Chapter 2 - Saea

Six years. That was how long I had been pouring ambrosia at The Obnoxious Pegasus—a lifetime for a satyr.

 

My kind were born to wander, chasing adventures across wild hills and into warm beds, never lingering long enough for the grass to grow beneath our hooves. My parents still sent messages laced with disappointment, wondering when their daughter would stop playing at being a servant and return to the forests where she belonged. I had come to Olympus on a whim, planning to stay a year, maybe two. Then I met Hypatos.

 

Though “met” was a generous term for our one-sided acquaintance. The man still didn’t know my name, despite me being the one who had served him his nightly oblivion for six years. Back then, he was simply a handsome Spartan soldier who drifted in whenever duty brought him through the city, a perfect specimen of mortal masculinity with eyes that held stories too heavy for his years.

 

I knew he was a widower, everyone in Olympus knew. His wife, Pavlina, had died years earlier, her name still whispered with sympathy in the market squares. I couldn’t fault the amount he drank after her passing. If anything, it told me he had truly loved her, which wasn’t exactly common among Olympians who treated spouses like political arrangements. That devotion alone had caught my attention. The generous tips helped too, I admit.

 

Then came the year he returned with his right arm wrapped in bloodstained bandages, the fabric soaked through with that distinctive coppery scent that even ambrosia couldn’t quite wash away. A chimera attack, they said. The creature had taken everything below his elbow, leaving behind a jagged reminder of how quickly fortunes changed among the gods and their chosen warriors. After that, his drinking changed. From mourning to drowning, and I stayed to watch him sink, wondering if anyone else noticed how the light had gone out of his eyes completely.

 

At first, he had been handsome, disciplined, and respected, even while grieving Pavlina. But after losing his arm and being removed from active combat, something in him dimmed. I had watched him become quieter, angrier, and drunker with every passing year.

 

I knew his routines better than he realized: which nights he drank till closing, which moods meant silence, which meant muttering about House Ares under his breath. While serving him that night, I noticed immediately that he was more agitated than usual after starting his new position as steward to young Androkles.

 

Hypatos slammed his empty mug down, the wooden surface groaning in protest. “Another,” he grunted, not meeting my eyes. I refilled it, the golden ambrosia splashing over the rim. He didn’t even notice.

 

“Little fucking cock blocker,” he muttered into the foam, his voice low and venomous.

 

I paused, my hoof hovering over the floor.

 

A cock blocker?

 

The term was so crude, so mortal, it almost made me laugh. I had heard him curse Ares, Zeus, and the Fates themselves, but this was new. I wondered what poor soul had earned his particular wrath that night.

 

Was it Eugenius again? Or had the boy truly done something to anger him? I filed the phrase away, another piece of the puzzle that was Hypatos, and moved to wipe down the next table, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing.

 

As the tavern grew busier, the noise swelled with laughter and clanking mugs. Hypatos continued drinking while I quietly kept an eye on him from across the room.

 

A group of younger Olympian warriors, barely old enough to have grown beards, settled at a table near his. I saw the way their eyes flicked toward him, the smug grins they shared. It began with whispers, cruel jokes about the “one-armed Spartan” and his demotion to a glorified nursemaid.

 

My ears twitched, catching snippets of their mockery. I felt a familiar irritation prickle under my skin. He may have been a drunk, but he was my drunk to watch over.

 

Hypatos pretended not to hear them, his focus fixed on the amber liquid in his mug as if it held the secrets of the universe. But I noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his remaining hand tightened around the handle.

 

Then one of the younger soldiers, a brute with a freshly shaven jaw and the arrogance of a man who had never known true fear, decided to be clever.

 

“I wonder,” he said, his voice carrying across the room, “if a man who can no longer hold a shield should still even call himself Spartan.”

 

The laughter died. A heavy silence fell over the nearby tables. Before I could even think about intervening, Hypatos slowly turned his head. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to.

 

“A Spartan’s strength is in his mind, not his arm,” he said, his voice low and sharp as flint. “I’ve seen boys like you on training grounds, all spit and polish. I’ve also seen them piss themselves and run when a basilisk’s venom melted their armor. Tell me, boy, have you ever held your intestines in with one hand while you used the other to kill the beast that tried to eat them? Or do you only practice stabbing straw men?”

 

The young warrior’s face turned a blotchy red. His friends stared into their mugs. The entire tavern felt the sudden drop in temperature, the air thick with the unspoken threat.

 

In that moment, I realized the truth. Beneath the exhaustion and the liquor was still a terrifyingly dangerous man. It was the first time I truly understood why people once respected him. The one-armed drunk wasn’t just a tragedy; he was a survivor.

 

He’d been drunker than usual by the end of his shift, slow-footed and stumbling with his empty mug held aloft in my direction. The tavern had nearly closed, and those who remained were a collection of hunched ghosts nursing their drinks.

 

I watched him the whole shift, replaying the vicious tirade against that brash young soldier over in my head. I took a deep breath before walking up to him to talk without pouring drinks and taking orders.

 

As I filled him back up, I blurted it out. “You seemed especially pissed off tonight, Spartan.”

 

He hadn’t even glanced my way, just focused on watching the honey liquid hit the bottom of his mug. “New.”

 

For several seconds, I thought he would dismiss me like always. That he would nod and slump back into the seat like he had dozens of times before.

 

Instead, he let out this ragged groan. “Pissed off is putting it lightly. I’m babysitting some bratty little boy heir who thinks he has decisions to make regarding ‘duty’ that can’t be made over which tunic to wear.”

 

I smiled softly. “Must be nice politics in Olympus.”

 

He finally looked up at me, and I could see red highlights in his eyes. “It’s a special brand of torture they reserve for heroes like me. They take a war-hardened veteran who used to command thousands and led armies against chimeras...and now he’s grooming a child not to track mud through the front hall.”

 

“I’m sure children are far less dangerous than chimeras,” I said, leaning against the bar. “Less likely to bite you.”

 

He froze. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Then, he laughed.

 

It was low and rusty and sounded like it tore his insides apart to produce such a horrible noise. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was beautiful. The first time I had made Hypatos laugh.

 

I’ll never forget that laugh. It gave me hope on that long night of watching him drown his sorrows. It warmed me in a way I hadn’t known a sound could.

 

He shook his head and took a long swig from his mug. Set it down with a thud next to me and studied me. I swear I saw him for the first time that night.

 

He looked at me, and it was like he truly saw me. Past the barmaid, he came to for drinks when he was drunk and ignored the rest of the time. “You’ve been serving me a good while, haven’t you?”

 

“Six years.”

 

He slowly nodded, eyes drifting. “What’s your name?”

 

“Saea.”

 

He repeated my name, as if tasting it. As if hesitantly pronouncing the letters in his head. Standing up from his seat and shoving a handful of coins down on the bar. More than he owed. “Well, Saea. Thanks for the ambrosia. And the perspective.”

 

And with that, he turned around and left me alone at the bar, musing over the new sound of my name on his lips.

 

After Hypatos had left, the tavern felt cavernous and cold. I moved through my closing duties mechanically, wiping down sticky tables and stacking chairs while my owner, a grizzled old centaur named Boreas, counted the night’s earnings. I kept replaying the interaction in my mind, the rough sound of his laugh, the way my name had sounded when he said it.

 

It had been a foolish thing to fixate on, and I knew it. One conversation didn’t mean anything, especially when Hypatos was clearly still hopelessly in love with Lady Arete. I had seen the way his eyes followed her across a room, even when he thought no one was looking. That was a love carved from stone, not the fleeting fancy of a drunk satyr.

 

Still, hearing my name on his lips felt dangerous in a way I couldn’t quite explain. It was as if he had reached across the six years of silence between us and touched something vital, something I hadn’t even realized was exposed.

 

Boreas grunted, breaking my reverie. “Stop mooning over the one-armed wonder and help me with this barrel.”

 

I shook my head and helped him wrestle the heavy keg of ambrosia into its stand, the physical labor a welcome distraction.

 

Later that night, in my small room above the tavern, I unrolled the fresh papyrus my parents had sent with the last supply caravan. Their familiar, flowing script filled the page with the same plea they had sent for years:

 

       Come home, little leaf. The forests miss your laughter. The wanderlust is in your blood; this city of stone and gods will only poison it. We are preparing to journey to the southern Isles for the winter festival. Come with us.

 

I dipped my stylus in the ink, preparing my usual response.

 

       I am well. The work is steady. I will join you next season, perhaps.

 

But the words felt hollow, like a script I had recited too many times. I hesitated, the stylus hovering over the papyrus. For the first time, I realized I was no longer staying in Olympus out of curiosity or convenience. I stayed because somewhere along the way, Hypatos had become home to me without him ever realizing it.

 

It was a ridiculous thought, I knew. A satyr’s home was the open road, the whisper of the wind through the trees, the thrill of the chase. But my heart didn’t feel like it belonged to the wild anymore. It felt tethered to this tavern, to this city, to a broken man who didn’t even know my name.

 

Or hadn’t, until that night.

 

The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. I had spent six years watching him, a silent observer to his grief and anger. But that night, for a brief moment, he had seen me back.

 

I set the stylus down, the ink drying unused. I couldn’t write to my parents yet. I couldn’t lie and say I would be joining them soon, because I didn’t think I would. And I couldn’t tell them the truth that I had fallen for a human, a widower, a drunk who loved a goddess. They wouldn’t understand. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure I understood it myself.

 

I rolled up the papyrus and tucked it away, knowing I would eventually have to send some message. But for now, I allowed myself this small, fragile hope. I closed my eyes and replayed the sound of my name on his lips, a secret I could hold close in the long night ahead.

 

The wanderlust may have been in my blood, but for now, my heart was there, in a city of stone, waiting for a one-armed Spartan to look my way again.