An origin myth.

There was a mystical virgin princess (we were not sure what was mystical in the beginning, if the princess herself or her virginity) to whom an angel made of blazing sun glory fire with a string stringing his guts together descended upon her and said: “truly you are the mother of the gods”, to which she replied, passionatelessly, “I’m a virgin”. The angel, vexed, fled back. A small bell made a sound and swallowed its victory over the pretty young ladies the most holy of the lords owned. Terrors went through surgery but never recovered, so the princess took up her wings and faced the storm that brewed under the snow. That was the beginning.
As for ourselves: the small metal bell kept the sounds of ringing tones over our heads, even though we had no heads (no bodies for that matter). Stoop as low as you might, you’ll never catch a glimpse of these characters.
We went back to the future inside an ark, but ended up falling in an aquarium of living poetry, which fluttered about like butterflies made of words, half-understandable, half-gibberish, making thus gibberish only. Then we proceeded to the ritual of focusing on the princess’ image to return home, but we couldn’t, because the whole path was flanked by bark trolls and they moved a little to the sides and changed places and grinned in our backs, and the path we had committed to memory was no more. So we put up our killer-becoming masks and sculpted a rod made out of wind. We fell asleep, the princess found us in the hospital and we returned.
This is how the light of stars only reaches us after years of travelling.
She did not gave up her virginity (both the mystical, we found out, and the fleshy one).