Two - Landon
Landon hated being old.
His joints hurt.
His legs shook.
As he climbed down the stairs to the prison cells, his lungs heaved.
He couldn’t see his appearance.
Thank the gods.
But his fingers, were bad enough.
He even had that old man stench of ale and earwax.
He was not actually this age.
A witch had granted him a spell.
As a demigod. Landon was able to ask such favors.
Landon glanced around the corridor.
The cell was still a ways ahead.
“I am a fool” He leaned against the stone wall. The witch’s spell was too good, if he were to fight. He’d die.
He was already so drained.
He tried to steady his breathing.
The island the prison was on, was beautiful to say the least. Chalky white slopes plunged into the sea. The island was covered in white sand. Landon sighted few fields with wheat and vegetables surrounding the prison.
The breeze had smelled of salt.
It would have been easy for Landon to control the ocean and crush the walls and knock out the prison guards. But, noooo.
For the sake of stealth, as he had only one prisoner to save. He had to struggle and heave as an old man with bad knees and horrible earwax smell.
He counted the cells as he went by, the map of the prison fresh in his mind.
His prisoner should be right around the corner, two doors down.
Landon had planned this mission and he refused to have any casualties.
He had killed once by accident, a memory he held close.
It was how he came to know he was a son of Poseidon. He’d been a child, barely eight years old.
A man who was some sort of distant cousin had visited his uncles court.
He hadn’t liked him - his heavy perfume, the way he drank way more than he could handle. When he’d started to pay Landon some attention, he had grown wary.
“Such a skrawny little kid,” he’d said. “What is your lineage, young child? Storytelling? Mind reading? I know. You’re a baker.”
Landon hadn’t known what his gift was or who his parents were. Some demigods took longer than others to discover their lineage.
But even if he had known, he wouldn’t have discussed it with this cousin.
He’d scowled at the man and turned away. But then he had grabbed Landon arm, and his hand had flown out and water smashed him in the face. So hard and so fast that the water pushed the bones of his nose into his brain. Ladies in the court had screamed; one had fainted. When they’d lifted him from the pool of blood on the floor, he was dead, the court had grown silent.
Frightened eyes - not only those of the ladies, but those of the soldiers and the king - all directed at him.
This one was not safe.
He was a son of the Great Three.
In time he learnt to control his gifts, his uncle, the king allowing him to practice with his guards. Eight to ten guards at a time. Landon learnt to trust his gift, to trust his body. He trained every day, until the day he was so fast and so focused, he could find a way to beat a man senseless with both his arms tied behind his back.
Turning when it was time to turn; stopping finally before an opening that contained his prize.
Landon opened the cell. With keys he stole from the unknowing prison guard, too trusting in an old face. King Murgon was unconscious. Probably from herbs to keep him docile. Arms wrapped around legs, and head tucked between knees. His hair was white and cut close to his head.
Landon could hear his breath.
He grabbed the kings arm, hoisting it over his shoulder. Old knees popping, back cracking under the weight of the king.
“I’ll get you out, old king” Landon whispered, “Guess, I can’t call you old at the moment, can I?” he laughed at his own joke.
He closed the cell behind them, hobbling further down the corridor to the only other exit, trying to be silent.
Landons heart hammered.
Finally, they reached the door leading to the cliffs. He had a boat waiting for them below.
He pushed against the rusty door.
Light flooded his eyes. The king groaning in his slumber.
Landon summoned the waves to collect himself and the king, and lowered them to the boat.
Once aboard, he looked at the king.
Still fast asleep.
Like a corpse.
Were it not for his chest moving as he breathed, Landon would have believed he was a corpse too.
Then he slapped the king.
“What the-” the king exclaimed, clutching his reddening cheek.
“Welcome to the land of the living, your majesty” Landon smirked at the king, “Have a nice nap?”
“Who are you?” the king asked him.
“That’s a fantastic question. My name is Landon. Son of Poseidon. Your savior. Your knight in thieving armour. And now, dear King, I have a question for you...” he said, eyes glinting mischievously.
“What can you do for me? ”