[He wonders if the sun ever mourns like the Branded.]
The desert is a fickle thing, barren, but not, by any means, lifeless. Its natives are simply small and unobtrusive, scuttling from shelter to shelter as if they fear the relentless gaze of the sun, who's fiery eye watches as civilizations rise and fall.
But it can do nothing but watch.
Stefan looks out across the dunes and wonders idly if the distant sun ever mourns like the Branded: for friends that grew old and died before their unchanging eyes.
The sun watches him greet the new dawn.
It knows that he, too, will one day fall, and it mourns.