Qebhet opened her eyes at the brush of his fingers against hers, smiling as he took her hand. She'd never thought of it in such a way. She wasn't even sure if it worked that way, for though the sky was boundless, mortal minds were not, and while Much had been roaming Sherwood Forest with the Merry Men, Qebhet had been slumbering, little more than a dream herself, or she had been drifting toward wakefulness amid the plundered relics of her homeland, or she had been eking out a life tending to the sick in London's East End. But she liked the notion, that even as she'd dreamed perhaps a part of her had remained with the stars, guiding the lost home. It made those yawning centuries of lost time feel a little less lonely.
"Perhaps it was me, a little bit," she said. "I slept for... such a long time, you know. When I woke, none of the stars were where I remembered... even the constellations were different. But the Milky Way, that was the same. My River in the sky..." There was warmth in her eyes, and fondness, and a soft, well-worn homesickness. "They're still in me, my stars. They're not as bright as they once were... but I still love to swim beneath them."