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They were a small party, traveling light. Only a few of the White Company, handpicked by Beregond, accompanied the brothers as they traveled up the Anduin. Their pace was deliberately slow, each mile marked silently, even reverently, another step along the road that could have easily divided rather than reunited.
They made their final camp among the deserted fishing huts that lined the mouths of the Entwash. Heavy mist from the marsh across the river filtered through the abandoned shacks, snaked across the delta like wisps of smoke. Rauros was still more than 50 miles away, but even here the great falls could be heard above the flow of the river, a quiet rumble merely white noise to other's ears, but to the Steward and his brother it was a pounding roar, drowning out words.
They sat away from the others, their reflections shimmering in the water, slowly fading as the sun set. Faramir watched his brother's eyes relive a nightmare he could not share. Boromir lit his pipe, breathed deeply of the moist air, reaffirming life. One day the words would not escape him and Faramir could follow him into the murky realms of memory. Until then they would make this annual sojourn, dip their feet into the past and let old wounds slowly heal.