The smile that breaks his face runs thin. He moves to tape Eleven's knee with a hand of wispy flesh and bone. "I'm afraid, my boy, the time for strength has long passed me by."

He retains, at least, the dignity to admit it.

"And I must choose, now, for the future." His touch withdraws, slipping back to sit in his lap, obediently. "You know, of course. The Doxe cannot choose an heir, but... the person he endorses has a considerable advantage. So I have the one card to play, and, wisely, this old man must play it."

He laughs, rather bitterly. "What a grandfather I must be, forced to ask a foreigner to lend me his eyes, as he sets them on my children's children. And still, I must. You work closely. What do you make of them?"