Alright, here's some more rejected material. This time, it's from the very last chapter. I rejected the first section because it was too full of angst (gasp!) to open, and too much "Veela = sexual stuff" which is not the directly I want to go. I prefer to make that part of their being, rather than making them two-dimensional beings.
Also, I needed to broaden the scope of the scene and start making things happen faster and this scene just didn't do it.
"What's the use?" Dishes crashed against hardwood floors, splattering French Chocolate Mousse on walls, windows, and anything else along its flight path. Apolline sank into a chair among Christmas decorations and glittering lights that bespoke lies of festive cheer.
All lies.
"Are you all right?" Jacque called up from their bedroom.
How could she be? Fleur and Gabrielle were in England searching for her adopted son in the middle of a damned war, one that revolved around him; and she was here . . . setting a damned Christmas table!
Thunk!
"Ouch!" —make that setting a hard, oak table against which, it's foolish to bang a fist.
"Apolline?" Jacque came upstairs, and after a quick glance at her mess, he took her in his arms. "It's not the same without our girls, is it?"
She sniffled. "Why did we agree to host Christmas dinner this year, again?"
"Because we're not letting circumstances dictate our happiness, or something like that. Here, let me see that." He brought her already bruising hand up to his lips and kissed it, then waved his wand over it. "Taking your frustrations out on my table won't help, either, nor will wasting good mousse."
She leaned against his chest, taking some strength from him. "What idiot said that."
"What? Wasting good mousse?"
Apolline huffed at his bad attempt at levity. "No; not letting circumstances dictate happiness."
A chuckle rumbled through his chest, tickling her ear lying against it. "My beautiful, intelligent, Veela wife."
"Huh." She sat up and faced him. "Maybe you should introduce us."
"Two Veela together? It's every wizard's dream."
She slapped his shoulder with her good hand. "You wish."
"Not really, you're more than enough for me, in the bedroom and out."
"Laying it on thick, aren't we?"
"Is it working?"
Apolline leaned in and kissed him, then settled against his chest again. "Anything new at work?"
"About the war? You know I can't share—" A finger in his ribs made him jump.
"There's plenty of times you've told me."
"Yeah, but . . ." He shook his head. "They weren't covered under WWaSA."
"The Act passed during Grindelwald's war?"
"Wizarding Wartime Secrecy Act. Yes"
She felt her eyes widen. "If WWaSA's invoked . . ."
But he didn't—couldn't respond. Sweet Circe! "Is Britain okay with it?"
"I don't know; Great Britain's an island and I've never bothered asking a landmass its opinion."
That earned another slap on the shoulder. "You know what I mean!"
"No, I don't."
That deserved still another, but she hesitated, something in his undertone catching her attention. What was he pushing toward . . . "If a landmass had an opinion, what would it be, facetiously, of course."
"Well, first, it's the British Islands, plural. I think the main land mass might ask for help with a smaller island, which is weathering a bad storm."
Apolline dropped her hypothetical ruse. "My God! Did they ask Vulgaire France or magical France? And who asked, the Prime Minister? The Ambassador?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
A Goblin's vault worth of questions checked against crimped limps. Damn it! She needed information to drive Veela the right way.
In these moments, everything about her husband's job irritated her. Last summer, he could spill anything, earning nothing more than a slap on his wrist; but since WWaSA's been invoked, divulging those same secrets could end with a Dementor's kiss.
At least she knew WWaSA meant Magical France was considering going to war—not pondering it, not discussing it like worthless Veela, but making hard, fast decisions such as strategy, assembly points, and logistics. That much she read in accounts of Magical France's war fifty years before; they'd held out against that bastard much longer than Vulgaire France did his Muggle counterpart.
She thought for a moment. "Are you still able to communicate with Anastasie?"
"A Flock Leader is the Zekanot's official ambassador, and France has an exceptional relationship with Veela."
He sat, easing her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her. "I miss them, too,
This section was picking up on Azzurra's suffering. It went no where, and I lacked the ability to describe what she went through without getting tediously long and again, angsty, as if this story isn't filled enough with it. Instead, I cut all of this out and we'll pick up her storyline later.
Day.
Night.
Day.
Night.
Day.
Night . . .
. . . Day.
A week. Two. Three weeks.
"Any change?" someone behind her asked.
"Worse." Jaleena touched Azzurra's face. "I have to supplement Zekānōt magic with Stunners now. When she wakes . . ."
"I imagine. Go, rest, I'll watch until evening."
Jaleena shook her head. "No, I—"
"Will stop punishing yourself because your intended lives," Petra interrupted. "You're not the only Veela who senses emotion, and you bear no responsibility for Markus's death."
She bowed her head. "I know, so why am I feeling guilty?"
Petra pulled a chair next to her and sat. "She hurts, and you don't, because you still have what has been stolen from her, so you desire to make her whole, again."
Soft sunlight and faint laughter of Veela children drift through open windows.
The rest of this chapter is pretty much as is, except for minor changes. Really, what we have here is the first attempt at this chapter. Although I ended up not using it, it was still really helpful to get it out.
