"Who do you love?"
"C-Come again?"
The deity aims their bow at me, but they smile as if they're one of my oldest friends. Their hair is yellow like the dried grass I use to weave baskets. A pretty color for tools, foreign on another person. Their eyes and skin are odd too, something like rubies inlaid into alabaster skin. I dearly wish I was looking at a work of art — and in a sense, they are. On any other day I'd concur that they're undeniably beautiful. But in this moment, standing in this kitchen of mine that they invaded (in broad daylight!), I am horrified. I remember the stories my grandmother would tell me, about what life was like before the enMahyeta came. Things were simpler, then. Conflict escalated no further than heated arguments and occasional duels between humans with normal flesh and blood.
They repeat, "Who do you love?" in the same joyful tone. "I know you have an answer. I can feel it."
"My husband," I begin, hesitantly. I avoid giving names. If I'm not careful then they'll target my loved ones next. "My daughter."
"Beautiful answer! Now, who do you worship?"
"His Divine Majesty, the God-King Basara." The words tumble out of my mouth. Any other answer would mean instant death. After all, I've been trapped by one of the God-King's most loyal soldiers.
"Correct!" The soldier lowers their bow. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, but then they approach me and lay a warm hand on my shoulder. With just a modicum of effort they push me down, down, down onto my knees. My shoulder erupts in pain, but I grit my teeth to avoid seeming insolent. "To be clear, we're not done yet. I just got tired of pointing my bow at you."
They tilt my chin up with a deceptively gentle hand. "I've asked many, many people those two questions by now, and I noticed something interesting. No matter what the answer to the first question is, most people do not say that they love our Divine Majesty. A third question: Do you know why that's a problem?"
I resent how they're privileged enough to avoid being punished for not saying His full title. "I do not," I admit.
The light in their red eyes goes dark. I was scared before; now it's as if I'm living a nightmare. "There shouldn't be a difference between love and worship. Our Divine Majesty is the one who turned this backwater settlement into a real city-state. It is His might that protects us, and His will that guides us. My last question: Why don't you love such majestic power?"
"I do love Him," I breathe, "and I pray for his protection and guidance every day."
"Yes, you do love Him," they surmise, ruby gaze sharp enough to cut me. "Your heart is heavy with the sort of love that one extends to an annoying friend that they wish to cut off. It's forced. Beholden. Fake. And that, my friend, won't do."
They're about to kill me, aren't they? I imagine an arcane arrow piercing my heart and spilling blood onto the ground. I hope that my family, my true loved ones, managed to escape this hell. If the ocean permits it, they'll find a boat and sail far, far away.
"My love for our Divine Majesty is real," they continue. Their smile turns rancid, and their bone-white teeth seem to portend my coming demise. "Every action I take is in His name, and I want nothing but the best for Him. He decreed that anyone who feels differently is to be killed. But..."
The air is deathly silent for a moment, until I realize they want me to speak. "B-But?"
"But, you know who I am. Ergasti, the deity of love. I've been killing quite a lot recently, and I know our Divine Majesty isn't watching my every move. So, I would like to finish this my way."
My heart is pounding up a storm in my chest. Ergasti's grip on my chin tightens, and I can feel the all-too-familiar tingle of the heka, the enMahyeta's magic, radiating from their fingers. It trickles down my neck, seeps through my ribs, and wraps itself around my heart. I find that, on a primal level, I suddenly understand what it's like to feel love and fear at the same time.
"I'm going to show you what it means to truly love your god."