Sweet Remains

 

“The heart carries what the world cannot hold." ~ Malric , Forgemaster

In Ironhive Antiquities, a honeycomb-shaped shop brimming with relics, curiosities, and fragments of forgotten magic, the air hums with secrets. Each Ironhive holds its own small mysteries—pieces of history polished and sold to those who dare to look too closely.   This particular shop rests at the Point of Veil, the nearest port to the Islands. Inside, aisles overflow with lost treasures: salt-licked relics, sea-cradled crystals, and scrolls that whisper when unrolled. The air is perfumed with the faint sweetness of rose and jasmine, undercut by the ghost of honey. Some swear the walls themselves hum, a low and steady buzzing if you linger long enough to listen.   You are always greeted by Queenie—or perhaps a Queenie, for every Ironhive seems to have one. She is a vision of ageless glamour: a black beehive crown with sweeping bangs, winged eyeliner sharp as a promise, and ruby-painted lips that always seem to know too much. Her dresses are always immaculate—black and gold stripes, a cinched waist, a perfect bow tied at the back. Queenie keeps a catalogue forever open, a list of names and items under active research, her pen moving as if it too remembers.   And always, near the counter, sits the candy bowl. It is made of blown glass, swirled in hues of ocean blue and moss green, its surface kissed with an aurora sheen that shifts like trapped light. It gleams with an almost-living warmth, the most inviting bowl you’ve ever seen.   It is filled to the brim with candies from every realm—glittering confections in strange shapes and impossible colors. A small sign beside it reads, Please, take one.   The bowl gleams as though lit from within, its mercurial glass shimmering like captured moonlight. Inside tumble fizzers, dragon drops, witch’s tears, and other tantalizing sweets no one can quite name. Its soft, welcoming glow beckons every passerby—each visitor helpless against its gentle lure.   Some hands take one. Others take many. The bowl never empties, never quite fills. Every piece taken is felt. The bowl knows.   It would surprise most to learn that such a small vessel could bear the weight of absence—the ache of what’s been taken. Yet day after day, it endures, as sugared treasures vanish into eager palms and careless pockets.   The bowl is only ever refilled when Queenie can summon the strength to call upon the Caretaker—a quiet figure who comes when she can, hands trembling, to fill it once more. Her presence is soft as candlelight, her breath steady but frail, as though every sweet she restores costs her something unseen.   It was a day like any other in the Point of Veil. The tiny chime of the door drew Queenie’s gaze as another group entered: curious travelers from the Islands, eyes wide as they poured over the relics and curiosities lining the walls. They carried the faint scent of salt, sea breeze, and just the ghost of rum.   Their gaze fell on the candy bowl.   “Candy!!” they squeaked, as if it had been centuries since their last taste. The journey from the Islands had indeed been long. Without hesitation, they reached in, hands darting freely. The bowl began to empty, faster than usual. Small hands—gnomes and Dalrich sea-dwarves alike—plunged in without a thought, the polite sign Please, take one tumbling unnoticed to the floor.   The bowl felt each piece leaving, its glow dimming as hands dove into it.   One hand, however, hesitated. A man stood quietly, staring at the little bowl. Something in his gaze carried recognition, a quiet tenderness. A single tear traced down his cheek, as if he could see its magic.   He was clad in leathers and a blacksmith’s apron, a heavy hammer strapped to his belt alongside well-worn tools. He had followed the travelers inside, silent. With deliberate care, he picked up the fallen sign and placed it back on the counter beside the bowl.   “She still gives so much,” he murmured, low and reverent.   The bowl shimmered faintly, glimmering as if acknowledging him.   “Too much… everyone takes,” it whispered—a hushed, fragile cry, barely audible yet heavy with the weight of all it had endured.   The man stood over it, fingers grazing the edges of the carefully blown glass. His touch was reverent, and the bowl glowed softly beneath his hand.   Queenie watched him for a moment before speaking. Her gilded eyes recognized power when she saw it, just as she recognized it in the many relics the Hive collected and kept safe. She appraised him carefully, tilting her head, sniffing the air, and letting her gaze linger. She knew him. Quietly, she turned the page of her catalogue, lingering on his profile: Malric, Forgemaster and demigod to Tulo. She read the script more than once. Perhaps he could fix this problem, she thought, glancing between him and the bowl.   “She’s in the back,” she murmured, her voice a hushed whisper.   “It hurts,” the bowl cried—a soft, plaintive whine that only he could hear.   “Grief always comes when one is taken from constantly,” Malric said, his eyes glowing an unnatural shade of blue. The air seemed to drop in temperature, and for a moment, time itself held its breath. Before the bowl, he saw her—the spirit of a little girl, a fragment of her soul.   “There you are,” he whispered, his voice like silk.   “Why do they take so greedily?” the little spirit asked.   “Why did you give so freely?” he replied.   “She made me like this… She put so much into her pieces. It’s always too much,” the little spirit murmured, sorrow lacing her words.   Carefully, he reached out to the spirit. “Come now, little one,” he said. She looked at him, noticing the fragments draped across his arms, his shoulders, even piled gently upon his head—tiny pieces, heads tilted downward in sorrow, soft, sad cries echoing from them.   The spirit moved closer. Queenie remained silent, knowing better than to interfere in the affairs of gods—or the children of gods.   Malric headed into the backroom, walking down an aisle lined with relics of power and objects most would have dreamed of only in whispers. He passed countless treasures without a glance—even a rare crystal bottle of Vellus Venti, a vessel of scent and dreams—following instead the subtle pull of magic and the scent of sorrow. The little fragments hummed softly as he drew closer, guiding him to her.   There she lay, in the center of the room, cradled among the treasures. Her soft form rested on silk sheets suffused with gentle, glowing magic. The blanket rose and fell with her quiet breaths. Lashes kissed her cheeks; she was beautiful, as she had always been. Stains of tears marked her pillow, and her hair spilled like ink across the silk.   The Daughter of the Frost Goddess lay here, hidden and asleep—the Veilkeeper. Malric had spent years searching for her, gathering her broken pieces, carrying the weight of her grief on his shoulders.   Slowly, her thick lashes fluttered open.   “You… found me,” she whispered.   “Eira, your pieces have helped me find you. You cannot grieve forever, Veilkeeper. I carry them all with me, and I will give them back to you,” his voice was gentle, steady.   “I don’t want them back. It will only hurt more,” she replied, tears glistening in her eyes as she rose.   “Like the pieces of candy you place in the bowl,” he said softly, his voice resonant, like the timbre of a violin string, “you can only give so much until you are no longer whole.”   She watched him, realizing the truth in his words. Those tiny fragments of herself—now gathered and resting on his arms and shoulders, their heads angled with pained expressions—reflected the exhaustion she had long carried.   “What were the words your mother, Eirlys, whispered on the longest night, in the cold of winter?” he asked, his eyes shimmering an otherworldly blue. The room seemed to glow warmly, as if lit by the fire of the forge itself.   “Grief is not just a single tear shed,” Eira whispered, her voice trembling, “it is a drop in an endless ocean, an echo of a heart still broken, a depth of wordless loss that no words can fully capture. Grief is the soft echo of music from piano keys—each note a heartbeat, each note a memory.”   As she spoke, tears fell, and all the pieces of her soul wept with her, draping themselves across his form like fragile, luminous shawls.   Carefully, he reached over and tilted her chin, guiding the fragments back one by one. His blue eyes held hers as tears streamed down. As the pieces returned, she clutched her chest.   “It’s so heavy,” she murmured.   “The heart carries what the world cannot hold,” he whispered, taking her delicate, frost-like hand in his warm, calloused palm. He led her out of the backroom. She moved like a snowdrop unfurling toward light, her ethereal beauty restored as she stood in Ironhive Antiquities.   Eira paused, looking at the candy bowl.   “What about the bowl?” she asked softly, almost fearful.   He leaned over and lifted it, eyes sparkling as warmth returned to the room. With the smallest taps of his hammer, the candy bowl shimmered and glowed.   “It shall never be empty again,” he said gently. “Grief is an ocean—one all may take from, or swim within.”   The bowl radiated fullness, and she felt whole once more.   Queenie, standing nearby, quietly replaced the little sign: Simply take as you please, but remember to take with care.   The door chimed as visitors came and went, the Ironhive returning to its usual rhythm—customers busy asking about fragments of an old bow or lost scrolls encased in glass. But Queenie remained still, watching through the window. Eira stood beside Malric, and for the first time in ages, she smiled. Queenie flipped a page in her catalogue, marking one mission finally complete—one item not for sale.