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It was a rare thing for Fingolfin and Írimë to fight. Normally, one would never think there were a brother and sister closer than the middle children of Finwë and Indis. Sometimes, however, even the most devoted of siblings can get into an argument and undergo a period of discontent. Usually when they had their rare disagreements, Írimë and Fingolfin would take some time to go think in their separate corners; Fingolfin disliked unnecessary antagonism and would withdraw to his private study and Írimë knew she had trouble controlling her temper (it was one of the many things she regrettably had in common with their half-brother Fëanor) and would go channel her anger and frustration into projects.

Surprisingly enough, it was Fëanor that Írimë sought out in her anger. Ever since they were young, Írimë and Fëanor had a mutually understood relationship of both hatred and respect. They would be, at best, coolly indifferent when in public and strictly business if they were working together in the forge (as Írimë shared Fëanor’s love of blacksmithing and crafting, and was in fact quite envious of his superior talents). The only occasion the two ever expressed any kind of amiability was if Írimë and Fingolfin were at odds, something which Fëanor found made his half-sister more tolerable company than usual.

“He had the sheer audacity to say I shouldn’t be practicing archery or working in the forge,” Írimë growled as she furiously bashed her hammer against a sheet of heated metal.

“Whatever for?” said Fëanor, not looking up from his own work but still interested in hearing anything disparaging said against his half-brother.

“Nolo has somehow come into the thought that nissi should not be trained in the same arts as neri.”

“Why should he think that?”

Fëanor actually paused in his work, momentarily struck by such an outlandish thought. He knew for certain that if he had ever postulated such a thing, his beloved Nerdanel would have strung him up naked by his ankles in the middle of the city square as a warning to any other errant males who dared to think females were anything but their equals.

“I have not the faintest idea where he got the notion,” said Írimë. “But it was all I could do not to hit him. I have never, in all my life, heard such a fallacious and condescending argument. And our dear sister-in-law was there, as well, glaring at him so furiously I would have thought his head would burst into flames from the intensity.”

Fëanor paused again to revel in the mental image of his half-brother’s head catching on fire.

“This time I actually want some sort of retribution,” Írimë continued. “I know Father wouldn’t approve if I used physical violence, though.”

“I certainly wouldn’t hold it against you,” Fëanor said with a smirk.

“Of course you wouldn’t. But I want something more subtle. Something that will strike the fear of Eru into him.”

The two half-siblings looked up at each other, silently agreeing to put their mutual dislike for each other aside in favor of working together on something both wanted accomplished. Several days later, their father Finwë came down to the forges in search of them and was pleased to see them both working so diligently together; he was so delighted to see his eldest son getting along with one of his younger children for once that he didn’t bother asking what they were up to.

“Hello, Turukáno,” Írimë said dotingly to her young nephew. “Happy begetting day.”

Little Turgon pulled his tiny fist out of his mouth and gave a bright smile to his favorite aunt. He was a quiet elfling, very shy and reclusive but remarkably intelligent for his young age of twenty-two. The child looked at her with absolute admiration and trust, making Írimë feel slightly guilty that she was going to use him to get revenge on his father.

“I have a present for you.”

“Really?” the child said, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Mhmm. Tell me, my wise one, which of the Valar is your favorite?”

“Ulmo! Ulmo!”

“Well, now you can see Ulmo whenever you wish.”

Here she drew her hands from behind her back, revealing a toy that she had been hiding. It was a large, soft doll made with various shades of green and blue fabric in the form of the Vala of the waters. It had large, protuberant eyes and a thick beard like a patch of seaweed. At the sight of the doll, Turgon gave a delighted squeal and eagerly accepted it from his aunt’s hands.

“And that’s not even the best part,” Írimë added. “Tickle the doll’s stomach.”

Turgon complied with the instruction and the doll began to giggle before saying: “Truly, Water is become now fairer than my heart imagined, neither had my secret thought conceived the snowflake, nor in all my music was contained the falling of the rain.”

“Thank you, Aunt Írimë!” Turgon exclaimed, throwing his small arms around his aunt’s legs as it was the highest he could reach. “This is the best begetting day present ever!”

Turgon toddled off to go show his present to the rest of the family, leaving Írimë smiling conspiratorially to herself.

Fingolfin was beginning to wonder just what he’d done to deserve this. It was his son Turgon’s twenty-second begetting day and naturally copious gifts had been bestowed on the child. Fingolfin had, himself, given his dear younger son some truly splendid things, but the child barely showed an interest in anything other than that stupid doll. All he did during the entire party was show off the doll.

It wasn’t that Fingolfin was jealous that his son preferred the doll over any of his own gifts, nor did he have anything against the fact that the doll resembled Lord Ulmo. No, what bothered Fingolfin was that high-pitched voice the doll had been enchanted to speak in. Well, that and those eyes that seemed to look straight into his very fëa. It didn’t help that he’d seen Fëanor there, looking very smug about something.

“Turukáno, my child,” he said. “Where did you get that doll?”

“Auntie Írimë gave it to me,” Turgon replied.

That was some relief, at least. Fingolfin knew his sister would never, ever do anything to harm him or his son. True, they’d recently had a quarrel, but once they’d gone to their separate corners they’d cooled off. Fingolfin wasn’t going to apologize, though. After all, he was right and she was wrong. Still, that look Fëanor had been giving him…

Turgon was playing with the doll again. Fingolfin looked up warily from the work on his desk. Something about being in the same room as the thing made Fingolfin very uncomfortable.

“The trumpets of Manwë are loud, but Ulmo’s voice is deep as the deeps of the ocean which he has only seen. Hee hee hee!”

“Turukáno,” said Fingolfin, drawing the child’s attention. “Perhaps it’s time you go to bed.”

“All right, Father,” said Turgon, picking up his doll. The boy gave Fingolfin a quick hug and then toddled off to his room.

Fingolfin let out a relieved sigh when the door clicked shut. He usually loved to keep his little boy with him while he did work as Turgon normally just sat and read in silence. Now, however, it was becoming a hassle because of the doll.

He went back to his work. Important documents and affairs of state that Fëanor, as the eldest, should have been handling. But who was left with all the work of a crown prince while the actual prince was frittering away his time in the forge? Fingolfin, that’s who! Fëanor was constantly whining and complaining how Fingolfin appeared to be trying to usurp his position, yet he never bothered to ask for the responsibilities of his status.

Fingolfin was so absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t even hear the door creak open.

“Hee hee hee!”

Fingolfin went rigid in his seat.

“Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart!”

Very, very hesitantly, Fingolfin looked up from his work. Sitting in a chair across the room was that thrice-cursed doll. But Fingolfin had seen Turgon take it with him. It couldn’t have gotten up and moved about on its own. Could it?

He slowly rose to his feet and crossed the room to where the doll sat, staring at him with those unfathomable eyes. He gingerly picked the doll up and looked it over, trying to figure out how it worked.

“I am Ulmo, Lord of Waters, Dweller of the Deep. And I do not like you very much.”

Fingolfin, as if by instinct, tossed the thing away from him and bolted to the other end of the room. He stared at the doll where it lay on the floor. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, something was telling him to run.

That’s when the doll sat up and its head turned to stare at him.

“…And that’s why we need your help,” Írimë said, looking very sheepish as she and Fëanor addressed the Maia before them.

Olórin’s expression did not betray any clear emotion. He simply stood there, towering over the two elves, and looking at them through misty silver eyes as they recounted their little scheme which had, in retrospect, gone a bit too far.

“Where is Prince Nolofinwë right now?” he said.

They both pointed towards Fingolfin’s study, from which there was a sudden crash and a high-pitched scream. Olórin gave a deep sigh and glided past them. Pushing open the door, he saw the Ulmo doll was currently in the process of strangling Fingolfin. Olórin picked the doll up, holding it at arm’s length from him as it struggled fitfully.

“Here is your problem,” said the Maia. “You set the doll to ‘evil’ instead of just ‘annoy.’”

Olórin pressed the forefinger of his free hand to the doll’s head and it began to giggle cheerily. Fingolfin sat up, covered in bruises, and glared at his sister and half-brother. Turgon chose that moment to show up.

“Father, have you seen my…oh, there’s Ulmo!” the child exclaimed. Olórin handed the doll back to the child with an indulgent smile. “Thank you, Maia Olórin.”

“I hope this experience has taught everyone a valuable lesson,” Olórin said once Turgon left with his toy.

“Not really,” said Fëanor.

“I learned not to overpower an enchantment when getting revenge,” said Írimë with a shrug. She turned to Fingolfin. “Have you learned anything, my dear brother?”

“Yes, in fact,” said Fingolfin, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. “I’ve learned that nissi really do have no place in male pursuits.”

“What?” Írimë growled.

“If you hadn’t been engaging in an activity you had no right to, I wouldn’t have nearly been strangled.”

Írimë decided, then, to rebuff his argument in the only manner suitable to the situation. She attempted to strangle him, herself. After that, and numerous threats by Írimë that she would make another evil doll, Fingolfin realized it was best to change his views regarding the place of females in society. Or, at least, to keep his opinions to himself from then on.

Many millennia later…

Idril was looking through some old boxes as her family was camped out on their journey across the Helcaraxë. She was very young, one of the youngest elves present on the journey, and was very curious. As she was looking through one box, she found an old doll of blue and green fabric. Picking up the toy, she skipped over to where her father was looking over some papers with his father and older brother.

“Father, what’s this?” she asked, holding up the doll.

The three older elves looked up. Fingolfin was the first to react; his face went white as the snow around them and he collapsed into a chair. Fingon began to snicker into his hands.

“That’s my old Ulmo doll, dearest,” said Turgon with a fond smile. “Aunt Írimë gave it to me when I was just a little older than you. I cannot believe it ended up in our luggage.”

“I tried,” Fingolfin muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “I tried so hard to hide it.”

“I suppose it’s rightfully yours now, my dear,” said Turgon, eliciting a horrified look from his father and a jubilant smile from his daughter.