“You have been bruised.”
His intonation seemed far too tender as his fingers reached down to hold on to your wrist, his gaze warily inspecting the bluish hue forming on your skin. He makes it a point, at least for you, that he doesn’t seem pleased with how you have gotten hurt by his people.
Not leaving you any room to respond, he continues. “I am a kind God. The lands I rule have prospered for thousands of years — I helped them grow their crops so they will have food to harvest. Shaped the plains they step foot on so they can build their houses and have shelter. Listened and granted their yearning for miracles. And yet my kindness was repaid with malice.”
He stands up. For a moment it’s silent despite his looming dark figure and his eyes narrowing. You can only remain quiet.
People should know better than to test a God’s wrath.
“Your skin is painted with bruises.” He states. “Because you bear the title of my spouse. Because my people cannot accept that I took in a human lover — that I took you as my beloved. And for that, I will no longer be merciful.”