A quick note to the underage and squeamish: this fic is rated mature, for everything! By everything, I mean: swearing, drug usage, sex, molestation, necrophilia, and talk about squicky ideas. This ain't your gramma's fanfiction.
That having been said, I have attempted to handle all of these subjects with some decorum, and with an open mind, I do not believe that you will find anything offensive within this fic. If you do, I humbly apologise.
I do not own anything, not even a little slave girl.
I did not know how long I had been in Persia. Somewhere I had lost count of the days, between my beloved masonry for the shah and the continual amusement of the Khanum. Occasionally I would get time to myself, which is to say, time to spend with the Daroga. I was rarely alone, and while you would think that this would be a blessing for a man like me, I promise you that, in this case, it was not.
However, I was currently enjoying the first moment to myself that I had had in some time. There are some people who will complain endlessly about a lack of free time, but yet, when faced with a day off, will complain of boredom. Boredom, I have always thought, stems from a lack of creativity, and I have never suffered from it. Tedium, perhaps...annoyance that the time is not going faster, but never precisely boredom.
I was currently at an indecision as to how to spend my time. There were so many things I desperately wanted to do, and I had such little time to do them in. Tinkering was out of the question; the project I was working on would have occupied more time than I had. Composing, likewise...and in any case the strange (but beautiful, I have to admit) music in this land was influencing my style in a way I was not certain I was fond of. Drafting would have felt too terribly much like work, at this current moment, and I wondered if I could persuade myself to simply...sit still, for a while.
I sat down on one of the lush floor-cushions that had been provided for me, and tried to simply relax. To let go, to empty my mind of all thought. I crossed my legs as I had seen the Orientals do, lay my open hands on my knees, half-closed my eyes to the pleasing reds of the setting sun, and concentrated on my breathing.
About two minutes later, restlessness seized me and I decided to go take a bath. Making an exasperated noise in my throat, I stood to arrange it. Just then, there was a knock on the door.
"Who's there?" I asked, hoping to heaven that it was not a summon from one of this country's simple-minded rulers.
"It's me, Erik, and a few others."
With a sigh, I replaced the mask, and said, "Come in, Daroga."
It was early when I heard the news; idle gossip from the flapping mouth of one of the many eunuchs in the harem. My dressers had barely finished, the anklets yet unfastened, when the first mention of it showed itself. I was to be given to the khanum's strange magician, as a kingly gift.
Everyone knew of this palace magician, and everyone feared him. He was brusque, fearful, with a hand at legerdemain that no one could rival, and an equally proficient knack for murdering. He was a Frenchman, tall and masked, and it was widely rumoured that listening to his voice was to be likened to being touched by Allah, a blasphemy no one would dare give any true weight to. I had heard many things; that he could speak to the dead, that he was a fallen angel, that the shah had secretly chosen him to succeed him as the King of Kings. The truth was in there, somewhere...though I did not know where. And now, I was to be given to this foreigner!
When first I heard I did not believe - I would not! I had celebrated my fifteenth birthday but a few months ago and completed my training only a week after that, surely there was someone more to the man's specifications! Someone more mature, experienced. Then I thought that it was likely just a practical joke, concocted to frighten me...but deep in my heart, I knew that the eunuchs were generally too simple-minded to invent such things.
My old wet-nurse, Mastaneh, tried to comfort me, saying that it would not be so bad.
"A man is a man," she said to me, "Whether he is French or Persian or Russian, whether he is Muslim or Christian, or Allah forbid, an atheist. He is a man, and you know how to treat one, now. You will do well."
"But Mastaneh!" I cried, "It is said he wears a mask, because he is horribly ugly underneath! What man could be so ugly that he needs to wear a mask?"
At this, she slapped me, though not hard. She clicked her tongue at me, and gave me a stern look. "Are you not yourself wearing a mask? Are you so terribly ugly?"
This quieted my mouth, but not my fears. I could not imagine a face so unpleasant that it would need to hide behind a mask...
When the official news came, a day later, the fear that had been festering in my stomach was confirmed. I still had a hard time believing...could this man be so important to the shah that he would charity me away to him? Not that the shah cared for me personally - I would not dare even dream such an honour! But an untouched odalisque is a prize reserved normally for the Shadow of God himself. He was giving me away! To an unbeliever! I was to be a virgin sacrifice to this heathen creature, and I knew that, by law, I would have to submit to him. I wondered if I would rather die.
I barely remember being marched to his estate, thick hands wrapped around either of my arms like the copper armbands I wore. I have no memory of the rest of his abode, the surroundings blurring past my worried eyes as if I were on the back of the wind itself. I keenly remember, however, being dragged into the man's room, behind the Daroga, and being mesmerized by the figure before me.
It had been my unfortunate task, as the chief of police and as Erik's keeper, to bring him the appointed gift, that afternoon. I say unfortunate because of the reaction the girl gave me, never mind the reaction I feared from Erik.
The poor thing wailed when she heard, and fell to my feet in a mass of jingling coloured gauze. She pleaded me to choose someone else - she was too young, surely she was not satisfactory, could I find no other? She carried on as if she were mourning the death of her father, not her virginity, and eventually I found myself so embarrassed by the scene she was creating that I was forced to order the eunuchs to shut her up, somehow. A blow to her pretty, veiled face curbed her hysteria, and I took pains to be kind to her from then on.
I reminded her gently to act with more decorum in front of her new master, and she tearfully agreed. I knew, as probably no one else would have assumed, that she was in no danger, from Erik, at least. If she remained true to her training, he would likely not have the heart even to carry through with her purpose, and send her away with a heavy purse and a ticket to freedom. At least, such is the way I had seen him treat others.
As we led her to Erik's home, I tried to brace myself for any possible outcome. I didn't precisely know how Erik would react - part of me wondered if he wouldn't contrarily try to send her back, risking offense to the shah - and I was almost certain I did know how this impressionable young creature would react, especially if she saw my friend's face. But even with my careful steeling, I could not have prepared myself for what was going to happen when we arrived.
The burning lust in Erik's eyes was apparent even before the girl had been shoved in front of the eunuch guards. I have to admit that I was almost frightened by this sudden display of base humanity, and the man was forced to bend almost double in an attempt to control his unexpected rage of passion. However, his self-discipline was admirable, especially in a man not known for his desire to control himself, and I found myself highly impressed.
"The shah, the King of Kings," I began unsteadily, nervously playing with the edge of my clothing, "offers you this great gift in recognition of the services you have rendered both him and the khanum. An odalisque virgin, from the Shadow of God's personal harem, to be your slave and your...companion."
There was a small moment of silence. I had been instructed to say "wife." When I did not, the eunuchs sent me a bemused glance, but I found that in the here and now, I could not bring myself to use the term inappropriately. I was aware of Erik's disdain for my customs - for he showed me this disdain at every opportunity, it seemed - and I knew that where he came from, "wife" meant more than "slave." I felt the same way about this, of course, trying to force Rookheeya's beautiful face from my mind, but many Persians did not, and I feared Erik's retribution for bringing the matter up.
Silently, I waited for the man, whose eyes seemed now strangely aflame, to speak, if he could.
A slave girl, I'd thought. Part of me said: how quaint. Part of me said: how awful. But what the majority of me said was, for the common courtesy of the reader, unprintable, even if I could put it to words. Her eyes were barely visible beneath the oppressive veil that she wore; yet her mid-riff was bare, and her breasts barely covered by her not-quite-opaque fabric bustier. It was a strange mockery, and had I been thinking clearly I might have noticed that I was forced into a similar taunting; my body was fine to see, if a bit thin, but my face...
As it was, I was not thinking clearly. As you may have gathered from your knowledge of your author, I had never been with a woman. I had never precisely pursued the matter with the intention of alleviating it, and it may safely be said that no one else had attempted to alleviate it for me. I was not often tempted by lust, any more...but in this insatiable Persian heat, and from being dogged right and left by a seductive khanum, I was weakened to the incredible sex appeal that the trembling female before me posessed.
The daroga, my only friend in this sweltering wasteland, had mumbled something about a gift; a companion. I hardly paid him mind, though the idea somehow managed to travel into my lust-fogged brain. Her hair was a luxurious jet black, long, and wavey...Her kohl-smudged eyes were brown and innocent...
Against all my manners, my good breeding, my eyes travelled downward. Her tan feet were bare and hennaed, adorned with bell-anklets that jingled with every shift of her weight. The gauzey pants she wore made no attempt to hide the soft, round calves and thighs they encapsulated. Her middle was adorned by chains of jewels, her navel cradling a tear-drop opal like a precious child. Her scant torso covering was skirted by threaded chains of beads that twinkled alluringly in the bright sunlight, and it was even possible to see the outlines of her dark areolas through the fabric.
Normally Persian women dressed with more decorum, to put it lightly, but this girl was not intended to function in society; she held one place, and that was not in public. Her clothes were thoughtfully crafted to reach straight into my loins and grab my attention; crafted with the intention to tempt. And tempted I was, though I tried to resist.
She stood still but I could see her eyes begging for the courage to struggle, to escape. All too easily could I picture her lithe, curvaceous form as she writhed, vainly fighting the guards who kept a firm grip on her. Yes, she wanted to escape, and I found I could hardly blame her. While I may have held such things as concubines to be an outdated concept, and though I admit I was almost offended that the shah thought me a man to indulge in such low, base gratification, I was, in my weakness, prepared to accept such a gift. Indeed, with almost avid gratitude.
His eyes were like gimlets, I was frozen to the spot. The power of the man was terrifying, with every move of his masked head, every twitch of his hands as he tried to control himself, a very real kinetic sexuality flowed through the room. Even the eunuchs on either side of me seemed aware of this master's charisma.
I would be lying if I said I did not find myself attracted to him, despite my fear. How could one not be? He was tall, much taller than I thought most of the men in my country to be. He had a grace, an air that was almost catlike, predatory and seductive. And even though he seemed to be suffering from a momentary weakness, I could sense an unmitigated power throbbing through him, an inner strength that defied nature. It was no wonder to me that he'd been described as a fallen angel.
And then there was the mask. It depicted a cold, sculpted handsomeness, with an aquiline nose and chiseled features. I was curious as to what he hid under that mask...his face would have had to be roughly similar, for the mask to fit at all, and I could not imagine anything that even partly resembled that mask could be ugly enough to hide. I wondered if he would take it off, though at the moment that was almost the least of my clouded thoughts.
He looked me up and down without shame, and I felt his yellow eyes boring into my tender young flesh. Every inch of my exposed body, and most of it that was covered, was laid open to this man's vigorous scrunity, to his ravenous eyes that must have been kohl-smeared to protect his western eyes from the eastern sun, for I could not see anything but the light glinting off of his yellow irises. He seemed entranced, and certainly enticed. You would have thought he had never had a woman before.
He ordered me brought forward with a sharp rasp that did not at all reflect the beauty I had expected to hear. That voice was so beautiful that it had caused the eunuch to blaspheme? I did not try to keep my balance as I was roughly tossed to the floor in front of the tall foreigner. I dared not look up at him, and kept my eyes trained on his feet in a gesture of subservience, and I wondered if he would have the decency to send away the policeman and the eunuchs before he forced himself upon me.
Without a moment's notice, suddenly I felt my veil being ripped from my face, and the fear of being exposed before so many men frightened me as much as my skin revelled in the sudden welcome breeze. Unable to ignore this obvious sign of command, I looked up at him, and he spoke. This time, his voice was much sweeter, even in its harshness, and I began to understand my blaspheming companions.
"How old are you?"
Fifteen. The damned thing was only fifteen. I had been beginning to suspect that the khanum was behind this unexpected gift, and now I knew. Certainly any man who was capable of carnal feelings would be tempted by a luscious, fifteen year old Persian virgin. I looked down at her jeweled head, at her dark skin and those eyes, filled with fear and loathing for me. Fifteen! Would she even know why she was here?
"Have they told you what is expected of you?" I demanded, as the lolita at my feet tensed, as if expecting to be struck. Her eyes strayed away from my mask, choosing the relative safety of the floor to rest upon.
"Yes," she whispered, and if it weren't for my exquisite hearing I should not have even caught her answer. So she did know, then. She was probably well-trained, then, according the backwards customs of this horrible nation. I knew, then, that if I decided to force myself on her, she would submit, terrified though she may be. But I didn't want to rape a fifteen year old innocent, not really. I would much have preferred her compliance.
"Very well. I have seen what lies behind your veil, my dear ... now you shall be accorded a reciprocal honor. Come forward and remove my mask," I said, simply. I doubt the girl could have known what that sentence implied; having been confined to a prisonal harem all her life, she could have no inkling of what great tolerance and trust it took for me to grant her that small gesture. Though she did not mean to offend me, I was rather hurt when all she did was stare at me in mounting horror. Irritably, I spoke again.
"To refuse me now is to refuse the shah himself," I said, and despite my best efforts I felt my temper begin to flare under the heat and the intense sexual frustration, "If you resist, I shall take you by force and then return you to execution at his hands," I snapped. I knew I would do no such thing, but at the time, all I could think of was bedding this blossoming woman, this exotic concubine, "But only come to me willingly for this one night and I swear you shall go free at dawn. One night buys you the rest of your life and the means to spend it in honorable comfort. And perhaps, after all, that night will not be so terrible as you fear..."
I almost immediately regretted my rant. In my desperation, I found that I had unwittingly resorted to threats, bribery, and almost to pathetic begging. What the Daroga must have thought of me, then... To complete my utter humiliation, the girl had begun to press her hands together as if praying, and I saw tears running down her hidden face. She was begging me to reconsider, silently pleading that I would not do as I so longed, that I would not have her beneath me as I threatened I would. Her desperation scratched along my unhappy shame like a knife along my spine.
"You would rather die than lie with me?" I cried, incredulous. I wished desperately that the two of us were alone, but I continued, "You would truly rather die?"
Again, she did not reply, and somewhere in my mind I began to wonder if the creature could speak at all without being forced. Likely she was never taught to. After all, it seemed that silent women were very popular in Persia. I scowled at this crying mime, who was bowing her head and pressing her hands together most pitifully. I rather fear I lost my temper with the girl, and kicked at her angrily, causing her to cry out.
"You will get out," I commanded, pointing at Nadir with an accusatory finger, "Take those imbeciles with you. If the girl lives, I will send for you to claim her later." The three men, held in fear of my awesome fury, were all too eager to leave the room, and I bolted the door behind them. But as my friend left the room, my anger seemed to leave me. The overwhelming rage that had been carrying me suddenly deserted my body, and it was almost all I could do to make sure I found a chair before I collapsed.
This did not seem to be the reaction the girl was expecting, for she stared at me, still lying on the floor in a vulnerably winsome position. I poured myself a drink as if she were not there, attempting to curb my unpleasantly strong emotions. The heat was getting to me. I had to get out of this damned country. If only the damned khanum would let me be for long enough that I might finish the shah's palace...I strove not to think of it, not to think of the girl lying on my floor. However, I could feel her damned eyes on me, even as I drank, and I prickled at her.
"What?" I cried, sharply, "Did you expect that I was going to come back and rape you?"
I suddenly realised that she had, because that was precisely what I said I would do. The fact that her wide-eyed fear was now my fault only served to irritate me further. "Well, I don't intend to, though since it seems to be your preference, I suppose I could kill you."
The girl did not speak, but I could have sworn, for a moment, that I felt an almost sorrowful, apologetic air about her tensed shoulders. I sighed wearily. "Do you ever speak?" I demanded.
"Yes," she said, again so quietly that it is a wonder I heard her at all.
"What is your name?" I asked her, and there was a minute pause.
"I'm only a slave," she whispered humbly, "I do not have one."
"What!" My outburst was much angrier and more forceful than I had expected. Every day I stayed in this damned country, I learned something new about it that I disliked. Even myself, the lowliest of creatures, had the right to a name! I frowned at her so fiercely that she almost appeared to melt beneath my gaze, pressing her face to the floor and extending her arms in a kowtow that would have impressed the most arrogant of sultans. "Then what am I supposed to call you?"
"A name may be given to me, my master, if it pleases you," she said into the wooden floor. I ordered her sharply to get up, and she respectfully rose into a kneeling position, which I left be. Had I asked why she did not get to her feet, she surely would have replied that it was disrespectful to stand in front of one's master, or something equally idiotic, and I did not care to become more incensed than I was. I found myself frightfully irritated at the shah, or moreso than usual, for his gift. Instead of presenting me with a luscious morsel of a concubine, I rather felt that I had somehow acquired a needy daughter, without the pleasantries of seeking to create one. I would have to name her myself? What stupidity!
I was not at all sure I wanted to deal with this. The lust that she inspired in me was not precisely ebbing, but it was being suppressed by a growing depression, and I suddenly wanted only to be alone.
"Why don't you go away," I intoned coldly, "You don't want to be here, and I don't want you here. So leave."
"I can't," she replied, and in my ire, I stood suddenly and approached her with anger in every step.
"Why not?" I shouted, and her tears immediately restarted, as she made a token effort to move away from me. "Why do you just lay on the floor like a wilted flower? Your legs work, so I suggest you use them to take yourself elsewhere before I make good both my promises!"
She looked again as if she wished to protest, but she did not. She slowly began to lift herself to her feet, but I regret that I was too furious to give this any credit...I could no longer control myself. Violence coursed through my veins with an angry vengeance, and before I was really aware of my actions, the girl's small throat was in my hands. She did not fight back, and this angered me further. How could Persia have trained a race of humans not to fight back when their very lives were threatened! I choked her as if it were the corrupt government that I was killing, not some nubile young female, and after a moment, I felt her go limp in my grasp.
Now, with the breath taken from her comparatively small form, did the adrenaline begin to ebb from my body. My vision cleared, and I saw, it seemed for the first time, the motionless girl on the floor. What must have happened immediately occured to me, and I felt quickly for a pulse in her bruising neck. Her heart was still beating, though very slowly. I cursed myself for my lack of control, and bent to lift the girl from the wooden tiles.
Appropriately, I lay her down on the bed, and tended to her. I objected to harming females, as a rule, at least those with no great ability to fight back...and this one seemed not to have that ability at all. And so, like those various animals which I grudgingly took into my home and nursed back to health, I cared for this nameless beauty. I removed her neck jewelry and felt along the skin to make sure that her windpipe was not permanently damaged. Luckily for her, it was not, though she was not yet breathing.
I was not sanguine about resuscitating her, but I couldn't very well let her die, despite my better (or perhaps bitter) judgement. So I quickly removed my mask, held her nose and pressed my mouth onto hers. I suppose it was my first kiss; given in a moment of professional action, to a girl who not only despised me, but was unconscious. How romantic my life is.
A few breaths, and a few calculated blows to her chest, and her lungs eased reluctantly back into action. I doubted she would come to for a while, however, and I took this opportunity to make sure I hadn't done her any more harm.
I thought for sure I was dead. My head swam with dizziness, and the light playing before my half-closed eyes was erratic. But as my vision slowly returned, taking in the scene around me, I came to realise that I was not dead at all. My throat felt strange, uncomfortable, and I recalled what had happened.
All my training, since I was the youngest of children, had taught me one central lesson: obey. Everything I had ever learned taught me that to obey unthinkingly was my only chance at that fleeting dream of happiness...obey, obey, obey. And yet, when I had been given the first chance to practise my skills, I had broken that singular law. I had denied my master what he had requested of me, twice...and now what was to become of me? I deserved death, yet somehow it had not come.
I felt hands on me, fussing at my jewelry, and I moaned groggily as I turned my head to look.
I could never in a thousand years have prepared for what swam in front of my wide eyes. Gaunt, pale, sunken...this Death's face that stared down at me with a horrifying expression! I saw yellow, catlike eyes set into deep sockets, and an abnormally long-fingered and skeletal hand, reaching for my head! Death had come to claim me, after all! I did not tell my mouth to begin screaming, but it did on its own, and I desperately attempted to escape from the skeletal visage before me.
She screamed. Oh, how she screamed! I was really beginning to find this whole business tedious, and I unkindly poured a shot of arak down the girl's offending throat, and turned from her. She coughed and spluttered, eventually recovering her breath. When she had, she had apparently decided to do me the favour of ceasing her piercing shriek. I had replaced my mask by this point, and was standing by the wall in supreme indignance.
"Allah," she mumbled, and it was the first time I had heard her speak voluntarily, "What are you?"
I sighed, and crossed my arms. "I am the Angel of Doom. Haven't you heard of me?"
The girl did not meet my seething gaze, and I could not blame her. Brave men have blanched under the stony glare of my blank eyes. She was half-sitting again, leaning on her arms in a pose that looked entirely too attractive for my comfort. "Lie down," I ordered, and the girl's eyes flashed fearful again as she obeyed. I realised with irritation that she was still convinced that I was going to force myself on her. "For Heaven's sake, girl, desist from this incessant worrying. I told you, I have no intention of raping you."
And I found, now, that I did not. The burning lust which had so captivated me, and drawn me to this young concubine, had ebbed, conquered by my massive will, extinguished by my damp depression. I felt empty inside, somehow, as I always did when a particularly piquant thought occured to me. And this particular thought, the thought that I would never know a woman's love, was a very powerful one of its kind. I cursed myself in my weakness; cursed myself for being so damned emotional about such a thing, despite my hardened nature...but a part of my mind cried out with the justification, "How many men have been turned down by a Persian sex slave? Have I not the right to be offended?"
When I had absorbed the little comfort that offered me, I cursed myself again for thinking of the girl that way. I felt my mind drifting toward that inexorable downward spiral that always ended in thoughts of a vain suicide that never played out. I was aware, of course, of the usefulness of such spiralling destitution. It was almost always in such unpleasant occurences that my best music was composed, my best drafts drawn, and lately, my best tortures concocted. But I did not feel inspired to create, a feeling that I rarely became acquianted with, and my hands immediately began to grope the table for the bottle of unfeeling, but quickly inebriating, alcohol.
However, I was not to drink more than one hastily downed gulp before my quarters were again intruded upon. I cast an irritated glance at the girl on my bed - a strange phrase, to me - who now appeared to be asleep. I was not worried for her, having been highly educated on the finer points of strangulation and relatively educated in allaying such an occurence. She would be fine, and I turned, then, to my intruders. I looked at the daroga and his entourage with a cynical eye, waiting for the expected phrase to emit from my friend's mouth: "We heard screaming."
I was at that moment contemplating my scathing retort, unsure of whether my depression would allow for the extreme swaggering arrogance my choice phrase would imply. However, the words died on my lips, for though it was clear to me that Nadir was concerned about the girl's health, that was apparently not the business on which he came.
"The khanum has requested your immediate presence," he said, and I saw his eyes darting toward the open door to my bedroom. Whether or not he could see the girl's prostrate body on the covers was unknown to me, but it would likely have offered him scant solace, since she looked as dead as could be when I had glanced at her. I admit to being sadistically amused at the daroga's uneasiness, though this was replaced with shame when I remembered that he was - or had been, I thought with some regret - a father; and the girl chosen for me little more than a child. I spoke, at length.
"You will permit me to collect myself," I said, and indicated the shoddy state of my clothing. The daroga nodded, and I entered my room, sliding the door shut behind me. As wood collided with wood, the girl's head jerked up. Not asleep, then, just perfectly still. Strange creature.
I walked to the hateful mirror hung up against the wall, and began to fasten up the buttons that had come undone in my ire and carelessness. I could feel the girl's eyes on me, and I found that despite my desire to be kind to her, my irritation was rising yet again.
"I should think you would know better than to stare so," I snapped, and immediately I sensed her bow her head in silent apology. I took a deep breath, attempting to regain my composure, and then began to speak. "I will be gone a while," I said, "I won't likely be back before dark. I expect you to be gone by the time I return." At this, I heard her mouth open in protest, but I waved a hand to silence her, "You will find sufficient money as you can need in an area of which I will tell you...I expect you to take as much as you need, no, as much as you want, and be gone. Speak to the Daroga, he will arrange you a carriage, if you like. You may go anywhere. But do not be in my apartment when I return," I ordered, turning on her angrily, "Or you will face a punishment worse than that of the shah himself."
She nodded, terrified. The Daroga and the two guards who accompanied him were still standing in my quarters when I emerged, groomed and with a young girl in tow. The relief that flooded the Persian policeman when he saw the unharmed slave girl was almost embarrassing, and I was hasty to show the three of them out the door. I then, urging the girl to be silent, showed her where I had been hoarding my twinkling shards of beauty. I instructed her to leave the jewels be, however, the paper money and coinage was fair game. She looked at me with horror, and I knew that she wouldn't take it if I didn't force it on her. Slightly exasperated, I grabbed a reckless and extravagant handful of notes and shoved them forcibly into her hands.
"Take them or risk my wrath," I ordered, and she shamefully but quickly tucked them away into some hidden pocket in her voluminous pants. I stood, then, though she remained kneeling at my feet, looking up at me with wonder. I crossed to the door, and turned back to her one last time. "Remember, be gone by nightfall, or your punishment will be swift, but painful."
The door shut behind me, and I composedly faced my friend and my escort.