He stays where he is, kneeling, humbled not by Hazel or even by Autumn, but by Mother. Which is, in a sense, a related concept. He's forgotten his normal illusion isn't quite there, too, so he's still red and cobalt under the translucent peach fleshtone and the ice-green eyes. It's an odd effect, but no doubt she's seen odder.

He watches her without fear, resigned to whatever reaction she's going to have to this. His intentions have clearly gone far awry, but she can't justly blame him. He didn't even ask. He nods slowly at her and gives a shaky sigh, letting his hands drop loose in his lap. He needs time to recover, and he probably won't get much.

"That was my mother," he tells her, by way of explanation. "I would have died before asking to speak to her. But she's always known me better than I know myself. Thank you."

"If you have wrath to dispense, kindly focus it on me." That sounds a little grudging--he doesn't want to be cursed--but he's not sure whether she's capable of putting the smack down on a spirit and he wouldn't want anything to disturb Frigga's rest.