Lol. Listening to Rent while writing is not productive at all. I keep stopping to sing along. I need to listen to something else... :P
Just so you guys know, I don't plan on updating this story as quickly as I did Beauty's Beast. Life's fast, and I need to work hard to keep up. However, I will strive to keep chapters posted consistently and mostly swift; just not every other day.
All right, here's the next chapter of Batalla Dos Corazons:
That same day, the sun beat down mercilessly on the soldiers' heads as they set up fresh camp on the shores of the Elven kingdom. Pulled away from their families and forced to fight in a land strange to them, the Undergrounders were far from happy with their situation. The first few years, they were excited about the prospect of war and glory. But time dragged on, and all they wanted to do was return home. The only thing keeping them there, was the courage and fortitude of their leaders. Well, one leader in particular. One Being above all inspired them to carry on for a war that was not their own.
Jareth, King of the Goblins and High Heir. Sent by his father, High King Lysander, King Jareth had proved himself to be more than a good soldier and an excellent war strategist. He pulled his weight like every other man, fought like a tiger on the battlefield and didn't put on airs like the rest of the kings, princes and lords (at least, not in wartime). The soldiers, mortal, Fae and goblin alike looked up to him as their hero. He would go down in history, name forever written in the sands of time, his name drawing a breath of praise at its mention.
But now was not a time to be praised. At that particular moment, Jareth and a group of about eleven men were struggling to pull up a tent. It should have been easy, but the wind was against them and the tarp flapped in the strong breeze. Muscles strained, brows dripped and mouths grunted as the stakes were driven deep into the red sand. Finally set, the group turned to the next tent to erect. And so the afternoon dragged on until the sun kissed the ocean waves and the Goblin King dropped his hammer after driving in the last stake of the tent.
"Enough," he rasped, voice hoarse from lack of water, "Get some rest." The men smiled gratefully, and as each left, they clapped Jareth warmly on the shoulder. With a sigh, the king retired to his own tent, looking forward to washing the sweat and grime from his sore limbs. As he entered his temporary home, he sensed another person already in the tent.
"Greetings Odysseus," he smiled. The man pushed himself off the tent's main support pole and bowed. "And to you, Goblin King." he replied, eyes twinkling.
Jareth turned from his cousin and pulled his soaked shirt off. Getting rid of that filthy article was heavenly! Walking over to his washbasin and splashing his shoulders, Jareth let out a small groan as his muscles ached in protest.
"Why do you insist on working with them?" Odysseus inquired, noticing Jareth's discomfort, "Surely there are others who could do it just as well?" Jareth smirked and flung droplets of water at him in response.
"How can one be expected to lead when he doesn't know what his followers experience?" Jareth asked in return, "The men follow the one who is their equal." He scooped up water in his hands and doused his face, this time his groan one of pleasure.
"But they also follow the one with power." Odysseus pressed. With a grin, Jareth ran a towel over his face and wild hair.
"That is why the men prefer me over you." he countered, whacking his cousin with the towel. Odysseus flinched and chuckled.
"Touche." he replied, "But I did not come here to discuss leadership tactics with you. King Menelaus has organized an meeting with the kings."
"Now?" Jareth pouted. Odysseus nodded, and he rolled his eyes. "I'll be there shortly." So much for a night of rest, he thought, snatching a clean shirt from his trunk. Now he had to spend the evening with bickering rulers. After pulling his fresh (and clean smelling) shirt over his head, Jareth exited the comfort of his tent and pushed his way though the many men trying to get their dinner. It didn't make sense that Menelaus had his tent on the very opposite side of the camp!
Finally pushing the king's tent flap aside, Jareth practically stumbled into Menelaus's tent; the crowd for dinner was becoming thicker and it was nearly impossible to walk.
"King Jareth," a voice greeted, once Jareth got his bearings, "So good of you to join us." Straightening up, Jareth nodded.
"Greetings King Menelaus," he replied, "I trust this is important?" Menelaus's smile tightened and Jareth had to hold back a smirk. It was no secret that Jareth and Menelaus did not like each other. However, as High Heir, Jareth was required respect from every other being in the camp. No one outranked him, and Menelaus chafed at that. It infuriated him that a Fae so many centuries his junior was his overseer.
Jareth was young for a Fae king. At only one hundred and fifty years old, he was hundreds of years younger than most of the other Fae at the camp. The only one close to his age was Odysseus, who was three hundred. However, as High Heir, King Lysander had appointed him leader in his stead. Second to him was Menelaus (because he started the war in the first place) who thoroughly disliked taking orders from whom he still considered a child. But, he owed Jareth respect, and begrudgingly gave him what was due.
"Indeed it is your majesty," Menelaus replied in a tone almost too sweet, "Otherwise I would not called a meeting so soon after receiving fresh troops." Jareth raised an eyebrow and strode further inside the massive tent.
"Battle tactics?" he asked.
"Precisely."
Soon Jareth found himself in a circle around a table. On the table was a map, marked with many lines and dots depicting plans for battle. Jareth had added lines of his own as well, modifying the plans in order to maximize their resources, as did several of the other kings. The plan was to storm the Elvish capitol in a month's time, and hold a siege in hopes that King Priam would surrender quickly. Not the path Jareth would have initially chosen, but it would have to do.
"All right then," Menelaus was saying, "Get a good night's rest and we will begin preparations in the morrow." The rulers murmured their farewells and filed out of the tent, the crowd of hungry soldiers long since scattered. Jareth was more than grateful to retire; he knew a full day of work awaited him, including manual labor and more strategizing.
Collapsing on his makeshift bed, it seemed he had only just closed his eyes when the sun was seeping through his tent flap and burning his eyelids. Nights seemed to pass faster in the Aboveground, but Jareth attributed it to the fact that he was laboring from sun up to sun down. Still, he didn't appreciate the glorious sunrise, his head ached from exhaustion too much to actually enjoy the light.
His muscles groaned in protest as he sat up and in that moment, he almost used his authority to allow him a few more hours of sleep. Honor however, kept him from doing such, and instead he reached for his boots. This was going to be a bad day; he could tell.
Ten minutes later, he was seated next to Odysseus, trying to ingest some form of oatmeal. At least, he thought it was oatmeal. Odysseus had since finished his bowl and now sat with his body turned towards his cousin, avidly describing his plan to sent scouts into the Elven city and scope out its resources. Jareth was only half-heartedly listening though, his mind clouded over with his own thoughts of all that he and his troops needed to do that day.
He was dragged from his musings by his cousin smacking the arm that supported his chin. Suddenly, the oatmeal-mush was rushing towards Jareth's face, and he found himself with a massive face and mouthful of the stuff. Indignantly, he used both hands to fling the mush from his eyes and turned to glare at Odysseus who was struggling to keep a straight countenance.
"Yes?" Jareth ground out, scooping a handful of breakfast from his cheek. His expression caused Odysseus to choke on his laughter and breathe loudly through his nose into his fist. Jareth's look became even darker, and he silently picked up his bowl and emptied its contents on his cousin's head.
"Good morning to you too." he bade, standing up and using his sleeve to clean the rest of the oatmeal from his face. Striding away, Jareth allowed himself a smirk in memory of his cousin's shocked face. Had he wasted a full meal? Yes. Had it been worth it? Absolutely. This was wartime and the chance to smile or laugh was indeed precious. However, his mood was still dark and if he hadn't been so grumpy he would have pitied those he was working with that day.
It was too late into the morning to change his shirt, and Jareth knew it would just get filthy anyway, so he went straight to the training field. His job that morning was to work with the mortal magicians; the ones who's knowledge of magic was rudimentary at best. They needed all the help they could get before any battles as their skills were vital to the protection of many of the generals.
The group of two dozen men- no, boys- all looked up from their practices and drills upon hearing Jareth's footfalls. With a smirk that could almost be called predatory, Jareth vaulted the fence and strode into the middle of the circle. "Lets begin." he announced to no one in particular and quickly launched a crystal at one of the older magicians.
And so the training began. Spells and crystals were flung from every direction and to every direction and Jareth was pleased to find that the magicians were not as bad as he had anticipated. Still, they needed more training if they were ever going to battle among the soldiers and Jareth spent the morning teaching the boys new spells and how to reinforce the ones they already knew.
"Pronunciation is key," he coached one of the magicians who could only have been about fourteen, "If you don't say the spell properly, you risk everyone under your protection." The boy nodded and focused harder, forcing himself to concentrate as his lips formed the right words. His fourth attempt proved successful and he triumphantly defeated the opponent he was dueling.
It was noon when another magician, one who was old and skilled in the art, came to take over for Jareth. The goal of magician's training was to practice continuously the entire day, in order to build up endurance, so the more experienced teachers traded throughout the day in order to preserve their energy.
After a quick lunch, Jareth joined Glatteis, the Ice King's son in inspecting weapons inventory. Glatteis seemed very serious while counting arrows, and Jareth wondered why he was so silent.
"Glatteis," he spoke up, but the prince shushed him.
"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, ninety-ten..." he mumbled. Jareth snorted.
"That would be a hundred," he corrected, "Unless you know a new method of counting I am unaware of." Glatteis paused only to fix a dark expression on the Goblin King before continuing.
"One-hundred and two, one-hundred and three..." he whispered. Rolling his eyes, Jareth clapped his hand on the prince's shoulder. "You seem to have things under control," he said, "I'll leave you to it." Waving his hand in dismissal, Glatteis continued to count and Jareth slipped away. There was always something else he could do, and anything would be more productive than this.
He was almost to the end of the rows of tents when an arm shot out and pulled him into the last tent on the row. A hand clapped itself over his mouth and Jareth struggled to break free of the grip that held him in place.
"Be still!" Jareth froze, recognizing Odysseus's voice and he relaxed. His cousin released him and turned him around.
"Remember what I was talking about at breakfast?" he asked. Jareth nodded and Odysseus pulled him closer to whisper in his ear. "Well I have a plan, and I need your help."