Don't look for trouble. He might have laughed but he knew not to; Ehiyeh seldom said things for the sake of it. If anything, it made him suddenly more self aware, as if some cloak had been pulled up and off his defences. She was...disarming, his sister was, in a way that made him believe she might be the first to ever truly uncover any thought or feeling he tried to hide. For a moment, he considered it - why did he even try to hide things from her? She'd likely not betray him, or anybody really and if she did? Well, there were worse wolves to be betrayed by. Still, he offered her a sheepish grin, as if to say he could make no promises - not even to himself.

And he should've guessed she'd notice the way he observed her; she shrugged in what he assumed was an effort to dismiss his concerns but it only sought to drive his eyes to her with a furrow of his brows. It was a promise from him: he'd be back for that particular conversation point some time soon. "Nobody's ever been west enough to know if the south exists," he offered with his own shrug, a mischevious mirror of her own as if to remind her that he knew what she had tried to do - to distract, "The snow will pass soon enough - we do know that, at least." Comfort in fact. At least, he had always been comforted by fact - it was why, he thought, he often had to seek them out, as if he had some void within that he might someday fill with answers.

He had been half way into a step - a thought - and some words when she had hunched over in cold; he tilted his head up instead and watched as the flurry blew overhead, the clouds deep and rolling. He smirked to himself, amused by the irony; it was if the cold had to remind them that it still hadn't completed its course quite yet. He became distracted by the way the clouds seemed to reach down for them and he was caught off guard - twitched even - when she moved by him. It made him flinch - such a twitch, such response, was so deepy like their father that he feared his own reflection in that moment. The far away feel of her voice brought him back though: she'd never speak so frankly with their father.

He stayed quiet for a moment as he slowly turned so that he was able to properly move alongside her, shoulder to shoulder once more as he pondered the question. "Sometimes I feel as if our own mother and Eros were but a story told to us by father, some characters he conjured up so that it felt less unusual when we noticed the other children with two parents and families that reached for miles," he mused, his eyes and voice running away into the same far away place as Ehiyeh. "Do you think it might have been easier for us to not remember them, or to not know them? By knowing them, we can ask things like: why aren't they here? Why did they leave? Where are they now?" His head slowly turned towards her then with a look of uncertainty. "If I did not know our father is who he is, I wonder if I might still fear becoming him or not." He shrugged - a habit, he thought, that had fast begun to form between them. "Knowing can breed more questions, more fear, more uncertainty. We just have to ask whether it will breed more than not knowing will." He felt a pang of guilt - he had not been able to answer if only because such questions had lingered unspoken on his own lips for far too long.

Still, he fell into silence. He had no answers because he had too many questions himself.
But, for once, he was suddenly aware of their own simialrity - theirs and her children's, at least.