He bowed his head. “You win, maker.”
And the flute wept.
And if you walk the valley of Érenn on a Samhain night, when the mist lies low and the stones hum, you might still hear Aífe’s flute on the wind—not a tune of triumph, but something rarer: the sound of a mortal heart, held gently in the hollow of a wooden bone, singing the truth that even the sidhe came to learn. flute celte
She put her lips to the silverthorn flute again, not to play, but to exhale all of that—the beautiful and the broken, the tender and the torn. He bowed his head