Melkor cracked open his eyes and rolled onto his back, wondering what had woken him. It was early in the morning yet, and this part of Utumno was silent - even the roar of the furnaces too distant to be heard.

Too silent.

There was no chattering to be heard. No complaints. No squeals for attention. No screeches of pain.

They would not still be asleep surely.

The Dark Lord leapt from his bed, one foot catching in the blankets and sending him stumbling across the floor. Cursing, he regained his balance and grabbed a handful of fabric from the dirty linen pile, which happened to be closer than any of the more traditional places to store one's garments, and tore out of the room.

Mindful of his bare feet he minced his way through the treacherous path of stray model orcs, various fully functional toy weapons and some razor sharp jacks, until he reached the doorway.

An open doorway, and one leading into an empty room at that. Wringing the misfortunate shirt in his hands he briefly surveyed the room. Rumpled bedcovers on the floor, three long claw-sized scratch marks on the grey stone of the wall, feathers spilling from a ripped pillow and a fluffy head rolling under the smallest bed, it's grotesque bead grin curiously mocking. With a sharp intake of breath he turned on the spot, cleared the obstacle course of playthings in one great leap, and strode down the corridor pushing open doors as he passed.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he tilted his head and listened. All was not well within his stronghold, he sensed. Thuds, thumps and shrieks were all matters of everyday course, but these scraping noises, splats and hushed whispers were alien to him. And then the sound to bring fear into even the Dark Lord himself:

Laughter. Not evil cackles or grim chuckles, but honest laughter. Childish laughter. The sound of small boys who had just learnt some new evil.

Such as belly-sliding across the kitchen table perhaps. . .

Thundering down the stairs, pulling his shirt on over his head as he ran, he stepped on something rather warm that immediately made a woeful noise, halfway between a squeak and a yowl.

"Nárë?" The Dark Lord stopped abruptly in his headlong flight to the kitchen, and paused next to the small thing sitting on the steps. The child was curled up, hugging his knees tightly and his wings drooping dejectedly.

Sighing, and doing his best to ignore the mental images that the noises from the kitchen were producing, Melkor sat down and placed an arm around the child's shoulders, rubbing him gently between wings. Nárë was yet young, and his spirit was not yet strong enough to make his body much more than hot to the touch.

"What bothers you, Nárë?" Melkor tipped the small head up to look at him, noticing immediately the large tears trickling down the child's leathery cheeks before vanishing into steam. Nárë gave him a reproachful look and did not answer. "I am sorry for treading on you."

Nárë shifted slightly, and finally leant his head against the Dark Lord's knees.

"Uru said that I was not big enough to fry an egg." The child took a shuddering breath in and tried to control his tears. "That I'd just make it messy."

"Now," Melkor helped the little Balrog to his feet and scratched behind the child's soft new horns. He did not desire for his Balrogs to have confidence problems. "I am sure that you can handle a frying pan. I shall help you."

Luckily, unlike most parents, he did not have to worry about his charges sustaining burns as they attempted to cook breakfast.

"Not frying pan." Nárë sniffed, "On my stomach. Raumo said I was only lukewarm."

From the way the small head was hanging, this was obviously the most shameful thing he had ever heard. But his confessor did not wait to comfort him, instead leaping down the remaining steps and rushing into the kitchen.

The largest of his Balrogs was crouched on the kitchen table, wearing an evil grin that the Dark Lord could not help feeling proud of. Two of his brothers were stretched out on the table before him, and he was on the brink of cracking an egg onto the larger one's stomach. The debris on the table, floor and ceiling assured him that this was not the first attempt.

"Uru!" Melkor bellowed, his progress towards the trio barely slowed by the clamping of something small and eggy around his right knee.

Uru looked up at him, face first registering only shock, but then breaking into a gap-fanged grin.

"Melkor!" The egg dropped out of his slippery hands, and landed with a sharp crack on the tabletop. "We were just making breakfast, look!"

Uru proudly picked up a rather tough looking fried egg.

"I made this for you!" He reached for one of the wooden platters and arranged the egg on it. "We made scrambled egg too, and omelette, only those tasted good so we ate them!"

"Thank you." Melkor simultaneously took the plate and surreptitiously disposed of it's contents in the dragon-swill tub, pushed a stool to the sink, placed Uru upon it, and prised the littlest balrog from his ankles.

The yolk that seemed to cover every inch of Gomig - as little Gothmog had dubbed himself - was drying now, and his hands seemed to stick to the child, making the large fingers holding the tiny demon seem even more awkward than usual.

"Why is there yolk on his wings?" Melkor strode to the basin to wet a cloth, ignoring the two squabbling Balroglings on the stool below him. Raumo was two years younger than Uru, and felt in necessary to compete with his brother at every opportunity. Neither answered, and with a sigh Melkor turned back to the disaster scene. "Ondo, stay on the table."

Gomig predictably shrieked and wriggled at the unwelcome cold water, and while dodging flailing limbs, gnashing milk teeth and wildly flapping wings, most of the yolk was transferred from a tiny body to Melkor's shirt.

Ignoring the high-pitched squealing, the Dark Lord tucked the tiny Balrog under his arm, and turned to his second youngest, currently crouching on the table mixing the egg yolk on his face with salty tears.

"I think you will need a bath." Melkor picked up the child by the scruff of his neck and prepared to take him upstairs. He had obviously joined in the game whole heartedly, but only had a puddle of cold egg yolk to show for his pains. Younger even than Nárë, the eggs would take weeks to cook.

"Melkor." A cross voice came from somewhere behind him.

"Did you like your egg? I made it all myself. . ." A somewhat cleaner Uru bounced across eagerly.

"I cracked it!" A querulous voice cut across his brother's.

"Meeelkor!" Someone whined, attaching themselves to the back of Melkor's shirt.

"Do not need a bath!" Ondo kicked angrily, tears already forming in his dark eyes.

"Melkie! Melkie!" Gomig tried to scramble out from under the large arm.

"You never listen to me! You do not like me!" Nárë screeched and pelted from the room, the claws on his feet scratching on the stone paving. "I hate you!"

"Nárë!" Melkor called in frustration, attempting to run after the child, but without an arm free and with the two eldest Balroglings leaping up and down in front of him, it was somewhat difficult.

"Did you not like your egg?" Hurt resonated in Uru's voice and his lip began to stiffen into a pout.

"I cracked it." Raumo scowled at his brother, butting his head against the other's chest.

"Raumo, do not do that!" Melkor placed a hand on Raumo's shoulder and pulled him away from his brother. Raumo had rather precocious horn growth, and his habit of butting against his leg for attention was no longer merely ticklish. "You might hurt Uru."

Raumo scowled and kicked sulkily at the ground. "He started it."

"I did not!" Uru looked up at Melkor for confirmation. "Did I Melkor? It was all Raumo's fault wasn't it?"

"Melkie!" Gomig wriggled ferociously and managed to free himself from the Dark Lord's grasp, and promptly fell to the floor with a thump and a squeak.

The four others fell silent, even the ever protesting Ondo, and watched in silent dread as Gomig looked up at Melkor then screwed up his eyes to the fullest extent to make space for the rapid expansion of mouth as he began to wail.

"No, Gomig, Gomig." Dismissing any thoughts he might have had about ending up any less eggy than his progeny, Melkor shifted Ondo to his hip and scooped up Gomig with his free arm, cuddling him close to his chest. Uru and Raumo looked at each other, then took advantage of their guardian being crouched down to scramble onto his back for a ride.

Wiping his hair back from his face with an eggy hand, Melkor began taking the scenic route to the bathroom, hoping that he should encounter Nárë on his path.

Uru made his way to the edge of the tub, dragging his claws along the stone floor with a dry scratching screech. Standing on tiptoes he could just see over the curved wooden edge into the dark and icy depths.

"Do you think that I really need a bath?" Uru dipped one finger in the water and shivered. "Would you like me to help you to bathe the others, Melkor? I would be very goo. . ."

Uru's eager pleadings came to a sudden end as he was swept up and deposited in the freezing mountain water with a mighty splash. Ignoring the reproachful look that his eldest gave him, Melkor grabbed Raumo and tossed him over his shoulder to join his brother.

"Cold!" Raumo surfaced again with much wing flapping, sending waves of water lapping onto the bathroom floor. "Freezing!"

Instinctively, Melkor turned to look behind the door, Nárë's favourite place for hiding when bath time loomed. The refuge was empty, the only reminder of the Balrogling that should be hiding there being deep scratch marks in the lower panels of the door. Nárë held special dislike of cold water - he was happiest when curled up somewhere warm and cosy, hidden from the world.

The pattering of tiny feet brought the Dark Lord back to the present, and one large hand shot out to seize Ondo's tiny arm.

"Not so fast." Melkor swung the tiny body up to his chest for a hug before lowering him into the water, carefully arranging him on a step to avoid the water rising over the tiny squashed looking nose.

They had taught him much, these little creatures. He had never really appreciated what it was to have control over others before now. He had anticipated the feelings of power, the pride in perfecting the design, and the satisfaction of having others worship him. But the joy in their most insignificant achievements, the pain when they suffered, and the feeling in his chest when one of them would look at him and trust him completely, was new to him.

He had never known what it was to love something so small and worthless before. He had long wanted to bring things of his own into being, yet he had never imagined that the gifts they would bring would surpass those of material wealth.

Sometimes he wished to speak with his brother, to see if he too had come to feel this way, to show him that now he understood.

But that hour had passed.

The Dark Lord looked down to find Gomig leaping up and down at the edge of the tub, seeking his brothers. Occasionally a wave would splash over the edge onto him, and he would laugh like the others trying to join in the game, but he was finding it increasingly frustrating and his small face was darkening with impatience.

"Gomig." Melkor smiled down at the littlest Balrog and extended the little fingers on both hands towards the child. Gomig gladly grabbed them, one fist curled around each finger, and bounced excitedly.

"Up! Uppie!" The tiny feet pedalled in the air as he was swung into the tub. "Me pay!"

"Will you look after him, Uru?" Melkor placed Gomig down beside his brother, scratching behind Uru's horns fondly when the child nodded eagerly and placed a steadying arm around Gomig's shoulders. "Thank you."

Raumo scowled at his brother, then grabbed Ondo by the arm and dragged him over to sit beside him. "I shall look after Ondo!"

The announcement was partially drowned out by Ondo's screaming protests that he did not need to be looked after and that Raumo was mean and smelt, but Melkor merely patted the pair on the head and told them to look after each other.

Noticing his mentor's rapid progress towards the door, Uru spoke up earnestly. "Will you not come and bath with us?"

The game was always much more fun when there were huge knees to crawl under or slide down, a back to hide behind, or shoulders to climb onto.

"Aye, later." Melkor said absently as he left the room.

The Balroglings should have made the water pleasantly warm by the time he returned. He had made a habit of never bathing until the water was gloriously hot, and steam rose in clouds from the Balrogling's bodies. Dark Lord though he was, he had never appreciated cold baths or thin blankets. More importantly though, one of his Balrogs was missing, and he would not find peace with himself until he had all five corrupted little souls splashing and shrieking in the tub.

"Nárë?" Melkor called as kindly as he could through his irritation. He would have liked to find the middle Balrog quickly, and then returned to the bathroom, but Nárë did not seem eager to cooperate. He had searched high and low, but there was still no sign of the drooping wings or large thoughtful eyes.

Provided that Gomig did not drown during one of the Balroglings' violent and splashy games, there was no real risk in leaving the children alone. All the same he did not feel quite safe in having them out of sight for longer than a few minutes, especially when he was outnumbered five to one.

Ondo, and Gomig especially, had a habit of nestling up against the nearest large warm object when immersed in large bodies of cold water. Usually this would be Melkor's hand or foot, but without his presence they would seek warmth elsewhere. Snuggling against Uru and Raumo would at first keep them pleasantly warm, but as time progressed the water around the elder Balroglings would begin to simmer, and then bubble. While the heat itself would not hurt the tiny Balrogs, a long soak in boiling water would infuse them with seemingly unlimited amounts of energy. Much the same effect as allowing a human child free rein in a maple forest at syrup gathering time, in fact. He had no desire to spend his morning chasing two hyperactive scraps of evil around the fortress.

A slight snuffle from the direction of his study caused the Dark Lord's face to light up, and he proceeded towards the source of the noise wearing a slight smile.

"Nárë?" Melkor looked around for the child then, on hearing a miserable scratching, knelt to the ground and looked under the furniture. "Are you in here, Nárë?"

There was no reply, but the darkness of the shadows beneath his desk seemed to shift slightly.

"Nárë?" The Dark Lord got onto his hands and knees and crawled after the shadow, moving his hands stealthily like the paws of a panther about to pounce. "Is my bounciest Balrog in here?"

Nárë had got that name years ago, long before Ondo and Gomig had entered their little family. The chubby Balrogling had barely even found his feet when he discovered his wings, and whenever he had managed to toddle away to hide, Melkor had always found him perched on the windowsill above the huge bed. He would count three random numbers, then leap with a gleeful smile onto the mattress. The tiny outstretched wings had not stood a chance of supporting the plump little body, but on hitting the mattress, the child had bounced higher and higher. He could still remember the shrieks of delight and high-pitched laughter.

Smiling at the memory, Melkor held out his arms to the darkest corner, "Please, Nárë. Bath times are no fun without you."

There was a moment of hesitant silence, then something small, warm and damp shot into the Dark Lord's arms.

"I did not think you would come." Nárë sniffed and wiped his nose in a sticky trail along one bare arm. "I did not think that you cared."

"Nonsense. My Nárë is special." Melkor wrapped his arms around the small body, the shared closeness bringing back fragments of a memory from a timeless past. "We are all special to our makers."

"Then why do you not listen to me? Nobody even listens to me." Nárë whispered despondently and shook his head sadly. "Sometimes I do not feel special at all."

"But you are special because of that." Melkor said reasonably, his mind working furiously to think up a plausible reason. "For I do not have to attend to you every minute. I do not need to stop you fighting as I do Uru and Raumo, and you are not so little that you need help on the simplest tasks like Ondo and Gomig."

Nárë swelled with pride. "I can make all my letters now, and I can even understand some of your papers."

"Really?" Melkor said with interest, making a mental note to lock certain of his papers away before the Balroglings became old enough to understand the context as well as the words. "Well done."

"When I grow up, I shall be a Dark Lord too." Nárë nodded decisively. "I shall be just like you Melkor."

Melkor smiled a little sadly and nodded. He had once been so like Nárë.

An outraged bellow ripped the fortress of the Dark Lord, echoing in larger caverns and rushing through the dank corridors. Although Melkor was far away from his little family, tending to his captives and his orc-breeding experiments in some of his most distant cells, the screech was clearly audible even through several hundred metres of rock.

Melkor froze as he heard the anguished cry, counting the seconds before the wail resumed to determine the severity of the affliction that had befallen his littlest Balrog. Barely a second of tense silence passed before the second howl started, and his face becoming shadowed with anxiety, the Dark Lord turned and headed towards home with all the speed a corrupted Vala could manage.

~*~

"Gomig? Come here, Gomig." Sauron called in a coaxing voice, kneeling down on the tiled stonework to look into the cupboard. Through the spilled lentils and grain and shards of glass he could make out the Balrogling pressed firmly against the back wall, and apparently trying to break the remaining jars through the sheer power of his lungs. "Gomig? Here Gomi. . . Gomi, Gomi, Gomi?"

Biting his lip anxiously, Raumo peered out from behind the apprentice Dark- lord's knees at the cupboard. "Only Melkor is allowed to call him tha. . ."

Swearing loudly, Sauron recoiled from the cupboard doorway, clutching his right eye. Despite his young age, Gomig had undeniably good aim when spitting, and the lingering fire of the pepper had added extra sting.

Raumo darted quickly to the side to avoid being stepped on by the Maia, and gave the cupboard another worried look. He had not known that Gomig could scream quite so loudly, and now Sauron was sure to tell Melkor. . .

"Sauron?"

Grimacing in pain as he desperately splashed cool water from the basin into his eye, Sauron did not bother to reply.

"S. . . Sauron?" Raumo's voice shuddered slightly as he hopped up and down to get the other's attention. The Dark Lord had a nasty temper at the best of times, and his punishments were always deliciously inventive.

Admirably resisting the desire to give the culprit of the kerfuffle a good kick in his podgy little stomach, Sauron stuck his entire head underwater - thus drowning out the elder Balrogling's pleas.

Raumo's leathery brow furrowed into a sea of wrinkles, and he clenched his fists in frustration. Surely Sauron would see sense, and they had been so nice to him. . .

"Sauron!" Raumo bellowed as loudly as he could, tugging hard on his watcher's leggings and tunic. "Saurooooon!"

There was no response. Frowning with worry, Raumo looked towards the door, then turned back to the Maia. Although watching the hated sitter splutter and wince as he tried to wash his face would normally be an exceedingly good joke, the thought of the prospects had made the amusement pale slightly. Gomig was in so much distress that he was even beginning to feel a little guilty. Surely Sauron would agree that it was in no way his fault?

Raumo lowered his head and butted his horns hard into the Maia's midriff.

"Eru Almighty!" Sauron's head shot up in a flurry of flying water droplets and dripping locks of hair. Clutching his hands protectively around the injured area he glared at Raumo with watering eyes. "Bratling of the House of Manwë!"

Eyes widening at this cruel and uncalled for insult, Raumo wisely backed off a few steps.

"I did not mean to hurt Gomig, Sauron. It was not my fault." Raumo nodded earnestly as he considered this, then added, "It was all his!"

It probably had been too. He bet that his little brother had eaten the pepper on purpose, just to get him into trouble.

The Maia's black eyes narrowed into slits, and the long fingers were flexed ominously.

Raumo retreated a few more steps, but accidentally tripped over the crumpled rug as he did so. The Balrogling plopped down onto the ground, his small wings flapping uselessly in an attempt to slow his fall. At first he attempted to struggle to his feet, but as Sauron advanced with a menacing glint in his eyes, he shuffled backwards on his bottom in an attempt to escape the Maia's wrath.

"You will not tell Melkor, will you Sauron?" Raumo said persuasively, baring his fangs in his best - and rather rusty - smile. "You will tell him that it was not my fault?"

Raumo gulped, edging towards the door as he bared his teeth threateningly at this sitter.

There was a sound of running footsteps, and Melkor burst in through the door, nearly stumbling over Raumo's quivering form. Scowling, he resumed his footing and looked dubiously at the pair - both shaking, one with rage and the other with fear.

Raumo and Sauron eyed each other nervously, and very carefully said nothing.

~*~

"Gomig, come here." Melkor knelt down on the kitchen floor and fumbled inside for the little Balrog, momentarily cursing the fact that he was too large to actually stick his head inside instead. "I am here."

Only just it time, evidently. When he had asked his assistant to prepare his progeny for their midday meal, he had not anticipated that Sauron might misconceive that a sharp twist to the neck was a far better preparation for the meal than nagging the child to wash his hands. However the two were now standing sulkily behind him, arms folded tightly and noses held high, and he had far more pressing matters to deal with. His littlest Balrog was obviously mortally offended at whatever treatment had been dealt to him. Gothmog was such a sensitive little soul.

There was a small noise from the depths of the cupboard, and Gomig crawled forward and pressed himself against Melkor's palm.

"Now what is wrong?" Gomig was drawn out into the reddish light of the kitchens, and the Dark Lord checked him over for injuries. While his skin was still rather soft, and would probably have been pierced by the shards of glass, this did not appear to be the source of the child's distress. There were no broken bones, and his wings were still fully attached to his shaking body. It was unlike his boys to show any hint of distress at destruction of his possessions, and there were no obvious bruises. Frowning slightly, Melkor turned to the two rather shamefaced onlookers. "What happened?"

"He. . ." Sauron turned quite red and prodded Raumo hard in the chest.

"I didn't do it!" Raumo's voice rose in indignation and he gnashed his teeth at the Maia's finger, fortunately missing as it was pulled back rather hurriedly. "He's lying!"

"I am not. . ."

"He is!"

"That bratling. . ."

"Meeeelkor, he's being mean to me!" Raumo howled, attempting to sink his teeth into Sauron's armour-plated thigh. Fortunately the apprentice dark- lord had had some experience on the dress code when Balrog-sitting.

Sighing loudly, the Dark Lord turned his back on the squabbling pair and resumed his inspection of the baby of the family. Gomig was scrubbing his eyes rather more vigorously than expected for his tantrums, and his tiny forked tongue was flapping desperately in the air.

"Oh, bother!" The Dark Lord slapped a hand against his forehead, and then uncurled Gomig's clenched fists, revealing a small green stem and confirming his worst fears. "Raumo!"

"It wasn't me! He ate it all by himself!" Raumo protested, dancing around his guardian's ankles as Melkor carried Gomig through to the icehouse to fetch a beaker of near-frozen water. "Didn't you Gomig? I didn't do anything!"

Gomig responded by shrieking in his brother's ear at a pitch sufficient to make everyone in the vicinity wince.

"For the love of Eru!" Melkor took one hand from Gomig to clip Raumo soundly around the ear. The Balrogling stumbled to the floor, clutching his throbbing ear and blinking his strangely bright eyes. "What in Mandos possessed. . . Gomig!"

The Dark Lord's rose to a bellow as the littlest Balrog escaped from his grasp and flung himself at the piles of sawdust-covered ice, crawling away from the others at great speed and in a manner more reminiscent of a spider than Melkor would have liked.

"Come here, Gomig. . ." Melkor called, holding out a hand towards the rapidly retreating form of the littlest Balrog. The great piles of ice were too unstable to hold his weight, but judging from the enthusiasm that Gomig was chewing and swallowing lumps of ice, he would have to coax his youngest down soon lest he manage to lower his temperature enough to extinguish his inner fire. "Gomig!"

"Neee!" Gomig squealed and shifted back further to sit against the wall, sucking on a block of ice and glaring reproachfully at his guardian.

"Gomig." Melkor called again, and was rewarded with a handful of sawdust in the eye. To his concern the ice underneath the baby Balrog was now barely melting and the child had began to shiver rather than quiver with rage.

"Melkor. . ." Raumo tugged a little hesitantly on the tail of his guardian's shirt and smiled a little nervously, eager to make up for his misdemeanour. "Melkor. . ."

"What?" Melkor bellowed so loudly that the child leapt backwards in surprise.

"I. . . I could crawl up and get Gomig." Raumo pointed at the tiny cracks and footholds amidst the ice and damp sawdust. "I am light enough."

Melkor paused, weighing up the possible risk of losing two of his Balrogs against the imminent loss of his youngest. He had placed quite an investment of time into the creatures, and it would be frustrating to see that lost.

"Very well." He lifted the child as high as he could reach, surreptitiously giving him a last hug as he did so. "But if I call for you, you must come."

Raumo nodded, shivering slightly, then began making his precarious path over the ice.

"Nooo!" Gomig kicked out feebly as his brother approached, throwing a block of ice at him with weakening arms.

Not wasting time on small talk, Raumo sank his nails into his the Balrogling's icy skin, and set to dragging his unwilling brother to safety.

A few anxious seconds later Melkor had the two shivering Balrogs in his arms. Raumo was still faintly warm to the touch, but Gomig was almost painfully cold, and seemed rather sleepy. Cradling the pair to his chest, Melkor hurried through the narrow doorway into the warmth of the kitchens.

Now that both were safe in his arms, the thought of hypothermic little Balrogs amused him. Briefly he wondered if they would tickle his brother's sense of humour, but then dismissed the thought. He was a good brother - never forgetting the other's birthday - but his straight-laced brother was never the most appreciative of his gifts. He had never received a thank you note for the pair of wingless eagles that he had sent last year, in any case.

Trust Manwë not to appreciate irony.

~*~

Soon the pair of shivering Balroglings were warming up nicely in the fire, their protests at having to sit still diminished by the addition of some 'finger-salts' to the flames. Raumo was busy painting himself a green beard and moustache with copper sulphate, and as usual Gomig had grabbed the lithium salts and was painting his nose bright red. Sighing inwardly in both relief at the children's safety and annoyance at the situation they were in, Melkor set off to find the others leaving a bad-tempered Sauron in charge.

Nárë was easy enough to find, and came willingly when a large hand was stuck through a gap in the bookshelves.

"Sauron said that we could." He explained as Melkor raised his eyebrows questioningly and brushed the dust and cobwebs from the child's horns. "We knew that it was wrong, but you said to do everything that Sauron said."

"Indeed." Melkor said dryly.

"Uru will be in your wardrobe again." Nárë slipped his hand around the Dark Lord's thumb and trotted along by his side. "He always hides there."

Five minutes later all the favourite hiding places and even Uru and Nárë's most wild suggestions had been searched, all without any sign of Ondo.

"Have you no idea where he may have gone?" Melkor sighed, as he strode back to the kitchens, the two Balroglings scurrying anxiously at his heels.

"No."

"None, Melkor."

Uru and Nárë spoke simultaneously, illustrating their expressions of innocence with large wide-open eyes.

"Sauron?"

Melkor's tone of elaborate patience made his protégée cringe slightly. "I have not yet seached the cellars. . ."

Sighing deeply, Melkor herded the two Balroglings into the roaring rainbow- tinged flames of the fire to join the others - who had turned a rather bright shade of lilac, and bad-temperedly made his way down the steps into the store cellars.

The cellars were huge and, at this time of year, well stocked with all types of foodstuffs and drinks. Crates and boxes were stacked up to the rafters, from which heads of garlic and smoked meats were hung. Small, scaly fanged creatures scampered around the straw-littered floor chasing and dismembering any mice or rats that were foolish enough to enter the fortress. Had it not been for an eerie echoing chuckle, Melkor would have had no idea where to look.

The Dark Lord turned sharply, neatly pivoting on one foot, and watched the stack of barrels in one corner, muscles primed, ready to pounce.

The gurgling chuckle rang out again, sounding even sillier from a closer vantage point.

His brow furrowing in thought, Melkor walked smartly over to the barrel and rapped sternly on the curved wood. To his surprise there did not seem to be any cracks or peep holes that would allow the Balrogling to see out, and there was precious little amusing to be seen from the small crack for air that had been left when putting the lid down. "Ondo, are you in here?"

The only response was a burbling laugh, so Melkor lifted the lid to reveal the Balrogling sitting in a rather damp barrel. A damp barrel, he remembered, that only yesterday had had several tankards full left in it. Judging by the way that the child was sniggering as he sucked his toes, he had already developed a discriminating taste in ales.

"Mekkor." Ondo smiled broadly at him and finished licking between his smallest toes before holding his arms out to be picked up. "I win."

Melkor snorted in exasperation, and reached down into the barrel to rescue the merry and rather unsteady Balrogling. Groaning as Ondo giggled at him and pulled a silly face, the Dark Lord returned to the kitchen, muttering under his breath, "For the patience of Ilúvatar."

Lunchtime was a daily event in the household that never failed to both horrify and entrance Melkor and any other watchers. Sauron had long come to avoid calling before mealtimes lest he be honoured with an invitation to the feast.

Five growing Balroglings required a fearsome amount of food on any given day, usually in the form of meat - preferably raw. A favourite treat was an animal fresh from the kill - still warm, with fur to be ripped off and eyeballs ready to be gorged out.

They had got into a routine by now, and it worked well. The kill would arrive, and Melkor would slice off his desired cut to be roasted in the fire. A few chunks would be hacked off for the two younger siblings, along with a couple of ribs for them to chew on to get them used to meat off the bone. The rest of the carcass was a free-for-all between the three eldest boys, and it was not unusual to have a massacred limb fly into your lap as it slipped from blood-soaked arguing hands.

Sometimes it could be a trial to get little Gomig to eat, but usually if he was appointed the important roll of honorary dragon, and the spoonfuls of finely chopped meat were conveyed to his mouth in the bobbing motion of small cuddly animals, most of the meal would end up inside the child. His brother would doubtlessly find the words, "Open wide, here comes another fluffy little bunny," a little disturbing, but Melkor was unperturbed. When you had laughed at fangs created by stuffing the ends of two ribs into your mouth, or enthused over the discovery that jamming miscellaneous kitchen implements into various parts of the carcass would make it twitch, not much could surprise you.

So when five little Balrogs settled down around something dead and unidentifiable that lunchtime, little attention was paid as three pairs of hands grabbed and tore at the meat accompanied with a variety of snarls and hisses. But there was one courtesy that he would always insist on.

"Boys." Melkor said severely, and paused with his knife hovering over his plate. "Haven't we forgotten something?"

Raumo and Nárë exchanged mystified looks, their eyes large over their bloody mouthfuls, small fingers not loosening their grip on the slippery bones.

"Uru?" Melkor looked seriously at his eldest. Uru put down his joint and licked stray trails of blood from his fingertips as he thought.

There was no point asking the little ones. Gomig had already managed to deposit more of his meal on the floor, his front and behind his ears than would ever reach his mouth. Ondo had filled his mouth with the vast majority of his portion and would chew steadily at it for the next half- hour without speaking; this being the most effective method he had found for deterring those who attempted to steal his portion.

"The intestines?" Uru poked at the animal's entrails. Normally they kept them for desert, but perhaps with this beast it was traditional to enjoy the whole animal at once.

"No." Melkor said earnestly, then his face lit up with a wicked grin. "Surely we should thank those who are responsible for this feast. . ."

"Yes." Uru said eagerly, picking some sinew from between his teeth. "That is good manners isn't it Melkor."

Melkor smiled at the child and raised a forkful of meat to the west. Five little balrogs followed his example, blood and small pieces of flesh smeared around their mouths and dripping from their chins.

"Thank you, Yavanna." The Dark Lord said with a curious glint in his eye, smiling approvingly as various bits of animal were waved to the west and five shrill voices chorused their thanks.

"Yavanna makes very tasty animals." Uru said conversationally, using his front fangs to tear a long strip of meat from the animal's leg. "Nice and juicy."

Melkor opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Raumo's shrill voice.

"Mine is juicier. Once I found a little tube and sucked the blood out."

"You did not." Uru scowled viciously at his brother. He had never found such a straw. "Melkor, there is no such thing is there!"

"There is! There is!" Raumo crowed, bouncing in his seat. "Uru's wrong isn't he Melkor!"

"I am not wrong!" Uru asserted violently then turned pleading eyes to his mentor. "Am I Melkor?"

"Melkie!" Gomig burst out, tiny bits of meat sputtering from his open mouth as he spoke. "Melkie Welkie!"

The littlest Balrog waved his spoon around, sending the piece of meat he had been conveying to his mouth on collision course with Melkor's forehead.

"Maybe. . ." Nárë said quietly, almost drowned out by the other's chattering and Melkor's curse as he wiped his face, "maybe Yavanna put them in there to make them more fun to eat."

The other boys ignored him. Uru and Raumo were now involved in a vicious tug-of-war over the remains of the carcass. Ondo was trying to keep up with his brothers and was grasping desperately at the animal's ribs, his efforts barely noticed by his snarling older siblings. Gomig continued attempting to feed himself, his nose and his stool whilst jabbering away in a nonsensical language.

Seeing his middle monster's face fall, Melkor hurriedly swallowed his mouthful and spoke loudly, his voice booming over the screeches of the little ones.

"Perhaps she did, Nárë." Melkor smiled at the child and was rewarded by a huge grin. "She would like to see others happy."

"See! See!" Raumo crowed at the top of his voice. "See Uru! See! You're wrong! Wrong!"

"I am not!" Uru screamed, yanking the carcass from his brother's hands. "Am I! Am I Melkor?"

"Oh yes you are!" Raumo smirked and took a huge bite of meat. "You're wrong."

Uru turned to Melkor with a pleading look of desperation, his eyes begging his mentor for him to be in the right.

"There is no such thing, is there Melkor?" Uru asked quietly, biting his lower lip with anxiety as he awaited the answer.

"Yes there is!" Raumo drummed his fists on the table in a victory tattoo. "There is! There is!"

Melkor finished his mouthful of roasted meat and looked seriously at his eldest Balrog.

"There is such thing, I'm afraid." Melkor's heart wrenched as Uru's confidence collapsed, and he hunched his shoulders looking down at his plate. Raumo bounced triumphantly, punching a fist in the air. "But they are called veins, not tubes."

This did little to cheer the eldest Balrog and he barely touched the rest of his meal - even when Melkor tried to tempt him with the wiggliest bit of intestines. The moment that the Dark Lord stood up, he dashed away, leaving his stool to crash to the ground behind him.

"Bad loser!" Raumo sneered after him and when he got no response, rummaged through the debris of bones and tendons to find a thin strip of sinew with which he could clean between his teeth. The Dark Lord could be incredibly fastidious when it came to matters of personal hygiene.

After the midday meal, it was customary for the little Balrogs to take their daily nap. While such a rest was not strictly necessary for any but the two youngest of the small demons, its observation led to fewer frayed tempers and attacks of broody-moodiness - most noticeably in the case of the Dark Lord himself.

Once the five had been tucked firmly into their beds - extremely firmly in Raumo's case, for whom the blankets acted more as a restraint than a comfort - and threatened with the pain of death should they take it upon themselves to move, Melkor proceeded to his study, humming to himself. It was a simple little tune, composed almost entirely of triumphantly clanging chords and he often would sing it when events had been particularly pleasing. He had some quite delightful plans to work on, involving a mace, crushed ice and a captured elf. Last week had been focussed on thorn-coated flies and flesh eating leeches. It was variety such as this that made the job of the Dark Lord worthwhile.

Melkor sat down at his desk, reclined into his chair with a luxuriant sigh, and unrolled a large sheet of parchment. He had had precious little time for other plans since his family had started to grow. Not that he minded looking after his corrupted Spirits of Fire as they grew into their new physical form, but he did not wish anyone - least of all his brother - to suspect that he was becoming idle.

~*~

Melkor worked steadily for a while, drawing up sketches and annotating neatly sketched diagrams of the likely results of his experiments. While he still longed for the power to bring things of his own into being, one could still be remarkable creative when modifying the creations of others. Perfecting them as it were.

He wrote in a very neat hand in a language of his own devising, the first letter of each paragraph being of great size and adorned with flourishes of flames and small outlines of whatever new evil he was currently pondering. Today these included a great number of fully-grown and fearsome Balrogs.

He held eager anticipation for the day that his immature progeny would rise to their full power, great and terrible, a symbol of his strength and domination over these lands. Together they would bring doubt and dread to the hearts of the foolish and valiant. Together they would protect him against all that would oppose him. Soon he would be without fear.

~*~

A small and ashamed shuffling noise from the passageway drew the Dark Lord's attention away from his notes, and he looked up with an air of great irritation to find his eldest Balrogling standing rather shamefacedly in the doorway.

"Uru?" Melkor's brow furrowed slightly in a perplexed manner, and he pushed back his chair a little way to show that he had no objection to the disturbance. Of all his infants he had not expected Uru to disturb him. Raumo had always been a little demon and he had been worried that Ondo's stomach might feel less than steady after all he had consumed today. Uru though, he had fully expected to slumber peacefully until he came through to stir them. "What disturbs you?"

Moving rather hesitantly, Uru scampered across the floor and buried his face into the Dark Lord's thigh. There was a moment or two of silence as Melkor rubbed his eldest's back comfortingly, then a very worried and muffled voice muttered, "Melkor?"

"Uru?" Melkor asked patiently, one jet-black eyebrow curving upwards with an aristocratic air.

"Melkor," Uru raised his head slightly from the smooth black fabric of the Dark Lord's tunic and bit his lip anxiously, "I burnt my blankets."

"Oh?" Melkor tilted his head to one side as he looked at the child. A couple of years ago, when the Balrogling had first discovered his ability to make his little toe ignite into flames at will, he had developed a number of pyromaniac tendencies. All had thought that that stage had now passed - something that Melkor was exceedingly glad of, for Raumo had recently discovered how many creative things could be done with his left index finger and a bit of imagination, but evidently he had been mistaken. He did not think that he could manage to extinguish all the small fires that two Balroglings in the kindling phase could create at any one time. "And why did you do that?"

Uru looked down at the ground, his dark unlashed eyes filling with tears. "I. . . I did not mean to do it, Melkor."

The Balrogling gulped a few times, then whispered unhappily. "I never wanted to burn. I just woke up and I was on fire."

Grinning broadly and well satisfied with this development, Melkor lounged back in his seat until he noticed that Uru was close to tears and clearly convinced that there was something terribly wrong with him. Muttering reassuringly, the Dark Lord reached down and hoisted the Balrogling onto his lap for a cuddle in a manner that he had not done for a number of years. Uru was rather heavier than he remembered, and strangely although this should have made him glad, he instead felt a little bit sad.

"Do not worry, Uru. You are growing up. It is perfectly normal." Melkor frowned slightly as he wondered how best to explain things. Uru was fast approaching the change - a period of rapid growth characterised by the development of the ability to ignite himself at will, the growth a facial flame from the nostrils and ears, a deepening of the pitch of his growls and roars, and a change in character from a relatively sweet, harmless child into a brutal aggressive warrior. The Dark Lord could hardly wait - although he did hope that the process would be somewhat shorter than that of his other creatures. There was nothing quite as unpleasant as a cavern of snarling, ill-tempered and fire-breathing pre-pubescent dragons. "Your body is just learning how to make fire ready for when you are older."

"Oh." Uru frowned and gnawed on his knuckles as he thought. When they had been younger, sometimes as a special treat Melkor would take him and Raumo down to the dragon-breeding caverns and watch as the hatchlings broke free from thick-shelled eggs, and later they had held the tiny winged lizards. Baby dragons had very soft smooth scales of a charcoal grey and could only crawl about on the ground, but as they grew their hide thickened and turned bright colours characteristic of their species. Sharp little fangs would push through their gums and they would begin to hiccup up smoke rings. Even more entertainingly, their wings would grow wide and strong and they would begin to flutter and flap from crag to crag. "Shall I fly, Melkor?"

"Well, Uru. . ." The Dark Lord sucked in a cheek as he pondered this question. The youngling was the first of his Balrogs, and in truth he had no real knowledge of exactly how they would develop. "I do not know that. We shall have to wait and see. But you shall grow tall and strong, and you shall run so fast that you have no need of wings."

Uru looked curiously at him, smiling with a little a hint of excitement, but also a little surprised that his mentor had no answer for him. Throughout his life, the Dark Lord had been a constant source of knowledge, and suddenly finding that there were things that he did not know was both strange and liberating. "As big as you, Melkor?"

"Well, I do not know that either, Uru." Melkor said slowly, hoping that the answer would be no. Whilst at the moment he could flick the child aside with a hand or a foot, at this rate of growth, come a few years he would have every reason to be glad of the child's loyalty. "What do you think?"

"I think. . ." Uru pressed his lips tightly together as he thought. "I think that I shall be just exactly as big as you are, Melkor."

Grinning, Melkor nodded approvingly, but Uru's forehead had once again creased into a slight frown.

"Melkor?"

"Yes, Uru?"

"When I am as big as you, will you still tuck me in at night?"

Although Uru had done his utmost to disguise his feelings, Melkor could detect a slight quaver of uncertainty in his voice, and on a whim he put an arm around the Balrogling's bony shoulders.

"I will if you still wish me to, Uru." The Dark Lord spoke seriously then added more brightly. "I shall always be here if you need me."

Uru nodded in satisfaction and slipped happily down to the floor when Melkor held out a hand to help him down. It was high time that he joined his brothers before they woke and complained that it was unfair that he should not have to nap whilst they did.

"So it is normal, Melkor?" Uru repeated anxiously for reassurance, clenching his fists perhaps tighter than he realised.

"Quite normal." Melkor confirmed, smiling kindly at the little Balrog. "You are just right."

Grinning in relief, Uru flung his arms briefly around the Dark Lord's knee and hurried off back to the bedroom, leaving Melkor sitting alone in his study. Although he knew that he should feel joy and triumph at this mighty step forward in his plans, he could help feeling rather alone. He had never expected it to happen so fast.

Raumo cackled with glee as the end of one stubby finger flickered into flames. It took great concentration as yet, for igniting oneself was a difficult task, but it was definitely worth it. Not only was it most entertaining to kick at an anthill and then prod at the escaping insects, it also gave one a great advantage in the favoured game of 'Beetle'.

"Raumo!" Nárë called out loudly with a distinct tone of irritation, regardless of the fact that his brother was sitting but a few inches away from him. Raumo looked over his shoulder with an impatient scowl, and Nárë added in a disapproving voice. "It is your turn."

Regretfully Raumo turned back to the game. By careful herding he had managed to nudge three ants onto a few scraps of hay. One simple touch would send them scurrying fearfully from the blaze.

"Raumo!" Uru gave him a shove and flicked a small wooden spinner in his direction. "Hurry up!"

Scowling, Raumo moved back to kneel in the circle and carefully took the spinner in his unlit hand. The rough ground of the courtyard was not the best part of the Dark Lord's stronghold to play this game in, for the spinner often jumped unpredictably over the tiny stones and bits of wood and straw, and it was often difficult to cheat reliably.

"Three. . ." Raumo sucked in his lower lip slightly as he looked down at the small round pebble 'body' around which the playing pieces were arranged and smiled. "Left wing!"

"Ready?" Uru asked, his hand hovering over an upturned wooden beaker - as usual the eldest Balrogling had taken charge of the game, and was enforcing the rules with great pomp and circumstance.

Raumo grunted and bent closer to the ground until his nose was nearly touching the grit and bare soil. The wings were tricky to manage, and Ondo and Nárë were sticklers for insisting that they were only counted if they came off un-scorched and whole - this being the only advantage that they could use against their older brothers. Both Uru and Raumo were apt to become quite heated with anger if things did not go their way.

"You may start." Uru announced solemnly, lifting the beaker and simultaneously turning over an hourglass. Released from captivity, a rather battered looking stag beetle ran forward frantically, its progress somewhat impeded by the three legs that had already been removed. "Go!"

The player had one minute to remove the chosen piece from the beetle. If the creature escaped or the part selected came off incomplete then the turn was forfeited. Once a player had collected six legs, two wings and the two halves of the front pinchers, then they attempted to roll a six to be allowed to attempt to pluck the head. The first person to complete the whole beetle was declared the winner.

Frowning fearsomely in a concentration, Raumo stopped the beetle with a finger placed firmly on its back and began the delicate task of prising the wings off the struggling creature.

~*~

His self-imposed tasks completed for the time being, Melkor stood at the window of his study, looking down over the dark and barren landscape with great pleasure. Here and there he could see troops of orcs making their ungainly way across the mountains and down into the depths of the earth. The charred skeletons of trees and bushes were dotted across the hills - the work of Yavanna kindly providing ample targets for his dragons to practice their exhalation of fire. And down in the thickly walled courtyard of his stronghold he could see five small shadowy figures huddled in a tight circle around some object that he could not see.

Telling himself that it was curiosity rather than a desire to spend time with his younglings that guided his feet, Melkor made his way down the winding stair to the courtyard. It was bitterly cold out here, this high in the mountains, and not being a pint-sized Spirit of Fire himself, he was quickly becoming chilled. If he were lucky one or other of his squalling infants would manage to injure themselves or begin screeching with annoyance over some perceived injustice, and he would be required to pick them up and hold them close to him. Balroglings made delightfully soft - if rather squirmy - warming stones.

"Pay!" Gomig spied the Dark Lord and tipped backwards from his kneeling position to sit on his bottom and held out his arms to be picked up. "Pay with me. With Gomig!"

Smiling indulgently, Melkor strolled over to stand towering above the boys and watched with pride as Uru nimbly plucked a pincher from the terrified beetle.

"Melkie! Melkie!" Gomig crawled over to the Dark Lord's foot and grabbed hold of Melkor's leggings to pull himself onto his feet. "Pay?"

"Well done, Uru." Melkor patted his eldest's head with one hand whilst holding up his leggings with the other, then bent down to scoop up the littlest Balrog and give him a hug. "How is my little Gomig?"

Although the tiny Balrog had managed to gather little but a single spindly leg for his playing piece, he seemed not to mind, and wriggled to rest his forehead contentedly against Melkor's cheek.

"Leg." A small hand pointed down to the ground then reached up again to gain a steadying handhold on the Dark Lord's crisply ironed collar. Not quite liking the sensation of a warm wriggling thing tickling out of his reach, Melkor shuffled his shoulders then reached back behind him to take the tiny hand in his own and transfer it to his chest.

"So it is." Melkor patted the child's back gently and brushed a stray cobweb from the child's left wing. The tiny Balrog had obviously had quite enough of this game, for his concentration and dexterity were not yet as good as his brothers and he would be quite happy being held and spoken to for the duration of the game - something that Melkor was glad to oblige him in, for a frustrated Gomig was a fretful Gomig, and a fretful Gomig made everyone unhappy.

~*~

Melkor retired to sit on a large bolder in the shelter of one of the misshapen towers of his home, and allowed the tiny Balrog to cuddle close to him as they watched the older Balroglings play. Once he had wriggled into a comfortable position against the Dark Lord's side, Gomig was quite happy to sit quietly and listen to the familiar tale of Melkor's first orc.

"And then, rather deviously, I must admit," Melkor glanced up from Gomig's wide eyes to check on the game, where Nárë seemed to be on the point of winning, then smiled back down at the little one, "I took the coal tongs from the fire, and do you know what I did with them?"

Gomig beamed gleefully as Melkor widened his eyes and adopted a surprised expression, and excitedly gurgled. "You pull the eyes! Pull the eyes!"

"Yes, yes I did!" Grinning down at the tiny Balrog, Melkor wriggled his fingers along the child's bony ribs until Gomig was howling with breathless giggles. "And they screamed even louder than you are now!"

Unable to speak in the short time he had to gasp for breath between the bouts of childish laughter, Gomig did not respond, merely wriggling like a beached fish as Melkor pounced his hand on his stomach and tickled the Balrogling's chubby tummy. Gomig shrieked and howled with laughter until a sharp scratch of five razor sharp claws being dug into his arm indicated to Melkor that the littlest Balrog was ready to continue the story, and he lifted the tiny child into a sitting position again, making a mental note to trim the child's finger and toenails that evening.

"Now, one year your Uncle Manwë gave me a most delightful silver dinner set," Melkor said with a broad and wicked grin, "And I feared that he would feel slighted if I did not put it to good use."

Gomig squealed in anticipation of the next part of the story, which was his very favourite of all the tales that Melkor ever told, but the Dark Lord's attention had drifted somewhat from the task in hand. The older Balroglings had finished their game by now, and were running busily around the courtyard fetching a variety of objects, and Nárë and Ondo were struggling with a spear quite three times their height.

"I cut them with the knifes. . . and prodded them with the forks. . . and then. . ." Melkor faulted in his triumphant tale as he watched the spear crash to the ground, missing Uru's neck by a hair's breadth, "then I got the spoons and scooped out. . ."

"Not right! Not right, Melkie!" Gomig protested crossly, bouncing on the Dark Lord's lap in an attempt to regain his full attention. Melkor had left out the bit about oozing blood and seasoning infected wounds, and had not even licked his lips and lengthened his 'ooh' sound properly when he had described the scooping bit. "Melkie, again!"

"In a minute, Gomig." Melkor snapped, his eyes still on the spear, which now had four pulling and tugging Balroglings attached. As he watched the point lurched forwards, only just giving Raumo time to skip aside in time to avoid being speared through the chest, and finally giving in to temptation he bellowed at the top of his voice, "Be careful, Raumo! You'll have your eye out on that!"

The four Balroglings halted instantly, but to Melkor's chagrin merely looked at him for a moment, waved at him in a condescending manner and continued their previous actions, clearly thinking his rightful worries naught but fussing. Sighing in frustration, Melkor turned back to the rather aggrieved looking Gomig, and tried to make himself sound as enthusiastic as possible. "Of course, no dinner set is complete without a set of fish knifes. . ."

There was a loud shriek of triumph, and Raumo fell from one of the high walls to the ground, his hands clenched around some small object. Wincing slightly at the thump with which the small horned head hit the dirt, Melkor was admittedly more worried by the assortment of grins and smirks on his progeny's faces.

"Raumo, what have you there?" The Dark Lord queried sternly, barely giving the Balrogling time to regain his footing before beckoning the child over to his side. "Over here, now!"

"I found a hatchling, Melkor!" Raumo said proudly, carrying the chirping chick over in carefully cupped hands. "It is still alive, look!"

Melkor dutifully peered inside the dark shadowy crack that Raumo opened up for him to admire the panic-stricken little creature, then looked around at the little gathering of Balrogs that had come up to stand behind their brother. All were armed to the teeth with daggers and whips and something that looked worryingly like a spice grater, and had clearly pilfered his sock and glove drawer for what protection they felt they needed. The foursome all were grinning in delight, but their eyes held a small glimmer of doubt that their minder would interrupt their games.

"We shall make an orc-bird." Nárë said with a rather dangerous tone, his dark eyes daring the Dark Lord to try and stop them.

"Run along with you," unwilling to cause a scene by refusing to allow the boys to improve their torture techniques, Melkor waved the Balroglings vaguely aside with an indulgent smile. As long as the children were productively occupied, he had little care over how they spent their time. Although as they joyfully scampered off towards the doorway, gabbling to each other in excited high-pitched squawks, Melkor was unable to prevent himself bellowing after them, "For the love of all things great and good, do not get blood on the carpet!"

As evening came, and bedtimes approached, the little family gathered beside the big fireplace in Melkor's sitting room. The Dark Lord sat in a huge chair, leaning his papers on his knee as he worked on some devious plot of great evil, and watching his Balroglings as they played. It was important to keep a close eye on them, for their squabbles often drew blood, and tended to erupt for the most trivial of reasons.

At the moment they appeared fully occupied. The two eldest Balrogs were organising complex ambushes with their toy orcs, chuckling as they estimated the death count. Nárë and Ondo were racing pieces of coal in burning - a game that Nárë was sure to win, for Ondo had not yet realised that taking his lump of coal out for examination every other minute would slow down its rate of consumption. Gomig was building cities and towers out of wooden blocks for the sheer pleasure of running through them, laughing rather frighteningly as he smashed them to smithereens. All was at peace, but it would not be long before. . .

"Melkor?" Ondo had apparently lost the game, and he came running over to the Dark Lord's side, leaving sooty finger marks on everything he touched. "Can we play Boulder Roll?"

Boulder Roll was a quite delightful game of Melkor's invention, in which large, round pieces of rock would be rolled towards wooden models of elves. The other Balroglings looked up with noises of agreement. Boulder Roll was a favourite game of theirs, and always led to much hilarity.

"Why not." Melkor put his papers down - carefully out of Gomig's reach - and got to his feet to retrieve the large box containing the boulders and model elves. The playing pieces had been kept out of reach during the day ever since Uru and Raumo had been struck with the wonderful idea of boulder rolling at various other objects including the crockery and each other.

The four older Balrogs set to preparing the game as Melkor returned to his papers. As the others busied themselves, Gomig crawled among the playing pieces, knocking down the models that Nárë had so laboriously arranged, chewing on the markers and generally being a nuisance.

"Go away, Gomig!" Uru removed the rolling line markers from Gomig's mouth and ears and gave his little brother a shove. "Shoo!"

Gomig stuck his tongue out at Uru and scrambled over to sit on the boulders that Raumo had just counted out.

"Go away, stupid!" Raumo yanked Gomig from the boulders by one skinny arm and flung him to the ground. "Nuisance!"

Gomig's chin began to quiver and the black eyes filled with tears.

"Me?" A plaintive voice queried.

"No!" Four voices spoke at once.

"You spoil it!" Ondo added.

"You cannot count to score." Nárë sighed.

"You do not even aim right." Raumo said scornfully.

"And anyway," Uru put his hands on his hips, "you are too small to pick up a boulder."

Gomig stared at them then put his thumb into his mouth for a few sucks.

"Me pay!" He stood up and toddled over to the boulders again, straining in vain to pick one up. "Me go."

"No!" Raumo yelled, as he saw his newly tidied pile being pushed about any old how. "Stop it!"

"Melkor!" Nárë called loudly, ignoring the fact that his guardian was only a few feet away. "Gomig is spoiling our game."

"Me!" Gomig shouted loudly, tears of frustration already beginning to spill down his cheeks. He might not be able to pick up a boulder yet, but he was always left out, and this game looked like so much fun.

"Gomig." Melkor said sternly, and the littlest Balrog slunk miserably across the room to stand at his feet.

"Me pay!" Gomig tried desperately to make the Dark Lord understand what it was that he wanted, pointing at the boulders and jumping up and down crossly. "Pay!"

Hot tears began to streak down his cheeks and he clenched his hands into fists.

"You are too little, Gomig." Melkor set down his papers again and tried to pick up the tiny Balrog, who was quite stiff with anger. His devious plotting of evil plans would have to be put on hold for this evening. "Why do you not sit here with me, and I shall read you the hundred ways to kill an elf poem."

Gomig was not mollified by even this tempting offer. The book may be lavishly decorated in quite extraordinary numbers of different shades of red, but it did not compare with actually being able to roll boulders at the elves yourself.

"Me pay!" Gomig screeched elbowing Melkor hard in his struggle to escape his grasp and join in the fun. Melkor doubled over, releasing his grip on the tiny Balrog and Gomig leapt from his lap. Landing on hands and knees on the hearth rug was all very well, but to tumble among your previously discarded blocks was slightly more painful, and soon Gomig was in tears.

"Melkie." Gomig sniffed pitifully and held out his arms to the Dark Lord, begging to be picked up and comforted.

Melkor, however, was in no mood to comfort anyone, especially the young bratling that had caused him pain. He glared furiously at the tiny Balrog and paid no attention to the high-pitched whimpering.

The four older Balroglings looked at each other dubiously, and began working rapidly in silence to set up their game. It was not wise to catch Melkor's attention when he was in such a mood.

The littlest Balrog held out his wilting arms for a few minutes more, then realising that a cuddle was not forthcoming gulped back his sobs and crawled over to Melkor's feet. If Melkie would not come to him, then he would have to go to Melkie.

At first the Dark Lord was able to ignore the small dollop sitting at his feet, but once Gomig began nuzzling his warm little head against his legs, Melkor began to feel his resolve breaking.

"Oh, very well." The Dark Lord said with great aggravation and reached down to lift the child into his lap. Gomig smiled in satisfaction and rubbed his cheek against the smooth silk of Melkor's shirt.

Melkor looked down at the child and could not help but smile. The Balrogling was practically purring, greatly satisfied with the way things had turned out. As usual for this late in the evening his cheeks had flushed a shade darker with sleepiness and he was especially warm and cuddly.

"Melkor," Nár's voice rose in a query, "will you play with us?"

Melkor paused for a moment, considering the offer, secretly rather pleased by the hopeful and eager looks that his progeny directed towards him. He would get no peace anyway if he were to look after his youngest.

"I do not see why not." The Dark Lord shifted Gomig onto his hip and moved to sit cross-legged on the floor between Ondo and Nárë, who both promptly leant against his bulk. "Who shall go first?"

~*~

"Oh well done, Nárë!" Melkor grinned with admiration at the tiny Balrog. "The young and wounded, ten points."

Nárë grinned at him, and retrieved the boulder for Ondo to take a turn. He was surprisingly good at this game, perhaps because he stopped to think rather than using brute force to blast the figurines aside, and was currently leading by quite a wide margin.

Ondo took the boulder in both hands and knelt down beside the line and turned to the playing field with an expression of fearsome concentration. Taking a breath so deep that it made his cheeks bulge out sufficiently far to make Melkor fear that the child would burst, he frowned and rolled his boulder forwards.

"Oooh!" Uru bit his lip anxiously and crossed his fingers that his brother should fail. If Ondo scored these points then he had no chance of catching up, and although it was quite acceptable to come second or third, he would not stand coming last.

"I think that. . ." Nárë trailed off into silence as he tried to judge the angle at which the boulder would rebound. If Ondo managed to get this, then next go the field would be clear for aiming at the innocents, and while they were not worth as many points as the soldiers, when one fell more were prone to follow.

"Nearly. . ." Raumo held his breath. If Ondo managed to make the elf fall then there was no chance that Uru could beat him, and while it would mean that he himself would be beaten, anything was worth a victory over his elder brother.

"Yes!" Ondo bounced excitedly into the air and skipped nimbly among the fallen corpses to collect the boulder. "The High King! Look, Melkor! The High King all squished!"

Melkor grinned at the little Balrog, and gently took Gomig's hands in his and clapped them together. "Well done, fifty points!"

"Squishy-deaded!" Gomig squealed in excitement, squirming in Melkor's arms in his eagerness to take part. "Me go! Gomig go!"

"Yes," Melkor agreed, accepting the boulder from Ondo and moving onto his knees, "It is our turn."

Barely able to contain his glee, Gomig scrambled forwards to sit leaning against the Dark Lord's knees. "That way!"

Melkor sighed inwardly as Gomig pointed towards an elf that while very colourful carried only five points, ignoring the open access to a female with child, but put aside his reservations to please his youngest. Gomig was but two years old, and had not yet learnt of the importance of choosing his target.

"Ready?" Melkor held the boulder ready as Gomig put his feet against the roughly hewn rock and pushed with all his might. "Go!"

Adding a little extra push of his own, Melkor whisked the littlest Balrog to his feet and stood him in his lap, allowing Gomig to see the slow progress of his boulder towards the elf - which predictably stumbled and fell - prompting the emission of several high-pitched squeals of triumph and irritated groans from the others.

As they continued playing, Melkor became aware that the tiny bundle that he held had become increasingly still, and had slumped down his chest to curl up in his lap, sucking on a small thumb. Now that he was not wriggling, the littlest Balrog felt pleasantly warm and soft - not unlike those tasty snackettes that his brother had skip around pastures in their fluffy little packets. Taking his eyes from the game for a few seconds, the Dark Lord gently brushed a finger against a warm cheek then, as he was passed the boulder, placed a large hand across the child's chest, holding his youngest warm and steady as he took a turn.
hit submit.

"Are you not in bed yet?" Melkor frowned at his younglings as they scurried busily around their room preparing for the night. Having finished bathing and changing the littlest Balrog into his night things - Gomig still being rather too small to keep himself warm all through the night unaided - he had expected to find the older boys at least halfway to their beds. Unfortunately though, the Balroglings did not seem to share his enthusiasm for having them all tucked in and fast asleep.

Ondo and Raumo were trying to crowd each other off the end of the bed, elbowing each other wherever possible as they struggled to stay on the narrow mattress. At a signal from Uru they would scrub their fangs vigorously with their brushes, each seeking to create as many bubbles as possible before the second signal - at which point they would take deep breaths in and attempt to blow great trails of 'smoke' across the bedroom floor. While Melkor did not doubt that their little milk-fangs were gleaming as they had never gleamed before, the stone paving was far from spotless.

"Ondo wins!" Uru skipped to the end of the soap trails, carefully assessing the distance that each of his brothers had managed to puff. In fact Raumo had managed to spout foam a little the further, but aggravating his brother was far more entertaining than fairness. "I declare you the champion smoke blower of Utumno!"

Beaming, Ondo bounced high in the air, only to land heavily on the floor as Raumo shoved him aside with a well-aimed knee.

"That was not fair!" Snarling, Raumo brandished his toothbrush at his elder brother, forgetting the rather more fearsome fangs that he had been polishing a moment before. "I demand a rematch!"

The room was instantly filled with a clamour of dissenting voices as Uru, Raumo and Ondo each repeated their own claims in increasingly loud and shrill voices. Brows flattening into a thin dark line just above his eyelids, Melkor turned to look for the remaining child.

Nárë was sitting cross-legged on the tidiest bed, apparently unconcerned by the shrieking and snarling coming from the other side of the room. He beamed at Melkor with an expression of great innocence, then resumed picking between his teeth with his toenails. Unfortunately for him, the Dark Lord was not deluded for even a minute. He did not even need to see the child's most charming leer to guess who had been directing the activities.

"Boys!" Melkor thundered, seeming to grow into a great and terrible shadow that reflected the very depths of darkness and despair. "Sleep!"

Less than three seconds later, all five Balroglings were lying silently in their beds, apparently asleep. Chortling to himself, Melkor sauntered back down the hallway to his own chambers. Life was good. His room was warm, his bed was soft, and his progeny were too scared to move or speak. Singing loudly in a rather splendid baritone, the Dark Lord proceeded to wash his face and hands and retired to his bedchamber. He paused by the window a moment, addressing a few choice words to the West - mainly regarding delights of an eagle down mattress - then, with a rather un-Dark-Lordly snigger climbed into bed. It had been a long, tiring and really rather entertaining day, but now all was at peace.

~*~

"Melkor!" Ondo's voice rose shrill and frightened through the dark. There were some running footsteps and a warm body shot through the air and into the Dark Lord's stomach. "Melkor!"

"What?" Melkor snapped, struggling for breath as he fought with tangled sheets and blankets in an effort to get hold of the terrified Balrogling.

"I dreamt. . . I dreamt. . ." Ondo took a shuddering breath and then dissolved into proper tears. "I dreamt that you turned into a fluffy kitten, Melkor, and then Uru and Raumo were picking flowers. It was horrible!"

The child's voice rose to a howl and he began shaking violently. Sighing at the departing of his last chance of an undisturbed night, Melkor sat up and took the little boy in his arms. The tale of Yavanna had proved especially distressing for this little Balrogling, and any particularly stressful day was apt to produce terrible nightmares.

"I have you. I have you." Melkor gently rocked Ondo in his arms, keeping his voice soft and soothing. "There is nothing to fear. Yavanna will not hunt you here. Remember what we do to her spawn?"

"We. . . we bash. . ." Ondo gulped back sobs and buried his face in the Dark Lord's chest.

"Yes," Melkor smiled as he softly spoke the familiar words used to soothe any Balrogling with disturbing dreams. "We smash them into bits and bash them into pulp. We skin them and stretch them, we mince and we mangle. There is nothing to fear."

It took some time to soothe the upset child, and by the time that Melkor had finished the fourth gruesome and reassuringly bloody story both Dark Lord and little Balrog's eyelids were drooping.

"Try and get some sleep." Melkor said gruffly, scratching behind the child's soft horns one last time before relaxing into the pillows. Ondo immediately rolled over and cuddled up against the Dark Lord, resting his leathery head against the large shoulder. Rather glad of the warmth on such a cold night, Melkor patted the child's side and prepared to sleep. It was silent in his stronghold apart from the low thump of the drums beating steadily through the night, out of the window the stars were marred by cloud. Struggling against a yawn, Melkor shut his eyes and drifted off into dreams.

"Melkor?" There was an embarrassed hiss and a distinct smell of burnt wool, and Melkor cracked open his eyelids to peer at a distressed looking shadow lurking at the bedside.

"Uru?" The Dark Lord stared uncomprehendingly at the child for a moment then remembered their discussion earlier and flicked up a corner of the blankets, providently positioning the younger child between him and his eldest little demon. He did not wish to wake up ablaze. "Do not wake Ondo."

"I shall not." Uru said quietly, scrambling into the bed and burrowing his hot little head into the Dark Lord's palm.

"I am not asleep!" Ondo jerked into a sitting position, banging his head hard against Melkor's chin, giving rise to a loud and extremely colourful curse.

"You should be." Melkor spoke through gritted teeth as he turned over on his side once more, trying to ignore the writhing and kicking limbs as the boys struggled for ownership of the blankets. It was dark and silent and if he remained resolutely boring the boys should soon be fast asleep.

There was a patter of tiny feet over the dark stone floor.

"Your bed is bouncier than mine!" Nárë said brightly, scrambling up onto the mattress and leaping high up into the air.

Melkor growled quietly, only just moving his legs apart in time to avoid having a Balrogling land heavily on his kneecaps.

"Look at me!" Nárë squealed in elation, propelling himself upwards once more with peals of gleeful laughter.

"Nárë!" Melkor snarled, only just managing to catch the Balrogling in time to avoid the child making a soft landing in a tender area of his anatomy. "Can you not sleep?"

"No." Nárë smiled cheerfully at the Dark Lord. "I was asleep, Melkor. . ."

"Are you in pain?" Melkor asked shortly.

"No." Grinning, Nárë shook his head rapidly.

"Has my dearest brother decided to pay a visit?" Melkor's left eyebrow curved elegantly upwards.

"No. . . I do not think so, Melkor." Nárë turned to look at the door with a puzzled expression. Melkor often spoke about Uncle Manwë but he had never yet come to stay. "Is he going to come? Will he bring presents?"

Melkor shook his head curtly, cutting off the child in mid-flow, and frowned. "Then why are you not in bed, Nárë?"

Nárë looked at him reproachfully, as if this was blatantly obvious. "Your bed is bouncier than mine, Melkor."

Melkor exhaled rapidly through his nose in such a manner that Ondo was quietly surprised not to see smoke and flames issuing from it. "Go back to bed, Nárë."

Looking hurt at the rather obvious lack of patience in the Dark Lord's words, Nárë squirmed free of the Dark Lord's grasp.

"But I want to stay here!" Nárë thrust out his chest aggressively. "I do not want to go to bed!"

"Nárë," Melkor said in a low voice that he liked to think that the Balroglings took as a warning to obey, "Bed."

"But that is not fair!" Nárë scowled, sticking his lower lip out as far as he could manage. "You let Uru and Ondo stay with you. You just like them better than me!"

"Nárë, I do not. . ." Melkor began short-temperedly, only to be drowned out by Nár's high-pitched and tearful squeal.

"You do!"

"No, I do not. Your brothers. . ."

"Oh yes, you do!"

"No. . ." Melkor made another attempt to be heard trying to ignore the satisfied smirks that the two little Balrogs that he held were giving each other.

"Yes, you dooo!" Nárë sounded perilously close to tears. "You do, you do, you do!"

"Oh all right!" Melkor grumpily extended a large arm and seized Nár's waist, pulling him down onto the mattress with a bump. "You may stay if you want to."

His tears disappearing in an instant, Nárë beamed at the Dark Lord and snuggled comfortably up against his side, already engaging in a tug of war with Uru and Ondo for the blankets.

Rolling his eyes, Melkor tugged his pillow away from Ondo's sleepy hands and tucked it under his own head before shutting his eyes with a rather disgruntled air.

There was precisely three minutes and fifty-two seconds of peace.

"Melkor?" A voice asked grumpily from the gloom in the doorway, only a slight quivering note telling of the Balrogling's hurt at being left out from the communal cuddle.

With a resigned sigh, the Dark Lord shifted himself across the bed to make room for Raumo between himself and Nárë. "Oh, get in!"

Melkor stumbled along the corridor, eyes half screwed up with sleep. A slight whimpering had disturbed him, and as he got closer to the boys' room there was no doubt that it came from the littlest Balrog. He rounded the corner, and could just see the open doorway when he stepped on something very small and very hard.

Cursing loudly to set a good example to those of the boys that were still awake, Melkor kicked aside Raumo's discarded toy orcs - now looking considerably more mutated than the maker had intended - and hobbled onwards.

Through the dark he could just make out the four empty beds, their crumpled sheets pushed back and dragging on the floor, and in the corner Gomig's cot. The littlest Balrog had developed a nasty habit of rolling off his bed in the middle of the night, so Melkor had been obliged to nail a rough blank of wood across its open edge - this being the closest thing to a crib that he would allow in his stronghold.

Gomig was sprawled on his stomach, whimpering and pawing at his head with clenched fists. The Dark Lord knelt down beside the cot, and gently placed a hand on the child's back, noticing immediately the slight fretful twitches of his wings. Gomig was terribly small as yet, and Melkor was half afraid to touch him lest he accidentally snapped one of the tiny arms or tore the paper-thin wings.

Gomig whimpered more loudly and rolled over onto his back to snuggle against his guardian's hand, clenching two tiny fists around Melkor's index finger.

Smiling in spite of his efforts to look gruff, the Dark Lord picked up the child and shifted him against his shoulder. The Balrogling felt warm and cuddly from sleep, and had slumped into his body, trusting him completely to make things better.

"There, what bothers you?" Melkor muttered to himself, noting with concern that Gomig's fists were once again pawing at his head. "Is it your head?"

Gomig made a miserable squeak and stuck a fist into his mouth to chew on.

"Your head. . ." Melkor carried the child over to Ondo's bed and sat down, ignoring the ominous creak that resulted from such action. Setting the little bundle down in his lap, he ran two fingers lightly over the soft leathery hide. It was feverishly hot and swollen in two patches where his horns would later grow, and judging from the way the child recoiled whimpering when touched, it was a fair guess that they were sore.

"Well," Melkor beamed down at the upset child, well pleased with his development, "soon you will have horns just like Uru and Raumo!"

Gomig burrowed his face deeper into Melkor's neck and began crying. Much as horns would assist him in squabbles with his brothers, this hurt!

"Shh." Melkor whispered soothingly, rocking his tiny bundle against his shoulder. Judging from the gasps between the shrill cries of pain, Gomig was intending to begin bellowing at any moment. "Shh."

Gomig's tears broke into loud and fretful sobs, and he beat his tiny fists against the Dark Lord's chest with all the strength a very small Balrog could muster. While the onslaught was little more than a ticklish patter to Melkor, he was afraid that the child might hurt himself, and in any case he found the pleading 'why-don't-you-do-something' quality to the dark eyes rather disturbing.

"Gomig. . ."

Gomig replied by arching his head back and howling mournfully. Warm tears dripped from his chin and landed on Melkor's bare chest, running downwards in little streams.

Letting his breath out in a stress-relieving hiss, Melkor got to his feet and stumbled into his bathroom with his struggling bundle. He rummaged through the contents of a small wooden chest searching desperately for anything, recommended or otherwise, that would bring the littlest Balrog relief. At the moment Gomig had managed to sooth himself by gnawing gently on one of the Dark Lord's large fingers, but the effect would not last long, and Melkor had no desire to spend the next few weeks attached to Gomig's milk-fangs.

"At last!" Melkor's fingers finally made contact with the tiny leather pouch that he had been seeking. He quickly mixed a few pinches of the powder inside into a beaker of warm water. This particular concoction had never failed to sooth a sobbing child, and brought relief to the ears of the whole family.

It was an easy enough task to get the Balrogling to accept the drink, for crying was thirsty work, but once the tiny forked tongue tasted the mixture, Gomig screwed up his face and pressed his lips together in a stubborn line.

"Please, Gomig. It will stop the pain." Melkor tried to prise open the child's lips, but this only led to a large amount of terrified squeaking and frantic wing flapping, and several bite-sized tooth-marks in Melkor's fingertips.

Finally the Dark Lord sighed in exasperation, tucked Gomig under one arms, grabbed the glass with his other hand, and made his aggravated way downstairs as quietly as he could manage. The last thing he needed at this point were four sleepy little pairs of eyes watching him reproachfully.

A rapid and rather messy rummage through the pantry shelves provided not only an apple to gag Gomig's howls, but also a small earthenware pot of honey. Melkor sat Gomig down on the tabletop, and spooned this liberally into the drink until it had a consistency more similar to syrup than water.

Mixing it briskly, he again offered it to the little Balrog, supporting the base of the beaker with one hand in case the tiny fingers were too sleepy to hold the container.

Gomig gave the concoction a doubtful look, dipped the surface with the tip of a pink tongue, and pushed the beaker away with stiff hands.

"Nooo!"

Melkor hissed in frustration and wiped at the large quantities of sticky liquid that had slopped down his chest with a towel.

"Gomig!"

The anger in his tone only made the tiny Balrog stiffen with fear and screw up both his eyes and lips.

"Nooo!"

Clenching one fist in frustration, Melkor struggled to control his temper. He could hurt Gomig so easily - kill him without meaning to, even.

Moving quickly he gently pinched the tiny nose, and ignored the desperate scratching and kicking as he waited for the inevitable. Eventually Gomig opened his mouth, gasping for breath. In a flash Melkor poured most of the contents into the dark cavern of the tiny Balrog's mouth and ignoring the stickiness of the tiny face, clamped his hand over the child's mouth and nose.

Gomig struggled, waving legs and arms around viciously and scratching at anything that looked like part of the Dark Lord, but eventually swallowed.

Sighing with relief, Melkor released the child and wiped his hands. Gomig scuttled away over the kitchen table, gasping painfully and sobbing pitifully. The sobs soon turned to low mournful howls and anguished moans, clearly designed for and extremely effective at making Melkor feel exceedingly guilty.

"Come here, Gomig." Melkor sounded honestly regretful and tried to dry off some of the sticky substance from the tiny body.

Gomig made a screeching sound and shot across the table so fast that he forgot to stop at the edge, and fell to the floor with a pitiful noise somewhere between a squish and a thud.

"Gomig!" Melkor called with some alarm, vaulting across the table to kneel at the child's side. Gomig was shaking, too shocked to even cry as yet. Melkor picked him up and cradled him against his chest. At first the child was unresponsive, as if fighting an inner battle over whether to show his displeasure over the previous treatment, or submit to the comfort he so badly needed. Eventually the desire to be cuddled won over, and he leant into Melkor's body, each sob shaking his entire body.

It took a while to calm the little Balrog, by which time Gomig was getting increasingly sleepy, his lashless lids drooping. Deciding to leave the clearing of the kitchen to the morning, and preferably someone else, Melkor settled the Balrogling into his arms and began making his way upstairs.

Five minutes later the Dark Lord was lying in bed, two small bodies snuggled up in each outstretched arm, and a small sticky baby Balrog slumbering on his stomach. Melkor glanced left and right to ensure that his four elder sons were sleeping soundly, smiled at Gomig's peaceful little face - his thumb in his half open mouth - and lay back down. Soon he drifted into a dreamless sleep, well contented with himself. Others had made him what he was, and he would never disappoint them.

THE END

The brothers stood silhouetted against the walls of Angband, black against the distant stars. The night was filled with screeches and the clang of swords, but it had been long since one had spoken.

"They call him Spirit of Fire." Nárë commented softly, looking down at the distant battle with a note of scorn.

Orcs were falling at the swords of the Noldor, and the bright banners of Fëanor were fluttering long in the breeze. Filled with deep foreboding, the four captains of the Balrogs looked down at the progress of the host of Fëanor towards Thangorodrim.

Only one remained still, laughing dryly to himself.

"That can be arranged." Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, cracked his whip in a whirling streak of flame. "Let us begin."

The five turned and as a wall of flame and shadow, marched shoulder-to- shoulder from the gates of Angband.