It was the year 3017 of the Third Age of the Years of the Sun in Arda. Sauron grew slowly in strength from the depths of Mordor. Dol Guldur was held by Khamûl the Easterling and he pressed ever onwards against the wood-kingdoms.

The Dark Lord's fiery eye was still small and weak, but he cast his gaze upon that which was once called Greenwood the Great. Dark spawn infected the forest. He could see the spiders scuttling about, the blackened butterflies, the orcs hiding in the shadows. The Nandor stayed beneath the boughs of those rotting trees.

Sauron recalled the spark of cold anger he nursed for those Elves. Their three Rings—Narya, Nenya, and Vilya—were hidden from him and the Wood Elves of Taur-nu-Fuin—that is, Mirkwood—still held their own against the encroaching sickness. If only, if only… if only Sauron had his Ring of Power… the Elven kingdom would fall to ruin and fires would crumble their precious forest. Alas, he required patience. But the corrupted Maia had his third-in-command stationed there, a Ringwraith who could act for him.

So Sauron commanded Khamûl to do a work of trickery against the Wood Elves in Mirkwood. He knew—perhaps better than any—that a force without a leader is as useless as a body without a head. The Nazgûl still possessed his Ring of Power and, while his power and abilities were strictly under control of Sauron, he still retained the great magical ability the Ring had given him. Though he wasn't the Sorcerer he had once been when he was still mortal, Khamûl could work great spells with the bidding of his Master.

The Maia set his mind upon the weave of Eä. He still heard the lilting melodies of his fellow Ainur, singing the very existence of the Universe. Sauron's own voice was still present, his voice as it once was, when he was still called Mairon. Eä was orderly because of his song. Indeed, Sauron loved order and efficiency and despised any waste. What was more efficient than time? Time rushed by in a torrent, sweeping away all that went misused. With the physical presence of Khamûl and the soft plying of the Ainulindalë of the Maia, Sauron shall pluck the King of the Woodland realm and toss him into the ever-flowing stream. The Elf would know mortality as he withered to dust before the eyes of his kin. Fear would burrow deep into the hearts of the Eldar and then, then, would Sauron dominate their wills.

It was something he had been contemplating for a very long time.