Author's Note: "What I give form to in daylight is only one percent of what I have seen in darkness" M.C. Escher

"There are two kinds of light—the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures." James Thurber

Ask the Shadow for Light

Philean Sakkar leaned back in his chair, setting the datapad on the massive wooden desk in front of him, and rubbed his eyes.

"Most of the other captives were dead when I arrived…the ones that were alive weren't alive for long."

"How did they die?"

"Some of them died during Rave's 'experiments.'"

"Did you ever see the results of what he did to them?"

"Occasionally one would be dragged passed my cell. I remember—there was a Twilek girl with lacerations all up and down her body placed in a cell near mine. She was taken to the operation room six times before she died—each time she came back with parts of her headtails missing."

"And the others…?"

"Starvation. After a while they didn't even bother removing the bodies…"

The light tap of nails on his office door broke his reverie. He straightened, reflexively smoothing the simple blue robes he always wore after a hard day in court. The door opened, and Trill Kre'fey swept into the room still wearing her ceremonial white, her silver-flecked fur rippling with displeasure. "Been talking with Pealen?" he asked, gesturing towards the seat across from him.

The Bothan's lip curled as she sank into the brown leather chair. "How that man was ever allowed to continue serving on the bench is beyond me—he's set on letting that sick…"

"Pealen's mind was made up before the trial started. There's little you can do about it," Philean interjected calmly.

"There's plenty I can do," Trill said, a slightly evil grin spreading across her face.

The Twilek sighed, resisting the urge to massage his lekku. "Whatever political assassination you're planning will have to wait until after this trial, Trill. Then, by all means, wreak justice upon the old and immovable."

"Age is no excuse."

"No. It is not. But perhaps we should learn to be lenient with those who have lived so long believing one doctrine that they have nothing else. Pealen is on the edge of senility. He won't be with us much longer."

"So that somehow gives him permission to deny justice?" she hissed.

"History is written by the winners, Trill. Right and wrong are relative terms. You would do well to remember that."

"Still he…"

Philean raised a hand to silence her furious retort. "But I agree he is no longer capable of serving on the bench. All I ask is that you allow him to step down quietly and disappear into the shadows. There is no point destroying him so late in his life, and your sense of justice would be lost on him anyway. Let him be."

The subject was closed, but the younger woman squirmed to say more, almost pouting. Philean picked up the datapad from his desk and scanned the testimonies of Ms.Richards and Dr. Rave for the hundredth time. Trill opened her mouth to speak. "I reserve judgment until the end," he said, cutting her off, "Only when every argument has been made, every witness testified, all evidence examined, do I make my decision."

The Bothan smiled—she'd heard it all before. "But you must be leaning one way or another?"

She was really starting to get on his nerves. "I keep my own counsel."

"You don't honestly believe that that…doctor," she spat the word out, "is innocent?"

Philean set down the datapad and placed his arms on the desk, lacing his fingers below his black eyes. He leaned forward. "No. I am quite certain he is guilty."

Trill's face softened. "Then why…"

"But I don't believe the prosecution has proved he is beyond a reasonable doubt."

"How can you say that after Ms. Richards testimony today?" Trill's brown eyes were blazing.

"Trill, listen to me. This case boils down to he said, she said—and both parties involved are lying."

"That girl was not lying," she spat.

"Not outright, no—but she wasn't telling the whole truth either." Again the Bothan opened her mouth, and again he cut her off. "As I said, I'm reserving judgment."

"So lying and not telling the whole truth are equal?"

"You are assuming that Dr. Rave is lying. As impartial judges, no matter what we feel, we must assume that everyone is telling the truth unless it is proved otherwise. The Officer of Prosecution has not convinced me that my suspicions are any more than that: suspicions fueled by moral outrage and a need to blame someone. I don't want to believe that Dr. Rave is innocent, but for now I must."

Trill's fur bristled. "Don't treat me like some rookie law student, Philean. I know my job. And as far as your 'moral outrage' goes, I'm less than impressed. We've been friends a long time, but…"

"But what? Going to drag my name through the dirt? A little routine backstabbing?" he asked, his bored voice concealing the pain her accusations caused him.

"Dammit, Philean! There were ten Bothans at that facility…and sixty-seven Twileks! They were your people he tortured to death—and you just sit there on you high horse talking about justice. Are you so cold as to…?"

"Don't finish that sentence, Trill," he said, his voice deadly. "Don't you dare say I don't care when you know I do." He snatched the datapad from his desk and stared at it unseeingly. "I think you'd better leave, Trill," he said without looking up, "It's getting late."

The Bothan judge stood up slowly, crossed to the door, and opened it. Above the datapad, he could see her looking back at him. "I know you care, Philean. I'm sorry," she said and left. He gazed at the spot she'd been standing—the datapad forgotten in his hands.

"I would lay awake at night, and I would hear them dying."

There was no point going home. Philean knew he wouldn't get any sleep that night—all he could hope for now was a little peace before the sun rose on another day. But another knock on his office door destroyed any hope of that. "Come in," he sighed. A toad-like man peaked around the door before scurrying into the room. The Twilek stiffened. "What do you want, Muller?"

The man had an irritating twitch over his left eye—it was beating frantically now. "Mr. Reynolds just wanted assurance of your position, your honor. His offer still stands firm and…"

Philean leapt to his feet, rage burning in his eyes. "Get out."

"But sir!" The diminutive Muller shrunk backward.

"Get out!" Muller didn't need to be told twice—he was already out the door. Philean collapsed back into his chair and cradled his head in his hands. Law is not justice. "…and I would hear them dying."

"I didn't think you'd agree to see me."

"I didn't think you had the nerve to come." Lucius glared at the sergeant sitting stiffly across the bare metal table from him, his mouth curled in a sneer. "Did she send you?" He couldn't keep the hopeful note from his voice.

Sgt. Knight's face remained impassive. "No. I want some answers."

"Oh I see—this interview is simply to satisfy your own little need to meddle," he prodded, raising his eyebrows, "Does she even know you're here?"

The sergeant's expression didn't waver; his blue-black eyes remained fixed on the doctor's pale ones. "I will ask the questions, Rave."

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Then by all means ask away. Although, I don't know what help I'll be seeing as Ms. Richards has already told you…." He broke off, seeing the slight flicker in the younger man's face—a flash and it was gone. Lucius' smile widened. "So she hasn't told you everything about her terrible ordeal? How strange—you seemed so close at the trial." There was bitter taste in his mouth at the memory of them holding hands. At least I know he's not with her tonight.

"She refuses to speak about what happened between you two."

A humorless laugh escaped his throat. "And you think I will?" The sergeant looked taken aback. Lucius leaned forward, hatred written in every line of his face. "Thought I was the bragging type, did you? I wouldn't tell you anything to save my life." That's a piece of her you'll never have, pretty boy.

Sgt. Knight gave him a curt nod and stood to go, but Lucius couldn't resist one last jab at his retreating back. "I wonder how she would feel if she knew you went behind her back. Your faith in her is astounding…" The sergeant turned so fast, Lucius thought for a moment he had a gun—that it was then end. But the young man's hands were empty. The two men glared at each other, matching hatred with hatred.

"Do you love her?" Sgt. Knight whispered, breaking the standoff. Lucius recognized the pain, the disbelief in his voice, but only smirked in reply. The door slammed shut, and Lucius listened to the sergeant's steps recede down the hall.