It’s been a few years since his brother died, and Maeglin wondered whether it was normal to think of him more now than he had when he was alive. It gave him something to think about - he supposed - while he enjoyed the solitude to explore Beqanna at his leisure. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened but the few other Stratosians he had talked to seemed to believe there was no returning to the world that they had come from. A few of them mourned this, feeling like a part of them had been left behind in that other world. Maeglin couldn’t say he felt the same.

Sometimes he wondered whether the son (or was it a daughter?) he had made with that Baltian mare came over through one of the storms, but the thought often never lingered for long. There was nothing he could do if not, and he was not sure he’d recognize them even if they were both stranded here and walked by one another.

He’s taking a break from thinking about his dead brother and attempting to do the math from that Baltian encounter, to see if he can figure out how old the child would be, when he realizes he’s reached a part of the forest where he can no longer see the sky. It is unnerving - though he reflects the sky still all the same. His chamelonic coat and eyes display the crisp blue of the autumn morning, faint sunlight haloing his head and shining on branches and needles that likely haven’t seen true sunlight in years.

Maeglin can’t remember if he’s ever been somewhere where he couldn’t see the sky at all and this fact eclipses everything else he had been thinking about. His glowing feathers ruffle with this annoyance (distress - but he’d be in vehement denial about this little thing distressing him) and he tilts his head upwards, taking a step in this direction and that - trying to see if he can get even a glimpse of some blue that doesn’t belong to him so that he can move on with his day.