The silver-lit field stretched on forever, and he could not even see over the tops of the grasses.

Túrin struck his palm against his open hand, frustrated. If only Lalaith did not run so far! She could have dropped it anywhere, and the grass sprang back up so quickly there was no sign of their passage!

He brushed black curls from his forehead-damp with two hours of searching, and stood on the tips of his toes, hoping against all likelihood that it had snagged on a blackthorn bush. No such luck. Lalaith avoided them anyway; she did not like their thorns. She enjoyed their berries but made him pick them for her.

He trudged wearily onward, eyeing the shadows the moon made cautiously. His father spoke of shadows often, in low, hushed tones so he thought his children did not hear him, but they both did. Túrin often wondered why his father was so frightened of shadows, but if his father was, then he should be too.

A rustle made him spin on his heels, his heart in his throat. An inquisitive rabbit eyed him with impudence.

"Go home," he muttered at it. "If the owls do not get you, I will!" His voice sounded small and full of bluster in his ears. Nonetheless, it twitched a long ear and continued, bending the grass as it went so that a corner of yellow, faded to drab by many washings, caught his eye.

Túrin dashed after the rabbit, snatching the blanket up. The beast had disappeared by then, but he called gratefully after it in a low voice, "Many thanks, from both I and my sister!"

He held it tightly in one fist as he ran towards the castle. It fluttered behind him in the wind, but no chance gust could take it away: he made sure of that. He hoped Lalaith had not been crying all this time.

Inside, the stone passages were silent and dark, and his footsteps rang hollowly as he ascended the stairs. Lalaith slept in a small room that he could only get to by going through his parent's chambers.

The great oak wood door promised to creak as he laid a hesitant hand on the latch and pushed it open, inch by inch. The hinges groaned in protestation, a rusty squeal that set his teeth on edge. On the other side, he heard his father's heavy breathing.

Peeking around, he saw the room was dark, and the bed was uneven with the sleeping forms of his parents. He squinted, unsure of his mother was there….well, it did not matter. All that mattered was Lalaith's soft sniffling.

He stole through the rush-strewn floor on cat-quiet feet. Lalaith's door was open, and she was sitting up in bed, her tearstained face illuminated by moonlight.

Túrin held the blanket behind his back, going to her bed on tiptoe, for his mother had the ears of a mountain lion. Lalaith raised red-rimmed eyes to his; blue and glassy with tears, but filled with hope, and she asked eagerly between hiccups, "D-did you f-fin'nit?"

Smiling secretly, he laid Lalaith's most prized possession on the bed for an answer, a once-golden blanket embroidered with buttercups. She clutched it in two tiny fists, hugging it close, her blossoming smile taking its accustomed place on her face. "You did fin'nit, Túrin!" Still holding the threadbare blanket in one hand, she hugged her brother tightly. Túrin sat down with Lalaith in his lap, stealing a covert glance towards his parents' room. "I told you I would, silly," he whispered. "Now go to sleep."

She laughed drowsily as he carefully tucked the coverlets around her, and murmured, "I glad you my brother."

He grinned at her, "And I am glad you're my sister."

When Túrin had gone to his own bed, Morwen stepped from behind the door, where she had moved to when she heard Túrin coming, and kissed the golden curls of her sleeping daughter.

Túrin was asleep as well in his own bed, a triumphant smile still on his face. She did not enter his room but stood in the doorway, and her whisper was very soft on the moonlit air, "My brave, bonnie lad. I wish you knew how much your mother loves you!"