A falling star by Novenoe  

A falling star

The vault of the hall mirrored the firmament above her. Varda, with the patience of a craftswoman and goldsmith, had built them both. The one little star not of her own making, but of her adoption, sailed across the sky to light the way for the coming night. She followed its celestial course, leaning out from the balcony strewn with stardust — the same dust that, in an artisan's workshop, is wood shavings.
The star had not arisen from her own creation, but from Fëanor's skill, yet the Valië did not feel diminished in her work because of it: every star was necessary, each one lit the night together with the others as a single one never could, each one gave hope to Men and Elves, all of them told a story. This last little star was the completion of the firmament, the one that lent luster to all its celestial sisters and received luster from them in turn.
She remembered when she had asked its bearer whether he was willing to sail the Seas of the Sky night after night, so that light and hope might shine upon all who needed them, lost in the darkness.
The boy — to her eyes scarcely a child compared to the countless ages of the world — had let the awareness of what was being asked of him, without any command, sink deep into his heart. He had survived his mission beyond all hope, and she would have understood if that young man, already so weary of the world, had needed a little peace and not a new burden to carry. The boy looked at his wife, who smiled and squeezed his hand tighter, and it was as if the burden lifted from his shoulders: "Thy will be done!"
From then on the little star traveled its path through the night sky; sometimes a lovely white gull accompanied it, and his ship would come to rest in the sky near the tallest tower of Valinor.
Often Varda, the ship cradled in the palm of her hand like a little bird fallen from its nest, listened to what the bearer had to say about life on earth — about the beauty and the horror he saw, and how at times he was tempted to look away forever, so intolerable was all the cruelty, but that in spite of everything he could not bring himself to do it, for the generations of people who looked up at the sky and beneath it dreamed, longed, and fell in love, and that was enough to repay him for all the atrocities he saw, to make them bearable.
That evening the bearer and his little ship entered her boundless field of vision, and then glided down onto the balustrade dusted with stars.
"What have you to tell me, my little star?" The Valië bent down to look at the ship's deck, sweet as a mother welcoming her children home from a long day at the sea. "And hello to you too, my little seagull!"
Eärendil, having knotted one last rope, bowed to her with a smile, while the little seagull perched on his shoulder flapped her wings in greeting: "Good evening to you as well, Lady of the Stars. I'm not here for a chat today; I bring news from the celestial quadrant of Neptune." The little seagull took woman's shape again, dressed in white and freckled. "We think, if that's even possible..." The man bit his lip, stalling, unsure how to deliver the news.
Elwing waved a hand in front of his nose, still looking like a little bird shaking out her feathers: "Oh, honestly, just tell her! My lady, one of your stars is falling. You should have fastened them to the ceiling better, you know?"
Eärendil  buried his face in his hands to stifle both his blush and a laugh; his wife's little tongue-poke refused to be intimidated even by the Ainur. He wrapped his arms around her, while Varda knitted her brows in a curious perplexity, almost thrilled: "They shouldn't... fall, little seagull. And if they do... we shall see something very curious. I wonder whether it was already foreseen in the Music, or whether it's the fault of my brother-in-law and his out-of-tune singing." She caught the Elf's eyebrow rising. "If you're convinced I didn't fasten them properly, then YOU try doing a better job — which of the two of us tied the belt of Orion?"
Elwing laughed, a laugh like the cheerful screech of an albatross: "You did, your Starriness. For my part, I prefer to unfasten the belt of..."
Eärendil stopped her from finishing the sentence with a cough and a mischievously arched eyebrow: "That, later. Now, what do you propose we do, my Lady? If it falls to earth, it could do considerable damage."
Varda twisted a lock of her night-dark hair around her finger, thoughtful — if this was part of the Music, it would run its course regardless; if it was the fault of the discord, perhaps one could try to bring it into harmony: "Go with the necessary tools and a good net. I cannot leave the Meneltarma, not now that my dear husband needs all my help to watch over the journey of the Fellowship. I entrust it to you!"
The two on the ship's deck bowed their heads in reply; the deck was swept by stardust.

The quadrant of Neptune was a region of the sky that reminded Eärendil very much of certain stormy seas of Arda. Perpetually in motion, the celestial winds shook its ether, and the stars swayed like great waves on the tide. Sometimes he would haul in meteorites with a trawl net and fish up comets; other times Elwing pointed out an archipelago of asteroids to him, bundled up in the heavy, snow-white furs that let her endure the stellar cold.
"It's here!" The woman pointed. "It's literally hanging by a thread!"
The star hung from the firmament like a great indolent spider, swaying under the push of the celestial winds, a single thread of light holding it suspended in its place. The other threads  looked worn, in a way that reminded Elwing of pine needles dried up in autumn, as if they were sick. A discord.
Eärendil bit his lips, thoughtful, and began coiling a grappling hook: "If we fasten it to the sky with this until Varda can repair it, it might work."
Elwing nodded, her eyes lost in the abyss beneath her: "But it's better to stretch the net underneath. You don't have wings, darling. And surviving a dragon doesn't make you invulnerable."
Many times over the course of their life Eärendil had blessed his wife's foresight, and he did so once more when the stake anchoring the star to the sky tore loose from its post with a sudden jerk — all he knew was that one moment he was hammering a metal hook into the vault of the firmament and the next he had been flung onto the silver net beneath him. Elwing caught him by an arm and hauled him aboard a moment before the little star plunged from the sky, tearing the net away. The Vingilot rolled as it would have in a stormy sea, and when the two Elves managed to reach the rail, all they could do was watch, desolate, as the star fell down, ever further down...
Eärendil closed his eyes so as not to see, while Elwing, almost hypnotized by horror, kept watching. The star went down and down, but as it tumbled through the sky and the atmosphere something happened: it grew smaller and thinner and lighter, luminous and weightless — a discord that was tuning itself to the melody.
Elwing tugged her husband's arm to make him look down; it was so sad that the bearer of Hope should have so little of it left for himself by now: "It won't hurt anyone, look!!! Make a wish!"
He, eyes wide, admired the trail of the shooting star lighting up the sky. A most beautiful arc, never seen before and wholly new, that unraveled without causing harm, but giving only hope, for all of Arda down below and for the Fellowship which, with toil and pain, was making its way down there somewhere toward the evil.
"A wish, you said?" he whispered teasingly, and closed his wife's lips with a kiss.
 

Down there somewhere, Elrond looked away from his telescope; he had watched the trail of the shooting star turn into stardust. Elros would have loved it. Placidly he sat down at his desk, among books and parchments, recording the marvel among the events of the day in the Annals, with the affection that memory reserves for all small things: "On this day, for the first time since the Creation of the World, a star has come down from the sky, in spite of the heroic efforts of those who tend the sky, and may the sky look after them! For all those who seek their way, even when falling into the dark. It is recommended to make a wish, should such an event occur again. And always to keep one's eyes turned toward the beauty of the sky."