He'd gone and fallen asleep at his desk again.
A massive tome, spread-eagle before him upon the antique oaken writing desk he regarded so fondly as his "office" amidst the small room otherwise noted as a library, served as a makeshift pillow, its pages crisp and print ebon-black despite its obvious age. The dim light of an all-but-melted votive, wax positively swamping the thin glass that enclosed the wick, flickered in-and-out of faint existence across his lean figure, each heavy breath issued from thin, dry lips threatening to completely extinguish its glow.
But the lovingly burnt wick could only resist the inevitable for so long, and, when the candlelight finally blotted itself out, he startled. The darkness, it seemed, called him back to the realm of the living, eyes pulling weakly open as he lifted his head from the crook of one elbow rested loosely atop that ancient text.
He sighed.
Fumbling blindly for a moment, his fingers managed to close upon ovaloid frames, vision irreparably blurred until he pressed them up into their typical precarious balance atop a narrow nose. This was becoming all too common an occurrence, he mused to himself, a wry grin creasing his lips. What had he become just so engrossed with that he couldn't have possibly managed to tear himself away from, this time?
His vision snagged itself on the lines of text displayed before him, tiny Latin letterface which, unless carefully scrutinized, looked, in the near-nonexistent light, quite akin to an army of minuscule ants having invaded the papyrus-tinted pages, and a hyena's grin toothily split his lips – oh, that was right.
Gingerly exploring his desktop once again, he blindly located a package of matches and coerced a single stick out, touch alone guiding him to strike the match upon its parent box, fire bursting into life at his very fingertips with a gust of sulphur and a crackle of snapping wood...
...and yet, despite the matchstick itself crumbling feebly to the desk below, the tiny blaze remained, balanced atop his forefinger and thumb as if it really mightn't be there at all. His gaze remained fixated, rolling the flame about betwixt and between his fingertips with such a greedy, zealous sort of glint in his eye that it might call his standing as a "priest," as he were, into question.
The flame finally found its way, by his hand, to a candle – not the all-but-completely melted mess of wax that had served as his light source the night prior, of course, but rather, one that appeared of a plethora, now visible in a steadier light, adorning the front edge of his desktop. Resettling himself in the luxurious armchair he'd treated himself to upon first furnishing said library, he stretched his arms up behind his head cat-like, seconds later relinquishing his momentary leisure in favor of brushing clear the splinters of match left to litter his so-cherished literature. A contented sigh left him, force of habit causing him to push his glasses up a bit (despite that they only slid back down the bridge of his nose seconds later) as he chuckled quietly to himself, leaning forwards once again to rest his elbows on his desk.
He had some reading to catch up on, after all.