Sunlight had finally begun to filter through the curtains, bright lances across the floor and empty bed, drifting with the rising sun across the small room to fall over a cluttered desk, piled with papers, a broken quill, a long-since burnt out candle, and a sleeping boy.

Luckily, Nauleth had not fallen asleep on his finely crafted, painstakingly written final copy of his proposal letter to Lord Margol and Lady Carmell Bruthgrave. Whatever piece of parchment he had comfortably settled over for the night was only a half-finished draft. His desk was, literally, covered in drafts in various states of completeness, each discarded for different reasons. This one had too many ink splatters, that one had a terrible word choice, and a few just were not the best shade of paper. The dark-eyed boy had been up into the wee hours of the almost-morning making sure every line was exactly how it should be, how he wanted it, and how it could make the most of what few words he had to say in the first place.

Once satisfied with his words, he'd made sure to re-write the letter until he was satisfied with his handwriting. That was, perhaps, the real challenge. Naul's handwriting often left much to be desired, given as he was to something mostly resembling chicken scratch. Still, with some effort, he'd managed to clean up his script and create something presentable.

Then, he'd promptly crashed, unable to even make it to the bed once he'd sealed the envelope and snuffed the candle.

Stirring under the touch of sunlight, the dark-eyed boy sat up with a groan, rubbing his face, quill still between the fingers of his left hand. Sleeping on a desk was not the most comfortable position and Naul was confident he'd be feeling the results of his choice for the rest of his day.

Resisting the now-reflex urge to open the envelope and re-read the letter, Nauleth struggled to wake up and shove his chair away from his desk, envelope in hand, feet on the stack of papers on the edge. He stared at the sealed, folded paper for quite some time as if weighing the future consequences of his decisions.

Was he just being the impulsive, selfish boy he'd always been?

Was this just another way of getting what he wanted?

Surely not.

Had he been asked months ago if he'd ever consider marrying anyone, let alone Athrym Bruthgrave, Naul was pretty sure he would have laughed.

Ridiculous. Foolish. Possibly bordering on the masochistic.

"Sweet Alioe, I'm an idiot." Grunted the boy hoarsely with a laugh, standing from his desk and fumbling to recover some semblance of a normal appearance after a few hours of sleep.

But totally clocking worth it.

After a few fastidious moments, signed and sealed letter tucked almost protectively into the inside pocket of his jacket, Nauleth was at the door. He hovered, briefly, holding onto the handle, forehead leaning against the frame, and sighed.

This had better not be another mistake. I've wasted enough clocking time already.

Without another word, he was out the door and into the hall, walking with a purpose and already anticipating the various responses he could be expecting once his letter arrived at its destination.