The damp of the prison cell was almost welcome when night fell. Jacen felt the heat of the day slowly seeping out of the stone floor, leaving him with moist residue covering his entire body, soaking through his clothes and through his hair. He gave a sickly cough and tugged weakly against the restraints that held his arms cruelly behind his back; the scabs on his wrists stung as the metal of the cuffs ground against them.

Part of him wondered how much more of this torture he could endure. Mentally, he was secure. He felt the constant barrage of Brakiss’ Force energy against the fragile shields protecting his mind and the information it contained, and knew he had the strength enough to hold the Sith lord off for an infinite amount of time. Even in his sleep, he did not fear.

Physically, his body was ready to give out. Dirty water, moldy food, and filthy living conditions did not help to cure him of his ailments. Jacen could almost feel Death lingering outside his door, its gaunt face staring at him, waiting. Waiting for that one moment where enough would be enough, so it could slip inside and steal from him that which his mother had given him: life.

He’d lost track of the days he’d lived inside this miserable cell. An occasional glance at the wall painfully reminded him that many, many months had passed since he had last seen the suns setting on the horizon, or the planet as it came up brilliantly in the night sky. Months since he’d held a snake in his hands or inspected the veins of a plant, anxious to learn what made it live, thrive. It had certainly been weeks since Zekk had last come to him at all.

Oddly, he found it disheartening.

Odder still, he missed the dark-haired man’s presence.

Think of Jaina, he willed himself and remembered with painful fondness the mischievous glimmer in his twin’s eyes when she finally figured out how some expensive ship part functioned. Or what it looked like when it exploded, he thought with a smile that caused his lower lip to bleed.

"…this way, Prime Minister…"

Jacen’s mind became lucid at those words, his eyes flicking to the tiny window in his door. He heard the click of expensive leather heels against stone flooring and the hushed, undertone of conversation. He swallowed and tried to sit up, then sighed in defeat and remained where he lay on the floor.

Moments later, a man’s face appeared at the small window, peering in on him curiously. Jacen stared back, too exhausted to form his features into a scowl. The man frowned, then said in a commanding, yet quiet voice, "Unlock the door. I should I to speak with him."

A guard Jacen couldn’t see said a bit awkwardly, "Uh, sir, I’m afraid that goes against protocol—"

"Do I honestly look as if I give a damn about protocol?" the man demanded caustically and fixed the guard with a glare that would have made a rancor yield. When there was no argument, he commanded again, "Now open the door!"

"Of—of course, Prime Minister," the guard stammered and struggled to fit the key in the lock. He twisted the handle, and with a creak the door swung open, spilling iridescent yellow light into the cell. Jacen winced and looked aside for a moment. When he looked back up, the man was standing in the doorway, regarding him with a horrified expression on his face.

His most distinctive features were the two head-tails that draped his shoulders, distinguishing him immediately as Twi’lek. He wore deep maroon, flowing robes bound at the waist with a brown belt. Engraved on the belt was a symbol Jacen did not recognize.

The Twi’lek man strode over to him in two easy steps, then knelt beside him and began to work the cuffs loose from his wrists. The guard started forward, protests already flying from his mouth, but the man turned swiftly and presented a blaster. The barrel was aimed at the guard’s chest.

"I will remove these bindings," he said with deadly calm, "and then I will see to it that he is properly groomed. Then, we shall talk. You will make sure that all I request is brought to me with no questions asked. If you do not, the consequences are grim." He arched an eyebrow and gave his head a slight tilt, letting the implied threat hang heavy on the damp air. The guard shifted uneasily.

"Do we understand each other?" the Prime Minister asked.

"Y-yes, sir," the guard stammered in a hoarse whisper. "W-what can I bring you?"

"You can start by bringing me a basin of warm water, soap, and a wash rag," the Twi’lek replied. He holstered his blaster, then turned back around and resumed his attempt to pick the lock on the bindings. Jacen lay very still on the ground, confusion abounding in his mind.

As the guard disappeared down the corridor, he croaked hoarsely, "Who are you?"

"Kehrik Tan, Prime Minister of Denton," the Twi’lek answered calmly and finally, with a barely audible grunt and the sound of metal grinding against metal, Jacen felt his bindings fall away from his wrists.

Aching, he slowly brought his arms around, hesitant to see the damage done to his wrist. He temporarily averted his gaze; dried blood covered his arms and thick, scabby wounds festered with infection. He felt the slight whistle of exhaled breath behind him and looked over his shoulder at the Twi’lek. Kehrik met his gaze steadily.

"Why are you doing this?" Jacen asked, bewildered.

Kehrik arched one of his eyebrows. "Would you rather me have left you here?"

"No!" Jacen answered hurriedly. "No, I… thank you, I really appreciate this. I’m just puzzled, that’s all."

Kehrik rose from where he crouched and walked over to the door. The guard was back with the items that Kehrik had requested. Politely, Kehrik inclined his head and flashed a smile filled with serried fangs; the guard shuffled off anxiously.

He returned and knelt in front of Jacen again. "Someone wishes it done. That is why."

"Who?" Jacen asked earnestly. "Zekk? It’s Zekk, isn’t it? Why did he ask you? How do you know him anyway?"

"Do you question everyone you come across in a similar fashion?" Kehrik asked, rich amusement lacing his words. He poured some of the soap into the basin of water, then wet the rag. Jacen fell silent, coloring red with embarrassment. "Yes, I am doing this on Zekk’s bidding, but he did not ask me specifically. I know him because… well. Lord Brakiss is attempting to coerce me into signing a treaty with him." A distinctly sour grimace was apparent on his face.

Jacen furrowed his brows and mulled over what Kehrik said for a moment. "If he didn’t ask, then how…"

"I should think that you, of all people, should understand how the Light side of the Force functions, Jacen," Kehrik said in a conspirator’s whisper. At Jacen’s astonished gasp, he tipped the young man a wink and whispered again, "Let’s keep this little piece of information secret, shall we? Now." He resumed scrubbing mercilessly at Jacen’s hairline. "When was the last time you bathed, boy?"