-- There was a bitterness contained in this room that assaulted all his senses. To some, the higher levels of Bevelle Temple smelled like piety and joyful devotion; to Malakai, they smelled like a classroom. His fingers fidgeted with a matchbook in his pocket, but nothing else gave away his discomfort. The angry deep red of the walls seemed unusually oppressive, even compared to his memories of it. Five years ago, he’d left this Temple for what he thought would be the last time. Now here he was again, and part of him wanted to bump into one of his old teachers, to sneer at that horror at his presence, while another part recoiled at the idea.
Exhausting. All of this was exhausting. How long were they planning to leave him standing here? Of course, he didn’t blame her. Most likely, it’d been arranged this way, so that he was here as soon as Yuna was ready to see him. Yevon forbid the Lady Summoner waited for anything. To his mind, Yuna and the Temple were separate entities; and she was not responsible for their petty bureaucracy. It was his curiosity about her, more than the money or the status of this job, that made him take it. But, perhaps he’d be proved wrong. Perhaps she really was the picture of devout Yevonite perfection, despite her origins. Time would tell.
As if on cue, the door opened. He recalled as much propriety as he could manage and bowed, only remembering at the last forgiveable second to make it traditional, not to throw out the prayer-gesture he’d been deliberately discarding in recent years.
She was smaller up close. He caught himself before he said it out loud. He knew how it might sound. But his surprise was less at her stature itself, and more at how many expectations, hopes and wishes could be contained within such a tiny frame.
“Lady Yuna,” he intoned, looking at her with both suspicion and guarded interest. “It’s an honour.”
