On Rangers through the Winter Months

Notes and Disclaimer: As all acquiesce, I do not own the concept of Lord of the Rings or the Dúnedain. I do, however, use the characters Paelin and Paedern quite often. This particular story explores the questionable relationship between a Ranger and his adopted "niece." Contains various undertones, but I will never be writing anything nasty as it would be wholly unnecessary. …And I like ambiguity far too much to make things so cut and dry. Now with actual editing!

"What was my mother like?" the girl asked suddenly. The two were seated in a depression against the rock face, Paelin fletching arrows and Paedern polishing both the sets of armor. A few twisted cedars grew between boulders, but in these last winter months, all other life had vanished. Only brown stalks and the drying husks of grasses peeked above a meager dusting of the colorless snow. The wind blew shrilly overhead, agitating the plains in front of them, but they were sheltered for the most part. She stirred a pot of glue beside their tiny fire.
"Why should you wish to know?" her uncle answered coolly. He met her gaze, but his face remained impassive.
Paelin frowned, seeming abashed. She had not expected her master to be so guarded in his response.
"I barely remember her," she faltered. "And I only knew her as a mother. I was young," the girl wheedled. "What was she like?"
"You are still young," mused Paedern, mostly to himself. He sighed and returned to his work, bending his face low to avoid her demands.
"I am my mother's daughter," Paelin declared quietly, repeating words she had heard elsewhere.
Her uncle set aside the chainmail abruptly.
"No, you are not," he said decisively.
His niece started, looking hurt.
"Do not let any tell you such," the Ranger continued seriously. "You need not become like that."

"Barnann…" Paelin ventured, slipping her arms around the older woman.
"Get off me, girl," the cook heaved, swatting at her with a spoon. The girl could tell that she was pleased. She laughed.
"What cooks?" she inquired, peering over the crone's shoulder.
"Mutton," the woman announced good-naturedly. "Nice and stringy. Want a taste?" She held out the ladle. Gray meat floated limply among the last stores of greens. Paelin wrinkled her nose. Winter pickings were lean in the outer camps, but they would eat it anyways. "Now what are you after, pumpkin? Food? You can wait like everyone else, and you've et all the honey. I don't care to know what Paedern feeds you when you're out, but-"
"What was Maelin like?" the girl asked, uncommonly gentle as she buried her chin in the leathery folds of the veteran's neck.
Barnann let the ladle slide back into the pot. She led the child to her side and cupped her young hands in crooked old ones. She considered her well.
"Do not ask those questions, little one," she said at last. "You will not like the answers."
"I should know," Paelin muttered sulkily.
Barnann released her hand and flapped for her to sit. The Ranger brat hunkered down beside the cook fire, staring at the white ashes that rimmed the circle. Her voice began to rise. "Paedern won't-"
"Paehl!" the cook commanded sharply. The camp was filling as dusk began to settle. The old woman took the girl's gulp as an opportunity to stifle her tongue with a mouthful of the boiling stew.
Little Paelin choked and rushed away.

"Whatever did you say to her?" Paedern murmured, lips barely moving as he leaned forward in confidence. His apprentice sat away from the others, barely picking at her food and keeping mostly silent.
"We need to talk," said the cook, not answering his question. She filled his bowl without a second glance and turned to the next, shoving her son's apprentice with her hip. "Later," she added as an aside.

Paedern looked once more to his niece on the edge of camp. Her shoulders shook twice with the cough she had held all winter, but she would not meet his eye. He sat instead with the mess of Rangers who were his comrades. They greeted his presence warmly.