This is for Katie, as a graduation present.
How sour sweet music is
When time is broke and no proportion kept!
– William Shakespeare, Richard II
oOo
The nameless man takes his coffee black; Miles, with a spiral of cream. Yet beside pot and creamer on the tin tray sit a box of sugar cubes and a jar of honey. The man frowns, nodding at them, and Miles blinks. "Ah," he admits. "Habit."
The strain of their long task reveals itself only in such slips. For the nameless man, the revival of Ishbal is an atonement; for Miles, it is a taste of exile. Even out of uniform, his accent betrays him, as alien in his ancestral homeland as his complexion in Amestris. Neither of them remarks the irony. "The honey, too?" the man asks.
"My grandfather sweetened his coffee with nothing else." Miles stirs his own, then sets the spoon aside. "Is that common?"
The man shrugs. "Old-fashioned."
"Sugar had no savor for him – no more than sand, he'd say. And then he'd sing, when my grandmother couldn't hear. 'Her mouth has robbed the bees and left bare the hives.'" The words are Ishbalan; the tune wavers, a boy's memory of an old man's reedy croon. "'Sweeter her lips than honey, than honey from the comb ... '"
A warrior-priest should disdain such stuff, but he joins in. "'Come, come and drink with me – '" (his father sings to his blushing mother). "'Sweeten my cup with your lips – '" His throat closes, choking him briefly silent. "I don't ... remember any more."
Miles sips his coffee. "Someone will."
The nameless man bows his head. It is all he hopes for.