Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all characters thus related thereto do not in any way belong to me. I am merely borrowing the ideas, and will return the characters only a little worse for wear. No profit was made from the writing of this tale.

Rating: K+. Rated K+ for oblique themes and references of mature content and ideas. None are explicitly stated.

Important Note: This tale is a sequel to my ongoing fic entitled "Poisoned Star." If you have not read through at least Chapter 9: Do Not Go Gentle, then you may wish to go read that first. Although this story will still make sense even if you have not read that chapter, you will understand the tale as a whole (and likely appreciate it more) if you have.
Please note that Poisoned Star is a mature PG-13 or a low-end R (for graphic violence and torture), and as such should probably not be read by someone under fourteen or fifteen.

Time frame: Estel (Aragorn) is a young man, likely nineteen or early twenties. The way that the characterization and their relationship falls, I would hazard to guess that this is before Elrond told Estel about his heritage, which would indicate nineteen or early in his twentieth year, but it is up to you to decide for yourself.

A/N: I am labeling this as a sequel to Poisoned Star for, while it does not wrap up any threads that will ultimately be left unfinished, it does deal directly with events in Poisoned Star, and in order to understand the key element of this tale, you will have had to have read Poisoned Star. Many thanks to Mirnava for editing this, as well as to everyone who has been reviewing and alerting and favoriting Poisoned Star. It truly means a lot to me, and I hope that you enjoy this sequel (of sorts). I would love it if you would leave a review, telling me if you liked it or not, or even if it was just an anonymous "yay" or smile! Most importantly, however, I hope that you enjoy this!

~*White Scars*~

"You don't understand!" Estel's rising voice was sharp and bitter, and it trembled with the vehemence of his emotions. "You don't know what the Orcs…what they do. What they're capable of. How could you?" He looked up at his foster father with an angered, accusing gleam in his silver-blue eyes. "You sit here in the Valley, safe and sound. You don't know what it's like," he hissed, his voice filled with venom. "You can't understand."

Elrond merely watched his youngest son as the boy seethed, an expression of sorrow upon his face and in his eyes. He was both silent and still – still but for the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed in deeply, steadily. Tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his, and there was a savagely desperate gleam alongside the fearful fury.

"You don't understand, Ada," Estel whispered, "So stop pretending like you do!" Once again his voice rose to a crescendo. For an instant, had Estel been watching, he would have seen his father's sorrow deepen, his eyes darkening as if by a hidden shadow.

Estel turned away from this father toward the window, his hands clenched by his sides. Estel knew that his father was merely trying to help, but how could he speak of the pain – of the fear, the terror, the hopelessness – that he had felt while in the orcs' camp with someone who had never felt that before? Estel knew his father would not understand, as wise as he was.

For a long moment, Elrond watched his son impassively. And then he reached up to the clasps holding his ornate robes tight around his body, and began to undo them, sliding the folds of cloth off of his shoulders.

Estel turned at the sound of rustling cloth, believing his father to be approaching. So it was to his surprise that, turning, he saw his father standing before him exactly where he had been standing all the moments prior, only now half-naked, his light silk shirt joining his robes on the floor.

"Come here Estel," his father bade. Perplexed, but more than a little intrigued, Estel crossed the room to stand before his father, some of his ire of the moment before easing at this strange turn of events. He halted when he was a few paces away, just within reaching distance should he stretch out his hand.

His father took a deep breath and then turned so that his back was facing his son. He carefully gathered his long hair into one hand and draped it over his shoulder, leaving nothing but air between his son and his bare flesh.

"Run your hand down my back, Estel," Elrond ordered, although his voice was soft.

Estel stepped forward hesitantly, and then stretched out his hand. He paused for just an instant just before his fingers touched his father's back, and very nearly pulled away. But then his father spoke again, sensing his son's reticence.

"Go on, Estel," he urged. Estel placed his hand on his father's back, and then slowly drew it downwards, following the curve of his spine.

At first touch, his father's skin felt soft and smooth, just as Estel had expected. But as he continued, the boy began to detect tiny ridges criss-crossing beneath his fingertips, the skin hardening ever so slightly under his palm as he followed the course of one such bump.

Estel pulled his hand away when he reached the small of his father's back, although he did so just as hesitantly as he had placed it. Those ridges were familiar…

"What do you see, my son?" his father asked, still standing completely motionless.

Estel took another step forward, and looked closely at his father's back. There, barely visible against the pale skin, were tiny, criss-crossing white lines. Estel realized with a sudden, sickening twist of his gut what they were.

"They're scars," he whispered, shock resonating through his entire being. "But, I thought that Elves…" he trailed off as his father at last turned, and for the first time Estel caught sight of the deep anguish in his father's face.

"The Orcs are not only inventive in means of physical pain, my son," his father told him gently. "You are correct – few Elves have ever borne the scars of their torment. And so to bear mine…" Now it was his father's turn to trail off.

"So you see, my son, I do know what it is like," Elrond said quietly. "I only wish that you had never been forced to experience even a fraction of the pain that was forced upon me. I only wish, with all of my heart, that I could have kept you from such pain."

With a small sob Estel threw himself into his father's arms, which had opened to welcome him. Elrond carefully drew the weeping boy to his chest, hugging him tightly and holding him as close to his heart as he could.

There they stood for a long while, father and son.

"Does the pain ever go away?" Estel asked at long last, after his tears had slowed.

"Yes," Elrond answered, "Eventually."

"Do the memories?"

For a long moment Elrond said nothing as he soothingly stroked his son's head, which was tucked tightly against his bare chest.

"No," Elrond said at long last, his words barely audible but for the thrum of his voice in his chest by Estel's ear. "No, they do not."

"Help me?" Estel asked, sounding very small. "I cannot do this on my own."

Elrond smiled, although it was a smile laced with deep sorrow.

"Of course, my son," he promised. "For all of my eternity."