Author's note:  Many thanks to ErinRua for wonderful beta reading, and to Graceomyheart for the cross-trilogy detective work in sleuthing out how many horses Boromir must have gone through on his journey from Minas Tirith to Imladris. Also, thanks and bows to Shirebound for beta reading and the contribution of some fantastic ideas for improvement.

Please leave a review -- this is my first fic and I'd like to get your thoughts -- did you like it? Thanks, and may a star shine on our virtual meeting.

Disclaimer:  I write about these characters for the sheer joy of doing so. They are Tolkien's, not mine. 

One of my reviewers and I have been trading Texas jokes. Since we are reading about Boromir, and if you want a bit of fun before you start, you can read my thoughts about what might happen if Boromir ever visits the Lone Star State:

In Laredo: "Put up your hands and get in the back of the Border Patrol van."

In Houston: "Look, if you can't drive any faster than that, stay over in the right-hand lane and GET OUT OF MY WAY!"

In San Antonio: "OK, that's a large draft with those steak fajitas. Say, what country are you visiting here from?"

In Dallas: "Looky here, boy, you need ta git yerself a truck. You cain't haul nothin' in that rucksack there."

In Austin: "Dude, that chain mail is totally ill."

And last but not least, in Abilene: "Brother, have you been to church here lately?"

God bless, and be good now, y'all hear?

OK! On to the story! Time to get serious now--Boromir has arrived in Rivendell after an exhausting journey, and wonders how his beloved city of Minas Tirith can hold out until his return. The Council has just ended . . . here you go.

Preface --  The Council

At my father Denethor’s court, men sat in rows that were ordered by rank, and I always knew where the balance of power lay. But not here. At this Council, we sit in a loose circle, more by chance than plan it seems, and although I have now heard the others’ names and stories, I cannot determine their opinion of me or their degree of concern for Gondor. To be honest, I am not even sure if I am safe in this Elvish stronghold.

And beyond these anxieties, I am weary to my bones from last night’s long ride, coming after months of wandering roads long forgotten. I can feel my fatigue in my slowness of thought, my reluctance even to stir from where I sit. Only yesterday morning I had been exhausted, lost beyond hope, and I had made up my mind to turn around and ride back empty handed to Gondor, finally admitting defeat.  Yet now here I sit, in Imladris, taking part in a Council that will determine the fate of my City.

I have tried to speak strongly for the sake of my people this morning, but I am afraid that I have already lost ground among these folk. I have not immediately gained possession of the Ring, although my dream leads me to believe that I will do so eventually. The dark-haired Halfling who now carries it looks pale and worn, and he seems altogether at the end of his strength. These people must know nothing of a Nazgul wound. His recovery will be slow and painful, if indeed it comes at all. I am certain that my fate is to help him with his burden. He and I must speak together of it, sometime when we are in private . . .

Now I must gather myself, no matter how weary, and fight again for Gondor, although in a more covert fashion than I am used to. I push myself to my feet as Elrond closes the meeting and invites all of us to the noon meal. Elves and Dwarves rise and drift into groups along the spacious portico, no doubt forming their own plans to take possession of the Ring. How can I begin to lay mine? I look first for Frodo, then for Aragorn, the only other Man I have seen this morning, and the only other person here who might care for Gondor’s plight. I can see neither, because of the crowd that has gathered now around the Ringbearer.

“Ah, Boromir. You must be weary. Are you off to rest, or will you join Elrond and myself for luncheon first?” Mithrandir is standing in front of me, all courtesy as he speaks. This is encouraging—an invitation to Elrond’s table is certainly a good sign for me—but I catch sight of Aragorn and the Halfling, and my acceptance stops in my throat.

Aragorn is escorting the Ringbearer and the other two little folk to a side door out of the East Porch. That is where I should be . . . the Ranger is on close terms with the Halflings and can help me plead my cause. I make as if to follow them, but Mithrandir is still in my path, and then I see Aragorn suddenly catch up the Ringbearer into his arms and carry him out, the other two close on his heels. I wonder if the little one has fainted or is gravely ill . . . Mithrandir is still talking to me. I turn my attention back to him, obediently falling in at his side as he takes my arm and guides me to the dining hall. Twice this morning, It has slipped away from my grasp. But the end has not yet been decided, I remind myself. There is time, and chance will come again.