Every thunderclap you have ever flinched at was, to the Greeks, a god clearing his throat.
Zeus took the sky as his portion when the brothers divided the world, and with it the thunderbolt forged by the Cyclopes, the one weapon that frightened even the other gods. King of Olympus, father of gods and men, keeper of oaths and the sacred law of the guest, he enforced all of it from behind a wall of storm. Break a vow or wrong a stranger at your door, and the sky remembered.
The Greeks never pretended he was gentle. They respected him the way you respect weather: something vast and old that does not need your approval to flatten you.
Crowned here in a ring of his own lightning. Printed heavy on garment dyed cotton, for the ones who would rather command the room than ask to enter it.
