He had never been so dirty – filthy, even. He had been thrown in the dirt on numerous occasions, had wrestled in a pit of mud with the other boys, and even, too many times to count, had more than just his own blood tangling his fur – but nothing compared to this.

Nothing compared the ragged state of his coat, usually so fine and tame. It was almost hard, even, to discern white from charcoal. Everything was so saturated with earth, especially around his forepaws. Fur seemed to stick out every which way, though he wouldn’t say “as it pleased”. There was nothing pleasurable about the state of his body right now. Filthy brown all over with a heavy, dark stain of red covering most of his face, and his entire body ached. Every fiber of his being was screaming with pain, though no part more so than his heart.

Large paws marched stiffly over the cold ground, their pace steady, even, and apathetic. Tiberius wasn’t all too sure how long he had been walking like this. When he had started running, the world around him had vanished. Time didn’t stop – it just didn’t exist anymore. He could feel the ground beneath him as he made distance of everything, but the world before him was blank and intangible. It had been some time like that before his body all but gave out and his heart threatened to jump right out of his chest in protest. He would have kept running, too. He wanted to keep running. But, at some point, when his blood was boiling in his veins and he was choking on his own tongue, some divine force had intervened and his gait had slowed to a dismal trudge.

It was like the gods were painting the world around him once more. The ground beneath him became a thing of substance again, and, slowly, frosty grass began to stretch away from him in all directions. The horizons took on a foreign design and, almost suddenly, he found a wide, snaking river barring the path ahead.

Tiberius came to a halt at the bank of the slow flowing water, standing there, unmoving, for a long moment before looking down to the glassy surface. The young man looking back at him in the rippling mirror with dead eyes and shallow expression was a complete stranger – certainly not the striking young Tiberius he remembered. And the mark of crimson that darkened his face…

He plunged his head into the cold water and his fur immediately made an effort to stand in response to the feeling of icy daggers on his nerves. But, weighed down with so much dirt and filth, only a few clumped spikes above his shoulders made their stand. Large forepaws followed into the shallow, rock bedded river, and shoulders after that. He rolled his body into the winter water, thrashing against the smooth rocks and sending a plume of murky brown sailing away down the river.

When the cold reached his bones and his limbs grew numb, the young wolf pulled himself out onto the frosted grass with a sharp gasp. He shook out his coat, once more a stark contrast of mottled charcoal and black over a bright, boney white. Breath jagged with cold, Tiberius turned to face the river, shivering as he lowered his soft lime and cerulean blue eyes to the gently rippling surface. The dirt was gone; his fur was clean… all except the tinge of red which still clung to his face.

Would he ever be able to wash away the sins of his father?