walking.
---
She began to speak less during the day.
Not out of sadness — Hera didn't feel sad. Nor happy. It was just... silence.
The silence beside the servant seemed to fill spaces she hadn't even noticed before. Empty places that had never really been occupied.
One morning, she woke up and, instead of asking for a new flower, took the one still behind his ear — dry, brittle — and threw it away.
Then, she tucked a new one there. A small, white bloom.
"I don't like repeats," she commented. "Let's try something new."
He, as always, didn't answer.
But he didn't remove the flower either.
---
That night, when the hall was empty, Hera stayed seated longer than usual.
The servant stood near the wall, unmoving.
"Aren't you ever tired?" she asked.
No reply.
"Not even a little?"
Silence.
"Sometimes I wonder if there's something in there. But not because I *want* there to be. It's just... curiosity."
She crossed her legs and looked up at the ceiling of Olympus. The stars moved slowly, as always. Time passed. As always.
And, as always, the servant remained where he was. Unblinking. Emotionless. Will-less.
But Hera, for the first time in a long while, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn't relief. It wasn't peace. It was just air.
Air that filled the space — the way the servant filled hers.
No questions. No needs.
Just there.