Lord of the Rings belongs to Tolkien, not me.
A Longing Born
"Papa, why do the stars shine?"
Drogo Baggins smiled down at his bright-eyed son for a moment, who was gazing in wonder at the night sky as the pair drove home after a long day in town, and then turned his attention to old Bobbin, who had begun to drift towards the grass on the side of the road. With strong hands he skillfully guided both pony and cart back to the centre of the road. Little Frodo sat patiently beside him on the wooden seat, watching.
Drogo pondered the question for a few minutes. He certainly didn't know the answer, and he wasn't sure what to say. Frodo was young, only six, but he was sharp enough to find flaws in a foolish answer such as candles in the sky, and he seldom took "I don't know" for an answer. He would continue to hunt for an answer until someone finally satisfied him. Bilbo, Drogo's oldest cousin, would answer nearly every question and tell the lad almost anything. He claimed that Frodo understood every word. Drogo, however, knew from the questions that were asked after Bilbo left -not to mention some of the story-mangling that he overheard his son telling his toy cat- that Frodo did not understand quite everything.
Drogo absentmindedly clucked to the old pony while wondering what his parents had told him when he had asked that as a lad. Of course, he thought, I probably didn't even think to ask such a thing. Frodo is abnormally curious for any hobbit -let alone a six year old. He must get that from the Tooks, and Bilbo isn't helping matters any. I never cared about the stars until I was seventeen and spent the week with Bilbo. What a time that was. We stayed up late and went looking for elves, and I had my first ale-
A small hand tugging at his shirt-sleeve recalled him from memory. Two solemn blue eyes were shining up at him in the moonlight, full of curiosity and concern.
"Papa," Frodo said a little more insistently, "why do the stars shine?"
Drogo gazed up at the jewels of the night. The memories of Bilbo had reminded him of an old story. He took a moment more to recall it, then began.
"Well, Frodo, they shine because Varda, the Starkindler, takes care of them. Varda is the Queen of the Night, and when the stars see her coming they twinkle for joy to see her. She's the most beautiful lady in the world and sometimes if a star is especially good she'll wear it in her hair as a reward."
"Does she polish them like Mama does the kettles?"
"I don't know. Perhaps." Drogo pondered the night sky thoughtfully, smiling as Frodo practiced the name "Varda" with his still-babyish tongue.
"Where does she live?"
"Who?"
Frodo frowned up at his forgetful papa. "Var-da," he pronounced carefully.
"Far away to the West, beyond the Sea."
"Oh." The little hobbit anxiously snuggled closer to his father at the mention of the sea, but still kept his earnest gaze fixed upon the sky. After a few minutes Drogo heard him whisper, "I still wish I could see her. Someday."
Author's Note: I know that this does not portray the true character of Varda Oiolossëo. Please bear in mind that Drogo does not remember what Bilbo told him, so he is improvising.