Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
Because Knight Angel and Angel Star were made from the separation of nothing, nothing can separate them. Their lover's bond is absolute. This is the way of the lore. This is divine magic.
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