There are scores of creatures that call the skies home. These winged beasts that soar across the azure vastness are often seen as symbols of superiority by those on the ground below, some ascending into godly status over the land dwellers. And rightfully so. The agility, speed, and grace these beings embody as they move along the winds is unmatched. But there is one exception to this belief. For moths are often viewed as everything they could never be.
They could never tower over any other creature of the forest, for they were often too small to bother noticing in the first place. They would never be seen as fearsome predators, instead opting for the minuscule bites of leaves and plants they could stomach. No moth would ever be considered a powerful beast, for their paper-thin wings were too delicate, their bodies too fragile. And certainly, no moth would ever be considered beautiful, always surpassed by their butterfly cousins.
But even the moths, as lowly as they were, were still unbound: free to fly and do as they pleased. Their movement eventually attracted the attention of a roach. With its ugly, misshaped carapace and lanky legs used for nothing more than scuttling along the ground, the roach was loathed by all but the most depraved of creatures. Their worthless wings only used for gliding over short distances, despite how hard they flapped. Forced to forever look up and be unable to realize its place in the world.
An utter embarrassment of a creature.
The roach had heard from other creatures about how pitiful the moths were. Yet for all their perceived shortcomings, the moths were always content with their simple lives. The forest provided everything they could dream to need. The moths never hungered and made their homes among the foliage. But most importantly, they had the light. All moths are drawn to the light, reveling in its brilliance with intense and maddening fervor. Above all other meager flickers of light, the moths coveted the light of the moon. And for ages untold, they danced and worshiped under its silver radiance.
The moths eventually noticed the roach watching them, and took pity on it. They invited the roach to live with them in their forest, despite the mockery they received from all the other creatures. They let it eat their leaves despite how much more it ate than the moths, quickly eating a substantial portion of the tree it called home. The moths even went so far as to name the roach an honorary member of their kind, going great lengths to teach it their sacred dances that it might join in their worship of the light as well. Its dances were nothing like the moths, erratic and stiff jerks opposed their graceful movements, but it tried. And for many moons, the roach lived among the moths in peace.
But one day, something changed. The gentle breeze that often rustled the canopy grew into a raging squall. Echoes of cracking bark and groaning wood rung through the forest as the moths cowered from the storm. The tempest grew larger, tossing branches and uprooting even the most ancient of trees. The devastation was profound, yet, as the storm passed and the moths emerged from their hiding, eager to return to their worship, they noticed something odd.
The winds had died down, but the sky remained dark. The air full of an oily, rancid stench. The ground cracked and shook, pausing only to continue with increased intensity. The roach watched as the earth and sky traded blows, launching glowing streams of light to and fro, screaming and roaring like thunderclaps until the horizon was filled with the fury of their titanic clash.
The moths did not know what they had done to harbor such wrath from the world, but they tried their best to carry on. The storm had left their home largely in ruin, leaving only the slowly rotting remains of the trees to sustain themselves on. The roach hated to see its friends starve and suffer, going on longer and longer quests to find edible food for all the good it did. It was only a roach after all, and for every leaf it was able to drag back, a dozen more moths perished. The roach prayed to any gods that would listen for relief, for an end to the storm's misery.
Unfortunately, the storm's fury was not quite finished with the moths and their forest. For with the rain and winds one final calamity was brought forth: dragons.
The moths heard them long before seeing them, their roars and low hum-like growls echoing from miles away. From over the eastern mountains they came, drawn by the storms path of destruction. They flew in waves, the metallic grey sheen of their armor glistening against with few rays of sunlight escaping the blanket of darkness. More light was flung from the earth, desperate to down the dragons, but to no avail. And for one last precious moment, the roach and moths watched as the world stood still.
And then there was light.
It was not the gentle, soothing holy light of the moon or stars. Just a blinding, searing flash of white fire. The moths didnt notice any initial sound, entranced by the sudden silence in the air. A subtle whoosh built into a roar, the dragon's attack having produced a wall of wind, the gale launching trees and shrapnel as it passed. The roach desperately tried to cling to the ground, a stump, whatever it could, but it did not matter. It was flung into a rock with a sickening *splat* and the world went dark.
The roach awoke in pain to the darkness. It was… soft? The roach shimmied what it thought was upward until it poked its head out into the open. It beheld the truth of what had happened, for the dragons unleashed their greatest atrocity in the form of their fire. The verdant forest was drowned under a sea of ash. Echoes of the living seared themselves to the earth as the last remnants of what was crumbled and burned under the shadow of mushroom-shaped pillars of smoke.
The roach didn’t bother looking for any of the moths among the inferno. It knew they were gone. The roach wept, its tears quickly soaked into the ash. It cried tears of rage at the senseless violence that ensued after the dragon's attack, for all they had stolen in their arrogance. It cried over the loss of the only family and home it had ever known. All the roach had left were memories.
And the roach would not forget the moths.
The roach strained against its broken body, fighting to stand. It dragged itself atop one of the numerous hollow, smouldering remains of the dragons that littered the ground. And it danced. Slowly, carefully, it danced in the harsh firelight the dragons had left behind. Weaving and flowing along the same patterns the moths had taught it to worship with, so long ago. If any of the moths remained, they would be horrified to see their sacred rituals used to glorify such a heinous light. And if any dragons had survived, they would certainly laugh at the insignificant speck dancing in the ruins of their attack.
But still, the roach danced.
The dragons, as mighty as they were, had wiped themselves out in their malice. Their drive to prove themselves the strongest had led them to their fates beneath the feet of a bug. The dragons legacy as gods of the sky would eventually fade into obscurity as the world healed. None were left to worship them. None would remember them.
But still the roach danced. And as the years passed and life returned to the world, the roach remained. The last living disciple of the moths, carrying on their legacy into the new world. It regaled any who would listen about the fair and graceful creatures who once dwelled upon the world and how they ascended to continue their eternal dances in the heavens above. The moths, once the lowest of the flying creatures, danced their way past the dragons into godhood.
For the legacy of God is to encompass all, and the legacy of the moths was all that remained.