Fancy a tale?
A tale told from my childhood–about the so-called “creation of the world.”
It is said that: a long time ago, the world was veiled in endless quiet darkness; not one flicker of light to be seen. The stars were dim, afraid to shine; the soil, bare and moist; the waters, serene and tranquil. Unbothered was the land with not even the slightest wind to howl through the valleys.
A lone moth traversed the vast expanse of the world–though it all looked the same. The earth–flat–for miles and miles. A horizon of nothingness.
She saw the world as it was in the beginning: empty.
One fateful night, the moth descended from the heavens with no more than a single flutter of her wings. She looked around the world and deemed it too cold, too colourless, too quiet, too lonely.
The stars spoke to Her, shivering from the chill in the void. “Oh please,” it begged, “Cure me of my loneliness! Let warmth and light sheathe me!”
And so, the moth smiled.
She snapped her fingers once, and the stars caught fire–their embers scattering across the heavens to become the first light. The world with its very eyes watched as a giant star was born. The star radiated a loving warmth, and thus, the stars were cured of their loneliness.
Still, it was too colourless, too quiet, too lonely.
The soil, upon beholding her grace, spoke to Her, frowning from the pale emptiness around it. “Oh please,” it begged, “Cure me of my loneliness! Let colours sheathe me!”
And so, the moth smiled.
She kissed the soil, and from that kiss sprouted the first roots, the first forests, the first fields. The world with its very eyes watched as grass grew wild. Colours blossomed and bloomed, curing the soil of its loneliness.
Still, it was too quiet, too lonely.
The waters, upon witnessing her grace, spoke to Her, whispering softly, careful not to disturb the still air. “Oh please,” it begged, “Cure me of my loneliness! Let tide carry melody!”
And so, the moth smiled.
She shed one tear upon the water, and from it came the songs of the deep, the tides, the waves, the plenty. The world with its very eyes watched as water flowed freely. Waves crashing upon each other sang in the air, curing the water of its loneliness.
Still, it was too lonely.
She spoke to the stars, the soil, and the waters. “Dear friends,” she said ever so softly, “Let this be My final gift to you all.”
And so, the moth smiled.
She fluttered Her wings oh so gracefully–and with that motion came wind and life.
The wind danced and pranced through the forests, carrying with it Her divine breath across the newborn world.
The moth danced with the stars, the soil, and the waters. From that dance came the first of us–the creatures who walked, swam, and soared–the goats and the wolves, the whales and the combjellies, the birds and the bats.
For the first time, the world was not silent. The world rejoiced, blanketed in warmth and sound.
All creatures looked up and cried, “Praise be to Lady Mirth! Our Divine Sloanus! The Weaver of life itself! The moth who dreamed the world awake!”
But not all rejoiced.
The butterflies danced and fluttered their wings as She would–mocking their very own creator. They scorned Her power and called it false, claiming that they, not She, had given the world its light.
Blasphemers!
For the first time, The Divine did not smile.
But, from Her tears rose the first of Her followers–thus was born the Moth Seraphate. The exterminators of all evil, the messengers of Her divine words, with the Blessed Commanders offering her protection and the Choir offering her peace through song.
The butterflies were wiped from the face of the earth, and in their place, the Seraphate grew strong. The world prospered; communities were formed, love was made, and happiness spread.
Then came the day when the Divine passed. She called upon Her most faithful servant—Her Blessed Commander—and spoke softly, “I deem you fit to be My Blessed Seraph,” She said, caressing Her Commander’s cheek. “As a Seraph, you will hear My voice, even after My death. Please, relay My words to the world.”
And with that, the Divine Sloanus breathed Her last breath.
But her voice did not vanish.
The Blessed Seraph could always hear Her–a whisper in the wind; her words, like silk, wrapped around the Seraph’s heart and guided every thought.
“Do not mourn Me,” the voice said. “I am not gone. I am the wind that flutters your wings, the warmth that comes from the stars, the rhythm of the waves. My light will never fade–so long as you keep it alive.”
And so, the Blessed Seraph vowed to devote all that remained of their being to Her will. From their tears to their reverence, they built the first sanctuary–the Lepidoptera North–the cradle of Her eternal faith.
At the heart of the Seraphate, the Blessed Seraph stood as the bridge to the Divine. Beneath them fluttered the Seraph in Command, who carried Her decrees, and the Choir, whose endless hymns allowed the Blessed Seraph to commune with Her spirit.
The Officers and Notes trained under them–Officers to lead, Notes to sing, each preparing for the day they too might ascend.
And below all, the Angels–the countless faithful–who spread Her name across the lands, guiding life in Her memory.
Those who served well were raised higher: an Angel could become a Note under the Choir, or an Officer under the Command. From them would rise the next Seraph, and in death, their wings would return to Her light.
Thus the order was made eternal.
And though Her body was gone, the voice of Sloanus still murmured in the breeze, still shimmered in the glow of the stars She birthed.
…
What bullshit, isn’t it?