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.