Ofaniel...

My hostling once said that I was conceived on a moonless night. All of a sudden, the light was gone, and the birds and nocturnal animals fell silent, as if they were dreading whatever had shut out the light of the moon. My hostling, usually brave and courageous, was fretting, for he had never before witnessed a lunar eclipse, the pale lamp going red as if covered by blood.

My father used to laugh whenever my hostling told that story to me later, but I know that on this night, he comforted him for the very first time, and that it still means a lot to him. And even now, whenever the moon veils its face, they both vanish for the night and everyone knows why.

Many years have passed since this story was told to a harling with huge eyes but it still holds the same wonder for me. It is because of this night, that I was Ofaniel, and this is a part of me that - although I had no doing in it - is as important to me as the air that I breathe.

"Tell me about it," I begged my father. "Enide has told me it shines like the moon in winter but others say that it radiates a light ten thousand times brighter than the sun and when you look at it directly, you go blind. What is the truth?"

My father looked down at me and the hand that caressed my hair let me feel all the love he had for me. For a moment, it took my breath away and I was afraid – so very afraid! – to ever disappoint him that I wanted to run away and cry.

"No one can tell you the truth," he said and from his seat in the corner, my hostling smiled knowingly. I knew then that he had his own theory and kept it to himself as he always did, gently supporting my father with his silence. "Because truth is not written in stone. Truth is what we make of it. One day, Ofaniel, you might see the walls of Immanion. One day, maybe when we are gone, you might see it and behold for yourself the splendor and terrible beauty, and when you look upon it and try to find words for it, you will think of me and what I have told you. And I do not want you to think of me as a liar."

"I would never!" I cried. "Why should I?" My hands, still so small compared to his own, strong ones, grabbed his sleeve.

"Oh, but you will," my father answered, and the sadness in his voice cut my heart in two. It did never quite mend after that night.