The Bay of Belfalas was never this quiet.
For the entirety of Aearien’s twenty-four years, the coast had been filled with the sounds of crashing waves, shrieking gulls, and the never-ending, rhythmic pounding of the surf against the cliffs. But today, the ocean had retreated.
It was a spring tide, pulled back farther than she had ever witnessed. The sea had drawn back almost like a lung taking a massive breath and holding it, exposing a stretch of the slick and dangerous sea floor that hadn't seen the sun in centuries. The air was scented with the sharp, unmistakable smell of kelp, fish, and old brine.
Aearien was swift. Her sturdy leather boots slipping as she tried to find a holding on the jagged coral. She pulled her green cloak tight to shield her from the sharp, biting wind of the coast. And her eyes were locked on to the stone structure jutting out of the mud several hundred feet from the heights of the cliffs.
It looked to be a watchtower. Or at least, what used to be one.
It was built of black, rough stone that the ocean must have spent centuries trying to wear down. It was of Numenorean make, though one could hardly tell with spire as worn down as it was. The ancient tower was covered in seaweed, the green plant hanging from the archways, and swinging in the ocean breeze. Barnacles were everywhere. One slip of a hand, and one would find themselves cut open from their sharp exteriors.
The tower was ancient, smelling of the ocean, and the most exciting thing that had happened to Aearien all day.
She pauses at the base of the tower, resting a cold, gloved hand on the wet stone. The stonework was flawless, even centuries upon centuries later. A strange, heavy tug in her chest pulls her out of her awe. Suddenly, she seemed aware of the blood in her own veins. Her ancestors had built this. Someone in her own bloodline might have stood in this exact spot, looking out at the very same sea.
But then, an angry, distant rumble broke her focus. On the horizon, the first edges of the ocean was appearing. The tide was turning, and when it came back, she would want to be long gone.
Aearien's eyes flit between the rising tide and the cliffs behind her. But the tower caught her attention once more. She should turn back, she tells herself. Her commanding officers would tell her to turn back.
But when had she ever listened to sense?
Without a single thought more on her lack of self preservation, she steps out of the light, and into the dripping, dark maw of the ruin.
The inside was even more silent than the bay of Belfalas itself. The silence was absolute, only broken by the constant drip, drip, drip of seawater falling from the high ceiling. And it was cold. Oh so cold. But never one to shy away from an uncomfortable situation, especially not when it came to an adventure, she pulls a piece of flint and a wax sealed torch from her pack. She strikes a spark and watches as the orange flame's shadows begin to dance against the walls.
And there, half buried in mud and sea glass at the center of the room, something caught the light. It wasn't coral, it wasn't stone. It was the sharp, unrusted gleam of ancient, Second Age steel.
Aearien drops to one knee immediately, ignoring the mud and icy water seeping through her trousers. She sets the torch into an old rusted sconce on the wall that looks like it might disintegrate with just a breath. And then, she begins to dig. She scrapes away centuries of hard mud and salt..
With her efforts, she reveals not a blade, but the smooth, curved arch of a single steel vambrace.
She pulls it free with a swift yank, sending wet sand across her cloak and boots. With wide eyes, she holds the carved steel up to the flickering torchlight, wiping away thick layers of grime with her thumb. It was beautiful, and breathtaking. Despite sitting at the bottom of the ocean since the Second Age, the Numenorean steel was unblemished, and had held fast. It shone with a cold, pale light.
And there, etched into the metal, was the crest of the Sea Kings, bordered by a pattern of crashing waves and very specific ancient heraldry. The heraldry of her own house and bloodline.
Aearien turns it over in her hands. She had no need for another sword. Theothar had recently forged her a magnificent set of blades. Though he would undoubtedly scoff at being called friend for doing so. But armor? A piece of unbreakable steel forged by her own ancestors? The ancient lords of the coast? That was a different story entirely.
With shaking fingers, she unbuckles the worn, water damaged bracer on her left arm and tosses it into the mud, already forgotten. Taking a breath, she slides the steel vambrace over her forearm. It snaps into place with a satisfying click. It fit. It locked around her arm as if it was made for her.
She holds her arm out, watching as the steel catches the light of the torch. She traces the beautifully crafted crest of the Sea Kings with a calloused fingertip, following the lines of the waves until she reaches her family's heraldry. It was almost mad to think that the blood flowing in her own veins was the exact same blood that had held this tower thousands of years ago. To the rest of Middle Earth, the mariners of the Second Age were a myth. Just a tragic tale of a sunken island. But to her, they were real. They lived in the heavy steel resting over her pulse.
Aearien gives the steel vambrace on last, quiet look. She didn't feel quite as solitary as she had when she walked in. Not with her heritage settling nicely against her arm.
She snatches her torch from the sconcce, turning her back on the ancient spire and the ghosts within. The sea would once again swallow up the tower and everything within, but the memories and her heritage she carries with her.
