Notes: This is a fic that's been stewing in my head for a while and finally made its way into words. Takes place immediately after Lowen-Rebecca A. Throwing out a warning for panic attacks and hints of child neglect.

There's got to be something left... I need something...

Lowen's hands shook as he felt around in his rations bag. It was light, he knew, but not empty. It couldn't be empty. Finally, his fingers brushed against something soft, textured, and (his heart leapt) sizable; he pulled it out, regarding it just long enough to know it was bread and that it might have been molded over before cramming it heedlessly into his mouth, wolfing the entire loaf down without tasting any of it. There was a final, dizzying pang as the load hit his stomach- he groaned slightly and gripped the reins of his horse- and then it settled in, leaving him draped partway over his saddle, limp and breathless as though he'd just fought his way through the whole of Nergal's hordes. He felt sick- not because of the questionable quality of the bread, but because he thought he was past such weakness. And to involve Rebecca in all of it—

Lowen's stomach lurched again. The last few minutes had been a panicked blur, but flashes of it were coming back to him. He should have known better than to go searching for her at the end of such an easily-won battle, to conceive of her as being in any danger even as she stood grinning up at him with freshly-killed rabbits under her belt– but that was all easier, much easier to realize on a full stomach. He couldn't remember which words had come tumbling out of his mouth- but he did remember hers. Something about being ungrateful and selfish and begging like a stray dog...

It stung then to know he wouldn't be granted any relief— nothing beyond a wrinkled nose and a disparaging eye from Rebecca before she turned her heel and stormed off- and it stung now to know that she was plainly right. He'd grown to expect square meals out of her, had gone so far this time as to neglect his own rations, and the one time she couldn't deliver— Lowen's head whirled in a flurry of renewed panic: had he shouted at her? He turned back around, slinking one arm around his horse's neck and running another through his overgrown hair, willing his breath steady with every ounce of his strength, but without any success.

It was the loss of control that most unsettled him. He could hold out against the pain and dizziness and nausea— knighthood had steeled his body well enough in that regard- but to be driven like a workhorse in the face of his hunger demonstrated nothing less than a feeble spirit. It was absurd- shameful, even- but he found himself compelled against reason: gorging himself at every meal, hoarding leftovers from the kitchen to graze on in the intervals between, waking long before dawn so that he'd be ready when the previous night's fortification wore off. Anything, anything to fend off the twisting at the pit of his stomach- and worse, the memories that came flooding in with it...

The taste of dirt seemed to fill Lowen's mouth, and he buried himself into his horse's mane, biting his tongue until it went away.

Lowen plodded back to camp somewhat later than the others, his intention honed down to filling his ration bag and resting before supper. On the way back, however, the weather changed suddenly, whipping itself into a furious thunderstorm. By the time he'd cloaked his horse against the rain, it had already soaked both of them to the skin. He reported to General Marcus in the strategy tent, shivering and dripping wet, but mercifully not yet hungry.

"Where have you been, boy?" barked the older knight.

"M-my apologies, sir," Lowen mumbled, his teeth chattering. Marcus grunted in apparent satisfaction, his eyes dropping to the map laid out before him; he never needed an answer beyond Lowen's assured fault in the matter, which suited the apprentice well enough.

"Sit down so we can reassess your duties for the next few days. As you can see, our previous plan's been delayed— "

"Sir?"

"The rain, boy!" Marcus gestured sharply, as though there was a window lining the tent wall; Lowen looked despite himself. "We can't expect to travel in this weather— can you imagine trying to ford a mud bank with that horse of yours stockpiled the way you have her?"

"O-of course not, sir." Something occurred to him. "Sir, what about our supplies?"

"Did you not hear a word I said? We're locked into this bit of wood until the rain stops. Unless St. Elimine herself decides to grant us a heavenly banquet, we're stuck with what we've got. So I don't want to see you making off with any more rations— do you understand?"

Lowen nodded against his inclination. What was left of his rations had been drenched through, and he'd set all his hopes in replenishing them upon his return. He knew their supplies weren't limitless, of course, but between Merlinus's stores and (his throat clenched) Rebecca's resourcefulness, he hadn't wanted for food at any point in their travels. Lowen tried to follow along as Marcus cleared his throat and launched into an overview of his anticipated duties, but all the young knight could think of were those fresh rabbits. He found his mouth watering and swallowed hastily. Rebecca was right- he was no better than a stray dog. He couldn't even let himself be trained properly.

After Marcus was done with him, Lowen set about to working, hoping that the activity would keep his mind away from the limited rations. He'd never considered himself a thief for taking whatever food he needed, but the new restrictions gave his thoughts a guilty edge. He wondered how many of the others would ignore the order and take for themselves while he was left with nothing. Bartre's used to second helpings, isn't he? And since when has Lord Hector ever followed orders? But Marcus trusted him. And Marcus knew about his condition. Initially, the general tried shocking the panic out of him, convinced it would only take obedience and a solid work ethic to forge Lowen's demeanor into something hardened and composed. Lowen failed him thoroughly enough on this count for Marcus to drop the matter and begrudgingly allow him his rations bag. He was far from generous about it, but he accepted that it couldn't be helped. Marcus had listened to him, he understood— that in itself was rare.

Rebecca had understood, too— he was sure of it. They'd known each other since Lowen stumbled into his first battle; fought together since, without more than a bold, trusting glance, she vaulted up onto his horse with her bow in hand back in her besieged home village. She hadn't laughed or scoffed at his emergency rations- but she'd heard about them from Marcus, and Lowen later realized that he must have explained everything to her. How else could she have known to ride with him on their march through the Laus countryside, where the villagers stared plaintively at them through torched homes and sunken eyes? Lowen didn't know until then that he couldn't have remained composed without her arms locked around his waist and the occasional brush of her nose or cheek against his back. Present and warm and close without words. And Rebecca was the one to understand that bread and meat sustained him far beyond merely sating his hunger. She went to great lengths to arrange his meals delicately— beautifully— garnishing them with green herbs and flower petals and, when she could find them, his favorite mushrooms. He'd nearly cried the first time he opened one of those meals: the careful arrangement was right out of his late father's repertoire, down to the sliced fruit laid over the meat. It wasn't just food— it was a gift. She cared about him, beyond his potential as a shield or sentry or hand servant— she knew him, and she still cared about him.

But he'd outworn her patience. He thought long ago, when she furnished his flushed, grinning frame with a mantle of spindly, romantic prose, that he could pay her in protection. A knight to a country villager— it was just as he'd wanted. But she was swiftly becoming a warrior in her own right, taking to battle with the sharp, steely eyes of a hawk. She could protect herself, and it haunted and thrilled him to think of it, but he had nothing to give her in return. He'd outworn her patience, and now it was only Marcus, and he couldn't lose Marcus's trust. So he put aside his temptations and avoided the kitchen tent until his other chores were finished, by which time he couldn't put the evening meal off any longer.

Putting it off at all was a dire mistake: Lowen was successful in skinning potatoes for all of a half-minute before he felt the onset of hunger again. He chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to make a sound. Nino, the sprightly young mage girl who'd joined under them in southern Bern, had taken to helping him in the kitchen. His impression on the others as Lord Eliwood's fretful, overzealous recruit had been set in stone a long time ago. For all his work in straightening his backbone and his diction, their lips still curled in amusement whenever he spoke- as if they thought he couldn't notice. But Nino yet took him seriously. She showed him the ways she used magic to cook, roasting meat in her bare hands with the soft, even dexterity of a potter, but she still trusted in his meager expertise to know how hot to make the flames. He knew some members of their army already found her relentless cheerfulness grating— well, they found him grating too, which must have been why he and Nino both found their refuge in the kitchen tent, providing this quiet service.

"Sir Lowen, the water's boiling," she reminded him gently. He'd only peeled an armful of potatoes— not at all his usual standard.

"Oh... r-right," he muttered, absentmindedly setting down the half-bare tuber he'd been working on and picking up the next. He could feel his stomach beginning to turn. Left alone, he would have scarfed down the peelings in an instant. Nino dropped the finished potatoes into the water and returned, watching him patiently. Lowen could hear the pot bubbling violently; he tried to hurry his blade, but his hands were beginning to tremble again—

His fingers were too numb to feel the knife slice into them, but by the time Nino gasped and his blood started dripping into the pile of peelings, he felt a keen, stinging pain, like the touch of hot embers in a pile of warm ash. "I-I'm sorry," he choked over his quickening breath. His clean hand found a shelf to steady himself, but his gut had started twisting and his head was clouding over and he would be overcome any moment—

There was a distant crash; when Lowen's eyes flickered open, Nino was crouched under his arm, holding his hand through a dishrag, her voice clumsy and pleading as she tried to offer comfort:

"— I'll tell the healers what happened, Sir Lowen, but I can't carry you— i-if you can just pull yourself up— "

"I'm fine," he managed to say, though the voice didn't sound like his own. He sat up, brushing aside the pots and trays he'd knocked over. His head was still spinning, his rapid heartbeat pounding blood through the open wound on his hand as he curled it up to his chest with the rag. "It's nothing, really... I-I haven't eaten yet... that's all..."

"Oh." Her voice seemed to drop its urgency in the one breath. "Well... I'll get something to wrap up your hand— and I can finish the potatoes. We can do without peeling them, don't you think? I like the skins. But, hmm… I still have to put the meat on... You'll be all right to wait here, won't you?"

He nodded against his will once again, if only because he had no doubt his legs would fold under him if he tried to stand. Nino had to lean her full weight into the pulley chain to lift the pot high enough above the flame that it wouldn't boil over; once she'd secured it, she hurried over to Lowen, tearing a clean strip away from her apron. His hunger pangs echoed freely now, like blows to his abdomen, and he barely felt a thing as she dressed his wound.

"Now, just wait here," Nino reassured him, tightening the bandage into a neat bow over his knuckles. "I'll finish up the meal just like we planned." She set herself to work; dully, as if in a separate mind, Lowen worried that they would have to keep a hungry crowd waiting, but at the moment, the thought of their hunger paled against his own. He wanted nothing more than to leave before he lost sight of himself, before he drove Nino off, too— but he was rooted in place, paralyzed. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pull air into his lungs, when he caught the smell of meat. It filled him, reached into his gut and beat at every empty corner inside him. He'd have to linger there in that torturous aroma until the others could be served— them first, and then him— if he can find something himself, but I won't feed the little whoreson as long as my kids're starving too—

Lowen forced his eyes open. He was in Lord Eliwood's kitchen tent, he reminded himself, in the middle of Bern, and it was his friend at the fire— a helpful, earnest girl, not a ravaged, bitter father— and soon enough he'd be able and welcome to eat his fill— openly, not in stolen bursts. But his silent reassurances seemed to slide off like the raindrops above them. He curled forward, holding his sides to try and press in against that empty feeling, but also to be sure he would feel a year's effort in cultivated muscle and not the stark curve of his ribs—

"Sir Lowen?" He glanced forward, tilting his head up slightly to see under his still-damp bangs. Nino held a plate of food under his nose; he took it carefully, keeping himself with the last dregs of his willpower from bolting it down right then with his hands. "The potatoes might be a little tough still, but you sounded like you needed something now." Lowen didn't have room in his mind to be embarrassed that he'd whimpered aloud; he could just manage to give a husky "thank you" before the reins broke.

If the potatoes were raw, he didn't notice: his plate was clean before Nino returned to turn the roast. It was a scanty meal, and Lowen knew it wouldn't quell his hunger for long, but a halting feeling had returned to his limbs. Now was his chance. He rose as briskly as he could, pausing with a hand on the shelf to let his head settle, then bowed slightly in Nino's direction, mumbled something about being indisposed, and left her to the rest of the work. Someone called to him as he passed, but he kept on towards the edge of the campsite. He had a hazy feeling he'd feel guilty later, especially once Marcus was through with him, but he lacked even the energy to fret. Once safely inside his tent, he collapsed onto his bedroll with an unrestrained groan, desperately hoping he would fall asleep before his hunger caught up with him...

Lowen awoke with a start, sharply aware that he'd overslept. He sat upright and rubbed a hand over his face before he realized that it was dark, and the sound of rain on the canvas was punctuated by Wil's snores. Lowen exhaled slowly. If Marcus hadn't dragged him to his feet before nightfall, he couldn't have missed anything terribly important. That is, he'd left Lord Eliwood's meal to Nino, but the young marquess hadn't been eating much these days anyway—

He remembered the kitchen tent, and his face seemed to boil over with sudden shame. There was no chance Nino would still respect him after he'd gone to pieces like that. Twice in one day! He didn't deserve to wear armor or an apron. But what would he do otherwise? Go back to wearing rags? Rebecca had asked him when he'd lamented as much before. You don't realize how much you're depended on, do you?

And how much did he depend on in return? Her comfort, Marcus's patience, his own paltry willpower... and always, a surfeit of food to keep himself above water. Nobody needs that much.

But he did need it. He couldn't get by on limited rations— couldn't even last an afternoon without feeling as though he was back in his mother's hovel, fighting his half-siblings over millet kernels. No amount of knightly training and service could vanquish the starving peasant boy clawing inside him. He was— he would always be— a creature of relentless need— and how could he ever expect to provide out of that emptiness?

The walls of the tent gave off a faint, blueish glow: it was morning. Ordinarily, they would have awoken by now, but the rainstorm must have slackened their schedule. Lowen could feel a prickling sensation in his gut, and the realization made him tense up. He would have to eat now, while the rest of him was still slow and groggy, if he was to avoid another full-fledged bout of panic. Cautiously, he pulled on his boots, slipped out of his tent, and made his way toward the kitchen. The rain had eased up from its initial angry downpour into a matter-of-fact sprinkle. Lines of clothing and linens hung between the tents to wash out in the rain. Lowen checked his bandage to see if the blood had spotted through, but it still looked clean. Either Nino knew her way about treating wounds, or Lowen was overreacting to minor injuries now, too.

He stopped in front of the kitchen tent: a wispy line of smoke rose from the vent at the top. Had someone left the stove unattended? It couldn't be another person— nobody else cooked at this hour. Lowen drew closer and heard the telltale spittle of cooking meat. He pulled back the entrance flap and froze: it was Rebecca, spit-roasting her rabbit. She turned and spotted him before he could move, and his breath seemed to stumble in his throat.

"Hello," she said. Lowen couldn't tell if she was angry, but then he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. "Are you feeling better?" There was a tender note in her voice this time, even if it sounded forced in with the terseness.

"Feeling better? H-how did you know I was—"

"Lowen, I talk to people. When'll you figure that out?" She gave a well-worn, pert little smile. "Nino said you passed out in here yesterday, and I heard Wil complaining that you fell asleep on top of his pack... Oh, come inside!" He'd started to shiver. Rebecca didn't wait before grabbing his sleeve and pulling him into the tent. She must not have wanted him gone. "Anyway, they both thought you must have been sick." It was comfortably warm inside the kitchen; the scent of the roasting rabbit enveloped him on entry, but though his stomach turned over expectantly, it didn't seem to threaten him.

"Did... did General Marcus say anything?"

"I heard him telling Dame Isadora that the meat was dry. Guess he really is a man under all that armor, isn't he?" She crouched down and spun the rabbit once; Lowen was pleased to see she'd barded it with salted pork, evidently careful not to make the same mistake. "Nothing about you, though."

Lowen nodded, swallowing hard. She'd let him in— now was his chance to repay her. He opened his mouth to apologize, but that didn't seem right. Rebecca worked in deeds, not words. "Do you need... er, let me help. How many rabbits were you planning on?" He grabbed one of the aprons hanging near the entrance and rolled up his sleeves to show he meant cooking, not eating.

"Just two. Yesterday was... disappointing." Lowen bit his lip, setting to work on giving the other rabbit a thorough, if frugal, spice rub. Disappointing. It wasn't a word he heard often, truth be told, but it resonated like a name. A well of shame and urgency filled his throat, and before he could stop himself, he was begging again:

"Rebecca, I— I'm so sorry about yesterday— I-I wasn't able to think straight in the heat of the moment, and to think I insulted you... o-of all people... I don't deserve nearly—"

"Stop that." She gave him a blazing look hot enough to cook the meat all on its own. "Stop saying you don't deserve things— you deserve just as much as anybody else does. But you... you need to think a little more about what other people deserve." She turned the rabbit, her knuckles white on the skewer. "And you didn't insult me, so quit embellishing."

The irony of her request didn't escape him, but he had no trouble putting such things out of his timid mind. "Th-then... I apologize further for my thoughtlessness." Rebecca rolled her eyes, and Lowen couldn't subdue a quiver of frustration. "Very well— what do you want me to be sorry over?"

"You laid on all that stuff about your father and your 'premonition'— for what? A package of food?"

Yesterday's conversation was coming back to him; he bowed his head, his fingers fumbling to tie the salted pork around his rabbit. "I-I wasn't lying about— about either of those." Perhaps it was embellishment, but when his panic set in even on an empty battlefield, all he could think about was Rebecca— broken, bleeding, lifeless— and with those thoughts burned into his mind like real memories, he knew he couldn't stop until he found her.

"I know you weren't lying. I don't think you have it in you to lie. But you've been taking advantage of me. And using your situation to that end is... well, it's low." She looked him in the eye again, catching the little glint under his bangs more readily than anyone. "I know it's not my place to say that, but I couldn't care less about rank anymore. You've been bleeding me dry, and I won't have any more of it. Make your own meals from now on— you're on your own."

Lowen felt numb. On his own— he'd been told as much whenever he'd been refused a meal in that godforsaken village; when his mother turned him away for a better life, her thin face weathered beyond tears; when his father died in the face of food and medicine and Lowen's own pleading; when his superiors had decided he'd had enough training— or they'd had enough of training him. Would anyone remain with him? He had to set the rabbit down: his hands were trembling too fiercely. "So... that's it, then," he heard himself say, voice dry and rusty. "You wish to be done with me."

"That's not what I said. But... Lowen, I need a reason to be with you other than pity. And I wish you wanted the same. If you don't think you do, then... I suppose we've got nothing left to say to each other."

Irresistibly, Lowen found himself drawn to her eyes, as to a formidable enemy. It hurt to look at her, wearing both finality and longing on her face, pretty and intense and always, always warm, even if it meant burning. His head and stomach were achingly light, but he remained resolved to stand there and answer, no matter how long it took him to find the words. But after a few moments spent on it, he could only think of a single dull, inelegant thing to say:

"I want to be better around you." Rebecca's brow furrowed slightly, so Lowen pressed on, with no attempt to hinder or elevate his words: "I mean... when you're with me, I feel as though I've amounted to something. I... I truly feel like a knight. And... if I've never made you feel like more than a... a servant... that's shameful. Th-the finest knight in the world would be ashamed of that."

Rebecca stared at him. In the span of a heartbeat he felt his cheeks pale with cold dread— what had he said? he would have to run back over his words again to make sure— but then her face softened into a small, tender smile. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled her head under his chin in a secure embrace.

"He doesn't have to be."

Gently, Lowen held her in return, his usual protest dying in his throat as he sank into a vulnerable acceptance. They remained like that for a while, listening to the meat and fire and rain. In her arms, Lowen's breathing slowed, and his belly quieted. And for the first time in his life, he felt safe amidst his hunger.

Notes: I compiled Lowen's backstory based on information found in his supports. To clarify, his biological father was Elbert's chef; I assumed Lowen's father had to have unwittingly gotten his mother pregnant on a domain tour in order for Lowen to have parents in such widely disparate circumstances. I look forward to and appreciate any reviews, if you're feeling kind. :)

Super duper thanks to Manna for beta-reading. I owe you some potatoes. :3