Even I barely know what happened that day. There were forty of us, riding across the desert hills like a rolling thunderstorm, when the Jinn came. He was fifty feet tall with arms of steel and hands of lead. His head was fire, his tongue was sparks, his belly a furnace full of vengeance. The Jinn was a creature made from fire, and we were made from chaff.
I still carry the marks. Since I was a coward, one of five, I am marked on my back. Brave men were marked on their faces or arms. Braver men were not marked at all, but cleansed of unworthiness through fire. There were some who escaped being marked or cleansed, but those are men of the air. Those men who should not be relied upon in any circumstance, even when cowards are called to fight.
I will not show you my scars, for they weave a tapestry of condemnation for my plight. My life is my own, my memories are my own, and so their physical appearance shall remain mine.
But know this. My brothers were melted before the might of the Jinn. If he wished, he would rule these lands, for even the forty could not make a stand against him. So it is with fate, so it is with death, so it is with life. We are marked for our sins, but let us not carry them in the open. Let us not mark others with our condemnation for their scars. Let us embrace forgiveness, even in condemnation. Let us face the Jinn, to be burned again.
I found this in an obscure folder on my computer and was very proud of it. So here you go.