To Melkor among the Ainur had been given the greatest gifts of power and knowledge, and he had a share in all the gifts of his brethren. He had gone often alone into the void places seeking the Imperishable Flame; for desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own, and it seemed to him that Ilúvatar took no thought for the Void, and he was impatient of its emptiness. Yet he found not the Fire, for it is with Ilúvatar.

—The Silmarillion, p. 3

When the Battle was ended and from the ruin of the North great clouds arose and hid the stars, the Valar drew Melkor back to Valinor, bound hand and foot, and blindfold; and he was brought to the Ring of Doom. There he lay upon his face before the feet of Manwë and sued for pardon; but his prayer was denied, and he was cast into prison in the fastness of Mandos, whence none can escape, neither Vala, nor Elf, nor mortal Man. Vast and strong are those halls, and they were built in the west of the land of Aman. There was Melkor doomed to abide for three ages long, before his cause should be tried anew, or he should plead again for pardon.

—The Silmarillion

Long ago, before the time of man, there were the Others.

They had no name, these creatures, for they had no words. Their Magic was their speech, and through it, they made of the land a wonderous garden. This young World was theirs, and like all young things, they reveled in their glory. In their youth. And they gave worship to their God, who - as their legends say - had crafted the world through music and light.

And so for many ages, they lived peacefully on this world, beautiful and wondrous. To behold the beauty of their world, they created a vast network of Trees, white of bark and red of leaves. These, they planted all over the world, and saw it was good.

But all this would not last.

For the Others were not alone. They had kindred, less bright and less beautiful. Where they dwelt in the fullness of light, their lesser kindred dwelt in darker places. And when the lesser saw their greater, there came envy. From envy came resentment, resentment at hierarchy, and resentment at beauty. And as their resentment grew, they sought to distance themselves, to go to the deeper parts of the world and nurture their anger.

As they became estranged with their kin, these lesser creatures began to be known by a different name: The Deep Ones.

In their stongholds beneath the sea, they crafted fearsome spells and malevolent creatures to make war with their higher kin and to break the laws of the tyrannous stars. In one vicious attack, war covered the world and the Others were driven from their lands, driven North. There, the Others consolidated and built armies of their own. Frozen, undying creatures, and they used their trees to spy on the Deep Ones, who have begun to craft oily, black fortresses in the Great East.

After much sacrifice, the Others would eventually stall their Enemy's Advance, but the War had also become a stalemate, with both sides bleeding themselves dry.

For many years, the war continued, and the world was made ugly and twisted. Both sides unleashed dark, unspeakable things upon the land and they would haunt it forever, but the worse was yet to come. For one day, a voice called out to them. It was a Voice from another world and it came seeking the light that forged theirs. Stranger still, this creature knew their creator, though he called it by a different name,

It was fair and strong, and it marveled at their world. The Others were suspicious at first, but as they lost more and more of their kin, they grew desperate. The Voice named himself Melkor, a craftsman. He promised help to the Others if they would promise that he help him in return.

The Others agreed and they helped Melkor forge a gate so that he might come to their world. But creating the gate was easier said than done. It needed much power, power that the Others did not have. Soon, the question about the Gate did not matter for the Deep Ones had recovered from their earlier losses. From their Sea Stone Chair, the Enemy raised vast towers of oily Black Stone and diseased, wriggling armies crept their way to the North.

Desperate, the Others pleaded with their ally, and Melkor, not wanting to lose his only foothold on this new world but also seeing opportunity, offered them a pact. He grant them power, enough power to crush their enemies, but in exchange, they would become his thralls and more importantly, they would complete his gate.

And so Melkor taught them spells, and he taught them how to remake creatures, and make of them weapons. With these boons, the Others regained the initiative. One by one, the Deep Ones' Oily, Black Fortresses were brought low. Of these, only a few remained to the present day.

After uncountable years, the war was almost over. But the Deep Ones had one last trick. As they fell back to their watery graves, they cast a curse on the Bright Ones. Just as they are to be imprisoned in the depths, the Others will be imprisoned in Ice. Both shall be bound in their respective prisons, never to be released until the time of Ending.

Upon learning of this curse, the Others went back to their Master, begging him for aid. But Melkor could not help them, for by this time, he had already been defeated in his own world and he was cast into the prison of the Great Void. Instead, another voice spoke to them. My voice. I promised them salvation, just as Melkor had done; a lie, but I had been desperate at that time.

I taught them the means to complete the gate. It would need two magical poles, one from their world, one from Arda. Fortunately, we had the perfect candidates. We labored, my allies and I, but time was not on our side. The curse was destroying the Others, and the Valar were hunting me. Desperate, I called on them to seek out... volunteers.

My allies complied, and they brought forth many creatures, giants and dire wolves; primitive spirits and little child-like creatures. I then instructed them to bind these to their red-leaved, white trees, to give the trees cognition. This command, they obeyed, and soon, the gate was given power, enough power to bridge our two worlds. enough power for me to slip through, away from the loathsome Valar.

I did not travel alone. Bakkalon, too, fled with me, and so did the one known as the 'Black Goat,' through the transition had greatly weakened them. Across the vast emptiness we traveled, past Melkor's prison and the empty howls of dead earth until we arrived on this world.

Further, our arrival had not been without problems. The Magics used to create the gate had an dangerous effect on my new world's seasons, prolonging them. Henceforth, the seasons would last for years. My companions and I did not have time to consider any of this. Our travel had greatly weakened us, and we needed rest. Bakkalon was half-mad and the Black Goat was a broken thing. Out of our group, only I still bore enough power, and soon, the Others felt it.

They called out to me, and demanded that I save them from the curse. Silly creatures.

Even in my diminished state, I was able to crush them. They cried out in indignation, those sad fools. Soon, the Others were reduced to spirits of ice and frost, bound to the icy North, and we were free, my kin and I to rule a new world.

But first, we needed rest.

And so ages passed, and the legacy of the War was forgotten. It was in this new world, that men came, they who were called the Second-born in Arda, the Strangers for they did not dwell long, but passed to places beyond the ken of the Valar.

And now, I know where they go, these folly-bound wretches. Eru - if that is his true name - gave this world to the Others and the Deep Ones, and when they displeased him, gave it to one of his favorites. Typical. Strange that these worlds have been filled with war. It's as though Eru is not the almighty, all-compassionate god the Valar claim him to be, but I am getting ahead of myself.

By the time, we had awoken from our torpor, the men of this world had spread far and wide. Slowly, subtly, we whispered to them. Some heeded our call. Most did not. It did not matter. Given time, we will rule this world. I will rule this world.

With the help of Bakkalon and the Black Goat, we guided the realm the mortals these days call 'the Empire of the Dawn,' guiding them so that they might become great, and great they have become, but they proved such a disappointment. We taught them the secrets of Melkor, and they were too feeble to use it, just like the Others.

Never mind.

We had other... candidates. As time passed, other kingdoms rose. All that is left of them are a few sad mongrels, their blood diluted.

Bakkalon claimed the sorcerers who have occupied an old fortress crafted by the Deep Ones. Asshai it is called. The Black Goat claimed Qohor. I, on the other hand, whispered my secrets to a small band of shepherds who dwelt near a Volcano. I taught them the magical crafts of blood and fire, and with my guidance, they created Dragons from the local Wyverns. Less than the ones on Arda, but still Dragons. They did not have mighty Glaurung's spells, nor Ancalagon's strength but they can fly and breathe fire, and in this world, that is all that matters.

They had become the greatest, those small band of shepherds. They had conquered all that was worth conquering, and would have become greater were it not for their stupidity.

I warned them. I warned them not to play with blood thaumaturgy, but no, they just did not listen. My new followers will succeed where they have failed, for I must act soon. So many enemies all around me, Bakkalon and the Black Goat have betrayed me, and wish to take my followers for theirs. To the North, the Others stir, waiting for the chance to bathe the world in ice, even as their old foe, seethes with rage in the depths, waiting for a chance to return to the surface, and exact vengeance.

And amidst all this, my kindred Maiar have come, those slaves of the Valar. In their folly, they have opened the gate, and I fear that, others, more powerful, may pass through... For though the fastness of Mandos bars its prisoners from returning to Arda, those prison walls have no power over this one.

Now, for the first time in countless years, I am afraid... afraid that I might meet my old master. The cold ghosts stir in the North. The seething monsters stir in the deeps. Famine, plague and war are coming. But these things are trifles if the Two Trees are not destroyed, and even I, Mighty 'R'hollor,' do not have that power. I have hidden the trees away temporarily, but they will return soon. Too soon.

Even now, I can hear rumblings from the other side. Through the void, I spy the wrath of Balrogs and Ungoliant's spawns. I hear the distant roars of Draugluin and Carcharoth. I smell Fankil and Langon. And worst of all, I can feel Grond's power and the hate of the one who wields it.