I counted each grain slowly, carefully, making sure not to displace or lose any. Rough little grains of rice underneath my fingertips, each standing for a single day that I had been imprisoned here. Eleven in all. Eleven days behind these bars.

When every grain had been accounted for, I let the mattress fall back down upon the bed. I remained kneeling on the floor for a moment, listening for the guards, but when I heard nothing as the seconds ticked by, I breathed again, and clambered to my feet. Not that I had anywhere to go.

Six paces from side to side. Six paces from end to end. Three walls of cold stone, one endless row of metal bars. Two beds on opposite walls, a sink and a toilet in one corner. My cup and bowl, also made of metal, slightly dented. Other than these things - and myself - my cell was bare.

I flopped back down on the bed and curled onto my side, trying to ignore my growling stomach. The meals were meager and unsatisfying, but at least they were regular, twice a day, morning and evening. I thought perhaps they were shortchanging me, giving me reduced rations because of my small size, but I had no way of comparing with anyone else.

The worst thing to do about hunger was to brood on it, I had discovered. So to drag my thoughts away from the empty ache, I tried to imagine what I'd be doing today, if I were still free. It was a weekday, so I figured it'd be about the time of day that I would usually be walking to school, though I had no way of knowing the time here, since my watch had been taken away.

It was well into autumn now, so the leaves would be falling from the trees to scatter over the footpath, crunching beneath my soles. The air would be chill but fresh. Perhaps there might be rain, a hint of approaching winter. I hadn't heard any rain since I had been taken, but the cell was buried so deep within the building, I doubted I'd hear it even if it stormed.

Storms had always frightened me.

Perhaps I should sleep, I thought. It was pretty much the only way I had to while away the time. During the night, I slept fitfully, stirring at every sound. During the day, I felt a little safer. They had never come for me during the day.

I slept.

I woke disoriented, having no idea of the time. It wasn't yet evening, since the clatter of the mealcart was always enough to wake me, but I couldn't tell how long I had been asleep. I remained motionless, listening, trying to ascertain what it was that had woken me.

And then I heard voices and the sound of booted feet, coming down the hall.

I scrambled to my feet, flying to the back of my cell, standing there pressed into the corner, shivering. It was an instinctive action, to get as far away from the door as I could. It didn't help, of course. When they wanted me, they would drag me out easily, no matter where I stood.

Boots and marching feet meant officers, rather than the usual guards. What were officers doing down in the cell block, during the day? The only reasons they had for coming down here was to deliver a prisoner, or to take one away. Was my time up, at last?

I held my breath, hoping that they would pass by my cage, that they were coming for someone else. Closer, and closer, and I could hear now that there were at least two of them. One of them was speaking rapidly, and then the sounds became clearer as they were suddenly directly before my cell. And then they halted.

I thought my heart would beat through my chest.

There was another verbal exchange that meant nothing to me, and then the key was turning in the lock of my door. I flattened myself against the stone, too terrified to move, to cry or even breathe. The door grated open, the hinges old and beginning to rust. There was silence for a moment, my heartbeat echoing loudly within my ears, and then there was a thud, as of something heavy landing upon the floor.

I stood as if paralysed, unable to move, even if I had have wanted to.

There came a smug-sounding remark from one of the officers, the other replying in apparent agreement. And finally, the door swung closed again with a metallic clang, the key turned in the lock, and the booted feet retreated down the hallway.

And I was left alone, save for whatever it was that they had left within my cell.

I stood there, my heart thudding wildly and my hands threatening to cramp, they were clenched so tightly. The minutes passed, but I heard no sound, no hint of movement from whatever it was. Slowly, I forced myself to relax, to breathe deeply again and fill my oxygen-starved lungs. There was only one way to know what it was, and I decided that it was better to find out now, than remain shivering in terror wondering.

I took a small, hesitant step away from the wall. I paused again, waiting, but nothing happened. So I slid the other foot forwards, taking another shuffling step, and then another, until my toe caught upon something solid that hadn't been there before.

I folded down to kneel beside it, the floor cold and hard beneath my knees, and reached out a trembling hand. My fingers brushed upon something rough, and I jerked them back instantly, as if burnt. Cloth. My mind picked out the texture from all those I knew.

I reached out again, and when I met resistance, didn't draw away this time, but spread my palm over the material, and the solid but slightly yielding object underneath. It was a body. Only living things had that unique resistance and give -- and warmth.

A person. They'd put somebody else in my cell with me. I drew my hand back again abruptly, waiting, expecting some reaction to my touch. But none came. For a panicked moment, I thought that perhaps that it literally was a body, that they were playing some kind of cruel joke on me, just to watch my reaction. But something dead wouldn't be warm, would it? I tried to reason with myself.

Unconscious, then, or it would have woken at my fumblings.

Reluctantly, I reached out yet again to touch the body, to run my hands very lightly over its contours, to get a feel for position and size. Male, I discovered, my palm flat against the chest. He was sprawled flat on his back, limbs lax and disordered. I followed one arm down to his hand, and took it within my own.

They were about the same size, I was surprised to find, his hand and mine. I straightened out his curled fingers, and noted that there were calluses on his palm, where my hands were smooth and soft. I had the hands of a scholar, he of a soldier. But how old could he be?

I found his face and ran the backs of my fingers along his jawline. No stubble. He'd either shaved very recently, which I couldn't imagine being likely since was a prisoner just as I was, or he was slow to grow one. Or perhaps hadn't yet begun to. A soldier of such tender years?

My hand continued to his ear, and then I found my fingers following the length of tangled hair that streamed there. It must have been shoulder-length, at least, I decided. That seemed unusual in itself. Weren't soldiers supposed to have cropped hair?

I couldn't tell anything from his clothing, since he was garbed in standard prison issue, as I was. Trousers with no belt, a shirt, slip-on shoes. That left one last avenue to explore, and I had best do it now, because I knew I wouldn't have another chance when he awoke.

Very, very softly, I ran my fingertips over his face; along his eyebrows, down the ridge of his nose, a brush across closed eyelids and frayed-silk eyelashes. Along the cupid's bow of his lips. He didn't stir, but I felt the gentle stir of air as he exhaled and inhaled against my palm.

There was a roughness at one temple, and a stickiness. I couldn't tell what it was without tasting it, which I wasn't game to do, but I guessed that it was probably blood. A blow to the head would account for being unconscious, as well.

I sat back upon my heels. My knees were getting sore, and the chill was seeping through to my skin. How much worse must it be for him, I wondered, lying sprawled upon the floor? It couldn't be doing him much good, that was certain.

I had to get him to the bed.

Deciding upon a course of action was much easier than putting the idea into practice, I discovered. For a start, I hadn't exactly had much practice in lifting anything that was as heavy as I was. But the main problem was the awkwardness of my burden. I didn't know where to hold him, without him flopping out of my grasp, or having one of his limbs accidentally knock me in the head. His body was harder than mine, wiry, roped with muscle where mine was soft.

In the end I dragged him across to the other bed by his wrists, and then wrapped my arms around his middle and heaved him onto the mattress. It was awkward, but it probably didn't do him any damage. Once lying on top of the bed, I arranged him neatly, and then had to work the blanket out from under him, before I could re-settle it over the top of him. I should have thought of that before I moved him, I though, disgruntled.

Lack of foresight had always been a flaw of mine.

Finally, getting the blanket tucked tightly under his chin and his head nestled neatly in the hollow of his pillow, I sat back on the ground for a moment, wondering what I should do next. That gash needed to be cleaned up, I decided, though how I was going to manage that, I had no idea.

I needed a cloth of some kind, a bandage. But I had nothing save what I was wearing, and that barely covered me, without anything extra left over. The bedsheets, I suddenly recalled. I scrambled back over to my own bed, and pulled the end of the sheet out, from where it was tucked beneath the mattress. There was a good handspan or two of extra cloth there. Surely a strip wouldn't be missed.

Again I discovered that sometimes ideas are better in theory than practice. Ripping cloth isn't anywhere nearly as easy as it sounds, without something sharp. It was starting it off that was the problem; all the edges had been hemmed, for the exact purpose of preventing tears. At a loss, I resorted to my childhood method of opening things, and began to gnaw through it with my teeth.

It took me a few minutes, and bedsheet isn't exactly the greatest taste in the world, but I persevered and eventually managed to bite through it. After that, ripping a long strip off wasn't difficult, until I got to the opposite hem, which I had forgotten about, and had to bite through that as well.

By the time I'd finished my mouth was sore, but I had what I wanted, and was pretty pleased with myself. I tucked the sheet back beneath the bed, running my hands around the outer edges of the mattress to make sure no frayed ends were sticking out. Then I took my strip and tore it into two parts, one longer than the other. The shorter would do as an improvised cloth, the longer as a bandage.

I headed over to the sink and wet the shorter thoroughly, squeezing out the drips. Then I fumbled my way back to the other bed, almost knocking my shins on the frame in my haste. I sat down gingerly on the edge of the mattress and found his face again, cupping it in one hand. With the other, I gently wiped the encrusted area, letting it dry a little before touching it tentatively, to see whether it was bleeding again. Only a little sticky, so it wasn't as bad as I had feared.

Another trip to the sink to wash out the cloth, and then I returned to wipe the area clean again, and wrap it up. I wound the longer strip around his forehead, just above the ears, trying to get it into a position where it wouldn't slide off if he moved. It went around three times, and I tied it off above his opposite ear.

Finally, I returned to the sink and wrung out the cloth again, draping it over the spout to dry. There wasn't anything more I could do for him, now.

I lay down my bed again, not realising until then how much my brief burst of activity had tired me, after days of motionless confinement. Now, all I could do was rest, and wait for him to wake.

That was when the doubt set in. What would happen when he woke?

Unconscious and injured, he was vulnerable, and I was the one in the position of power, a position I rarely had the opportunity to be in. When he awoke, the advantage would swing sharply in his favour, and I would be vulnerable again. At his mercy.

He was a soldier. Soldiers were the ones who had hurt me.

And now I was locked in a cell, with a soldier for company.

I couldn't sleep, knowing he was just over the other side of the room. I found myself jumping at every small sound. Once he seemed to turn over or shift position, and I thought he might be awake, but I didn't dare approach to find out. There were no further sounds for a long time after that.

Hours. A number of them. I couldn't tell how many I had twitched through, by the time the mealcart came round with dinner. I'd left my bowl in the appropriate slot after breakfast, and I listened as the cart rattled its way down the corridor.

Some of the prisoners must have commented on the food, I heard a malicious laugh, and later, a growled remonstration. I said nothing, and remained motionless as I heard my bowl taken and filled. There was another clunk shortly after that, indicating a second bowl had been added. I was certainly glad that we weren't expected to share.

I waited until the cart was well past my cell before I slowly moved to the door and collected a bowl. I couldn't tell which was mine, but a tentative investigation found that both held roughly the same amount, so I supposed it didn't really matter.

I quickly returned to my bed, sitting cross-legged with my back against the wall as I made short work of my meal. No liquids, of course, we were provided with free-flowing water, if we were thirsty. For that I was grateful. Things could have been much worse, being hungry and thirsty, both.

After my meal I gave my bowl as much of a washing in the sink as I could without detergent or soap, and set it back in the door slot to dry, ready for breakfast. As I did so, I caught the smell of the rice in the remaining bowl. For a moment, I was tempted. He was asleep, and who knows when he was going to wake up. He'd never know.

But I'd know, I thought, and mentally sighed. I couldn't do it, not even something as silly as taking someone else's dinner. He was so helpless, it just wouldn't be right. I blinked at that thought, suddenly wondering if that was what people thought about me. I despised being thought of as helpless.

But he needed me to take care of him.

Only until he wakes up, I resolved. When he wakes up, he becomes the enemy. I refused to trust anybody in this place.

I made my way back to the sink and filled myself a cup of water, gulping it down. It had a slightly bitter taste, but it was wet and cool, and I was used to it, by now. As I drank, the thought came to me of the prisoner's lips, and how dry they had been. It seemed likely that he was thirsty, dehydrated.

But how on earth did you get someone who was unconscious to drink, without choking them? This would require some thought.

I refilled my cup to about halfway, and slowly made my way back to his bedside. I remained there, listening, until I was certain that his breathing was still shallow and regular. He was asleep.

If I tipped it straight into his mouth, he might swallow it, but he might just try and breath it in. Water in his lungs probably wouldn't do his health any good, so I abandoned that option pretty quickly. Maybe if I sat him up it might help, but on the other hand, it might not, as well. I couldn't think of any way to guarantee it went down the right way, so in the end I gave up.

Perhaps I could soothe his dry lips though, I thought. I dipped my fingers into the water, and then brought them to his mouth. The first time I misjudged the distance, and dribbled water down his chin. After wiping it off with my sleeve, I tried again, and went straight to his lips this time, letting the drips trail along the parched skin.

I repeated the gesture, seeing as though all the moisture was absorbed immediately. I figured if a little of it dribbled into his mouth, it wouldn't hurt. It made me feel good, knowing I was able to do something to help someone else, little though it was. I guess when your situation is pretty much hopeless, anything that gives you even a little control is welcome.

Except that the balance suddenly shifted, when I felt a snap of movement and a hand closed around my wrist.

I might have screamed. I don't remember. All I remember is jerking my arm away with such force that I overbalanced and landed hard, sprawled on the floor. Then I was moving again, scrambling away on all fours until I hit the wall, and then scraping myself along it until I was tucked into the far corner.

My shoulder hurt, I was pressed against it so hard, and I was sure there'd be a bruise tomorrow. I remained motionless, my ears straining for any sound, word, or hint of movement. But there was silence for some moments, and I became even more nervous, if it were possible.

Even though I was expecting it, the sound of his voice startled me when it came, and I threw up my head, trying to pinpoint the sound. The words weren't intelligible to me, but his tone wasn't angry, as I'd somehow expected, but quite calm, almost apologetic.

I said nothing. I didn't understand, and I was too panicked to think rationally. He'd given me such a shock that the adrenalin was still coursing through my body.

He spoke again, this time with a questioning tone, but I didn't know what he wanted. Would he become angry with my when I didn't answer? Memories of my interrogation were still vivid in my mind, and I flinched.

Another question, more insistent this time. I huddled away, trying to press further into the corner as if perhaps I could pass through the stone, if I leant hard enough. I couldn't control the shivering that took a hold of me.

"I don't understand! I don't speak your language!" My voice was hoarse and raspy, after so long without use. I hadn't had anyone to speak to since I was locked in here, nobody that could understood, and I had never been able to just talk to myself for the sake of it.

He said something else then, but this time it wasn't a question. What did he want from me now? I didn't dare move, remaining frozen, with only the wall holding me up.

Then there came the muted rustle of the blanket being shifted aside, the sound of shoes landing on the ground, and a slight squeak as weight was lifted from the mattress. He must be standing now. He took a step in my direction, and I flung my head back again, trying to catch each and every sound.

He stopped moving and made a strange sound. I thought it was a word at first, until I realised he was repeating it over and over. It was a soft sibilance, "Saaa, saaa," over and over, as if it wasn't the word that was important, it was the tone. Soft, and gentle, as if he was trying to calm me. Or perhaps lure me.

I wouldn't be calmed. While he was unconscious, I had almost begun to welcome this unexpected companion in my cell. But now he was awake, a walking, talking threat, and I couldn't control the panic that engulfed me.

He took another step closer, and another, still repeating his one-word mantra. It brought him to stand before me, close enough to reach out and touch, and I could feel the solidness of his presence, and his voice was loud in my ears. He touched my shoulder. Like they touched me.

I jerked away from the touch, near-insane with fear, and tried to dart around him. I completely misjudged the distance and half-crashed into his side, but continued to push past until I was free again. I ran to the opposite corner, landing palms-out against the stones, and then spun back to face him as I jammed my shoulders into the junction.

"Saaa, saaa," he repeated again, sounding a little chiding this time. I heard a sigh, and then more movement, but it wasn't in my direction. As best I could tell, he moved back to his bed instead, and settled down upon it.

What was he doing? Was he going to leave me alone now? Or was this just a ploy to lull me into a false sense of security? I remained exactly where I was, listening suspiciously, but he didn't move again. He did start to hum though, an idle little tune, and though I didn't recognise it, it sounded off-key to me.

It was irritating.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, while he continued his lopsided song. My legs and shoulders began to ache from being held in tense readiness to flee. Eventually, I found myself relaxing a fraction, unable to keep up my sentinel position, exhausted. There was no change in his song, or any indication that he noticed, as I took an extremely hesitant step away from the wall.

When that got no reaction, I squared my shoulders and walked stiffly back to my own bed, not knowing if he was sitting there ready to pounce, or even watching me at all. Only when I settled myself back down cross-legged on top of the covers did he cease his humming.

"Saaa, saaa!" He commented, sounding pleased.

I tensed again immediately, but he didn't move from where he was.

"Saaa, saaa," he said again, this time followed by a stream of cheerful babble that didn't make any sense at all. Then a pause, and a soft thump, and a final word. What that was all about, I couldn't work out.

When I made no response, the thump and the word were repeated. I frowned slightly, trying to pick the sound. It sounded like someone being hit, and then I realised that was exactly what it was. He was slapping his own chest, indicating himself. Which meant that what followed, was probably his name.

He repeated it for a third time, and then waited again. He was teaching me his name.

For some reason it surprised me utterly, that someone would go to this sort of effort to try and communicate with me. I had expected him to either dismiss me completely, or use me for his own ends. This attempt was unexpected -- but not entirely unwelcome.

Warily, I raised a hand, pointed in his general direction, and echoed the name as best I could, sound by sound.

"Ta-shi-yu-ki?"

My effort provoked another excited outpouring of chatter, and he clapped his hands together.

"Tashiyuki." I didn't know whether it was his first name, last name, or perhaps both, but it was a name. The soldier had an identity now, and a voice, which made him real in my mind, rather than just the body that I had carted around, that had no more personality than a sack of potatoes. This guy had personality practically oozing across the room.

He was asking something else now, and repeating the question, when I didn't answer. My name, I realised, he wanted my name.

I tapped a finger against my own chest. "Blair."

There was something of an exasperated comment, followed by a barely-recognisable attempt at my name. It came out sounding more like "Bureroo." I remembered that the officers who had interrogated me had had a lot of trouble with it, too.

"No, Blair. Blaaaaaaiiiiir." I tried to make the consonants sharp, so that he wouldn't keep putting vowels where there were none.

"Brer."

Oh great, so now I was a rabbit, I thought to myself, with a small smile. "Blllllair," I said. One more time.

Finally he managed to get out something that was identifiable as my name. "Blair."

I clapped his efforts, as he had clapped mine, and I heard a bubble of delighted laughter from the other side of the room.

I still didn't trust him. But it was a beginning, of sorts.