What if Mel approached Deso and plopped Red's head in front of her?
"Got somethin' fer ye," Mel rumbles, and Desolae turns on her barstool a to raise a brow at him. He looks a little rumpled, a sack in one hand that's stained dark and wet at the bottom.
She sets her glass down with a muted sound on the bartop and an amused look. "You bringing me fresh body parts now, like a cat?"
It's a joke, but the Forsaken plonks the bag down on the counter - ignoring the bartender's indignant protests - and lets it fall open.
Desolae closes her eyes, feels like she just took a hit to the chest. She's dizzy. Nauseous. Helplessness clogs her lungs, worse than anything Red ever managed on his own. "Why?" It hurts to get the word out and hear that she sounds just as weak as she feels.
"He was killin' ye, bit by bit, an' ye were gonna let 'im." His tone-faced expression is audible.
"You don't understand," Desolae whispers desperately, but what claws at her stomach is that, more accurately, he doesn't care to understand. Her knuckles are white from her grip on the edge of the counter. "You knew I. That I. It's not that simple," she gasps. The familiar pins and needles sensation is creeping up her limbs. She gasps again for air but it's like there isn't any. Her vision's spotted with black and white when she tries to blink her eyes open and it's only Mel's gentle grip that saves her from tipping off her seat.
He says something else, maybe to her, but it's incomprehensible under the ringing in her ears. Somehow Desolae's whole life is sliding sideways, slipping through her fingers, vows and obligations and closure gone, stolen from her, and she has never been mocked the way Mel catches her so carefully and tells her that it'll be okay.
