"Yes, first you must perform some minor chores. A few little tasks, perhaps. Yes, that's it! A dozen or so little tasks. Piddling things, actually. Hmmm, let me give some thought to this."
The skies were beginning to lighten. The voice of Zeus had softened indeed, as had his mood. The clouds were rapidly dissipating. Blue patches of sky emerged. The dark clouds dissipated, and small white clouds drifted gently above.
"Go home! Prepare yourself! And when I call be quick to begin your sojourn. - Eh, yes, I think minor little chores."
It almost sounds like Zeus is humming happily to himself.
The wind whipped the leaves along the pathway, the clouds tore asunder. And, even as he glanced back to earth, Athena, too, had departed.
Nothing remained to reflect the tragedy that might have been. Nothing remained to reflect the beauty and wonder of Athena. Yet . . . .
On the ground, fluttering in the now gentle breeze, a single memento - a pure white feather. He picked it up gently, reverently.
What to do?
What to do? "This is madness. I am dreaming. Death and imps!
Goddesses and Gods. What has happened today? Can it be real!" He
looked around at the forest, at the sky. All was calm, normal.
Except for one thing.
In his hand he held a white feather.