Entry #1;
Mark gave me this diary yesterday, said it might help with the nightmares. It's strange... thinking about the nightmares feels like thinking about someone else's life. It's hard to believe that two years have passed since Orin and I fled Qarth, ran into the Red Waste, and found Mark and Clara's house. Those days feel like a dream—a nightmare, really—so distant now.
Orin doesn't even remember much about our time as slaves. He was so young. He calls Mark and Clara "Father" and "Mother" without hesitation. I find it harder to say those words aloud, but in my heart, they are just that—our parents. They've cared for us more than anyone ever has, saved us from certain death, and given us a home. It's almost funny to think about how strange things were when we first arrived, and yet now, this place is the most normal thing in the world to us.
Mark and Clara always debate about their faith, Christianity, the religion they follow and have raised us in. Clara baptized Orin and me last year. It felt odd at the time, but now, I see it as part of our life here. Mark, though... he doesn't believe in much. He talks about the terrible things that have been done in the name of Christianity—wars, cruelty, slavery—and Clara always counters him with the teachings of Christ, the philosophy of caring for others, love, and redemption.
Their debates usually end the same way: Mark rolling his eyes, Clara smiling, and them agreeing to disagree. I've noticed Clara always gets the last word in, saying, "I'll pray for you, Mark. One day, you'll see the light." And Mark, walking away, shaking his head, muttering, "Never in a million years, Mother." It makes Orin and me laugh every time. It's one of those rituals, I guess. Something constant in our lives here.
These past two years have been... well, strange and wonderful in equal measure. Mark, despite his strength and his powers, is a deeply sick man. He spends most of his days in his room, "gaming," as he calls it, though I still don't fully understand what that means. It's something on the screens he has—those strange moving pictures we can't touch. Orin watches him play sometimes, fascinated by the worlds Mark seems to explore in his games, but I've never been drawn to it.
Mark's sickness is one of the reasons the house is always so cold. I've come to understand it better now—his body literally can't survive the heat. If the temperature climbs above freezing, he can't breathe, like a fish out of water. He told me once it's a side effect of his powers. I don't know what that means exactly, but I can see the toll it takes on him. For all his power over this place, his body is fragile, and it scares me sometimes.
Clara, on the other hand, is the most vibrant, kind-hearted woman I've ever met, but she too has her own... condition. She constantly needs to drink wine or champagne—something about her biology. Without it, she transforms into a red giant, raging and uncontrollable. It happened once, early on, before I understood what was happening. Mark managed to calm her down, but it terrified me. I had never seen her so... different. She's always so gentle, but in that state, it's like she becomes someone else. Now, I make sure we always have enough of her drinks in stock.
Despite their struggles, I love them both. They've become family in every sense of the word. I know they care for us, too. But there's something hanging over all of us now, something that's filling me with dread.
Mark's "eyes in the sky"—his magical satellites, as he calls them—have spotted something. A horde of Dothraki is heading toward the house. I overheard him talking to Clara about it last night. I don't think Orin understands the danger, but I do. The Dothraki don't leave survivors. We've seen them before from a distance, riding across the desert like a storm, and I know what they're capable of. I can't shake the feeling of fear that's settled deep in my gut.
Mark, of course, says not to worry. He's always so calm, so confident. He told us he's set up precautions—traps, defenses—that will vaporize anyone who tries to harm us. I want to believe him, but I can't help but feel afraid. What if something goes wrong? What if the Dothraki are too many, or too fast, or too smart? What if Mark's sickness makes it hard for him to use his powers?
Tomorrow, they'll be here. I can't sleep. I'm trying to trust Mark, to trust that everything will be okay. But the nightmares have returned. Not the ones of Qarth or slavery. These are new. Darker. Of fire and screams and losing everything all over again.
I'm afraid for Orin. He's still so young, still so innocent. He trusts Mark completely, thinks of him as a protector, a hero. I just hope Mark can live up to that tomorrow.
For now, all I can do is pray.
End of Entry.