"They are all the same, just with different faces, Völva, and from different places. Mani is ours, but there are others, yes, but it is all the moon, it is all the night." Not many people can boast that they make Hati so conversational, and remarkably eloquent, for someone who often speaks in ancient and literary code. Hecate is a rarity. He looks from her to the sky, to the moon threatened not only by drifting cloud-cover but by the coming dawn, as well, the arrival of Sol and everything that his brother lives for.
He watches her; does she really understand? She is Spákona, and he knows that she sees things most do not. He is doubtful - more so as she reaches to touch his face - but he will not show this doubt. Doubt is never something he, or his brother, expresses outwardly. The talk of jumping off the bridge only to land in the sky appeals to him, and his eyebrows raise just slightly.
It could be easy, now, to grab the wrist of the hand that reaches for his jaw, to see if she would end up in the sky. For is that not where many of her kind are? He knows the stars, the constellations, and many of them, most of them, are once-heroes and once-gods of the ancient Greeks.
Would it be so horrible, to paint the sky with Hecate?
"You speak of these things only to tempt me into action, Spakona."