He finds it hard to care anymore. The loneliness is his familiar and constant companion; the only one who stays by his side; the only one that is ever there. He constantly longs for someone to talk to besides himself, but knows better then to seek someone out. He deserves only sorrow, pain, and silence. As he wanders through the never-ending landscape, he wonders why he ever left in the first place. He has regretted it ever since and he can't go home now. Slowly - as the centuries pass - he begins to accept his fate. Alone he wanders on endless plains, hills, mountain cliffs and shores. He never sleeps anywhere but under the stars; always refusing shelter wherever he is offered it. He will not allow those kind souls to come under his curse. He will accept food and sometimes clothes - only if he desperately needs them - and nothing more. And as the world shifts and it's remaining people grow more spiteful, he finds that he no longer needs to turn down (or accept) any offering. The greedy men who now inhabit the world care not for beggars and spit upon them. And he feels like this is what he deserves; not gentle words of pity and offerings of food, money, and shelter. He relishes the mockery and the men notice. It is he they torment now, cuss at, and spit on. And he does nothing to stop them; arms wrapped protectively around his harp. The world shifts again and it is somewhere in the 1400's in the mortals' reckoning. Or maybe the 1500's. He finds no reason to remember. Each year is very much like the next. Whispers spout of a new-found land in the west and his heart skips a beat. In the back of his mind, he knows that it cannot be - mortals haven't been able to reach the Undying Lands for Ages now - but he signs himself up anyways.

It seems that, when they leave, he is the only one not saying goodbye to someone. And that stings. It stings deeply and painfully, but he ignores it and cautiously boards the ship. He hates ships. They make him think of one time; long ago…the stench of blood ebbing into his senses; death all around him; his father's insane eyes, cackling wildly; and an overpowering feeling like the one a person gets when they have a notion they've done something that will damn them forever. They remind him of a kin slaying and the beginning of those long, long years in misery that have no end in sight.

He attempts to shake off the feeling as they take to open sea, but the thought is always creeping around in the shadows their entire voyage. When they finally reach land, he is one of the last onshore, and the moment he steps off the boat; he knows this is not home. But, late that night, he slips away into the darkness, leaving no trail. He heads west. That's the only direction he ever goes. That's where home is. He'll never find it though and he knows that. But he continues to go west all the same. There are people - mortals - in this land as well, but they have fallen back into the way of their long, long forefathers. Or maybe they never left it. Either way, he is more comfortable among them; even if they treat him like a king. For that reason, he never stays long and always is moving. Tales about him springs up, and he decides it's time to move further west. He does so; never looking back; until he reaches the far west coast. And then he stops, being unable to move any further west without reaching the beginning again. There he waits; ever watchful; for hundreds of years.

Then, the Europeans - now 'Americans' - begin to follow him again. At first, it is just a few, but then the number of settlers grows and grows until it is too crowded and he moves north, where the waters grow colder and the rain rarely ceases. As the years fly by, he moves steadily further north. He finally stops when the cold grows to be too biting for his lonely wanderings and it is there that children still know him as the lost singer.

It was there that he began singing once more. He sings and plays; sticking to the shoreline whenever and wherever possible, but he is not the only endless wanderer. Though the other prefers wooded areas to sand. In the East, they speak not of the singer whose morbid melodies are accompanied by a haunting harp, but of a master flute player who is sometimes seen and heard in villages and cities. He is more then a myth, but in the West, the harper is almost forgotten now. And he likes that way. He prefers it that way, though the loneliness has always been a fierce pain in his chest.

The lack of movement is driving him even crazier (which - strictly speaking - shouldn't be possible) and he slowly begins to travel back East. Unsurprisingly, he is shocked at how much the land had changed; full of metal structures; and he mourns, but never stops moving. For some reason, he feels more peace then he has since he reached the West coast.

As he gets closer to the coast, he hears the whispers of the flute player and wonders. He never asks, and doesn't stop moving to wonder for too long. Though - even on the move - the back of his mind still wonders if…possibly… But whenever he notices it, he tears it back down, denying himself the luxury of hope. Besides, what would an elf of Doriath want with him?

He wanders southeast, always on the move, and never staying in one place for more than a night at a time. When he reaches the coast, they hear a haunting, harp-played melody, but he no longer sings. He is tired and grows weary of raising his voice in song. He still converses with himself, but rarely aloud anymore and as time passes; it becomes less common for his thoughts to be unceasing in a two-way conversation.

He could've gone on like that forever had fate not intervened.

It was growing dark on a mid-1900's day. He had raised his voice alone and is singing a song he remembers only just barely. There are still a few people on the beach and they are watching him; spellbound. One is a long and dark haired male who covers his face with said hair and carries a flute in his right hand.

Slowly - as the night grows colder and he shows no signs of stopping - the crowd begins to trickle away until only the flutist is left. And he sits there in silence for at least an hour until the harper stops singing. Only when all is silent does he speak.

"Why must you always sing laments, Noldo?" The harper stiffens, but does not turn to face him.

"I have nothing else that I am worthy to sing." His voice is rough and crackles with disuse. The flutist makes his way over to the Noldo and sits down beside him.

"Pain does not get easier to bear when one rubs salt in the wounds causing it."

The harper shifts, "But is not salt a cleansing gift from Illuvatar? For when you rub salt in fresh wounds, they are cleaned and heal swifter."

"Your wounds are not fresh." There is no question in the flutist's tone and for a moment; there is silence. And then the harper sighs deeply. "It's none of your business Sindar."

The flute player shrugs, and stands, but in a sudden movement; the harper stops him. "You can stay for a while…if you want…" The plea is barely noticeable in his words, but the flutist picks it up and doesn't leave.

They sit; not talking; until the sun rises and then the harper stands; preparing to leave, but the flute player stops him. "You need something to eat. You're only skin and bone." The harper makes no complaint and follows the Sindar to a tiny hut along the shoreline.

The flutist doesn't let him leave until he has eaten, and by that time he does not want to leave. He stalls for time and hopes his companion hasn't noticed it, but the flute player's keen senses have picked it up. He says nothing though - as he too is a lonely wanderer and is glad of the company. The harp player stalls until the sun has set and he then all but falls asleep where he sits.

He expects to wake to the beach - alone - but he doesn't. The flutist has given up his bed. It is then that the harper realizes that he is not the only one longing for company.

When the flutist wakes, the harper is gone, but he is back soon with his few belongings. Neither asks and neither says anything, but they slowly earn the money together for another bed. The harper no longer yearns to move west or move at all. For the first time in forever, he is happy where he is.

The flutist is still heard on the east coast and so is the harper, but every great once and a while, they join in song and the two greatest bards play till dawn. And they are still singing; Maglor and Daeron; and they will until the world is destroyed and reborn again.