[The 'boy' blanches a little at the sight of a second face, not expecting the first man to have a companion, at least without introduction.]

Magic's work is seldom seen, only felt,
A supple brush of hands invisible.
The tales are evidence of mischief made,
Warnings left to those with sight, and not faith.

['He' shifts, reaching out to touch Isaac's brow, surrendering to the urge to feel the heat of healthy skin beneath 'his' fingertips.]

He is not ill, nor struck...nor faerie touched.
Still he sleeps...still I wait for him to rise.
He has much left to do, much left to learn
of love, and I have much I've left to teach.