Every night that he dreamed, he dreamed as a wolf. Even in his nightmares, when man-shaped figures crowned with branching antlers reared up out of the mist and reached for him with clawed hands. Fear, despair, and empty, gnawing hunger – all of it came to him in his wolf shape. A shape he was trying hard to pretend he did not possess.
And so he hated to sleep. And he sat up most nights with his back pressed to the hard, timber wall of the hay shed while his pack lay flopped all around him, paws jerking as they enjoyed their own dreams, noses twitching; the occasional thin howl pierced the rustle of hay and, in the distance, the low calls of owls.
Tonight, he sat with his arms folded, pinching his own side every so often when his gritty eyelids grew too heavy to hold up any longer. It was too warm in the shed, with the insulating hay and all their combined body heat. Then again, he was over-warm all the time, the wolf burning hot beneath his skin. He’d taken to wearing sleeveless tunics and jerkins, like Ragnar had always favored. He loathed the concession on his part, the way it was yet another similarity they shared.
Just as he loathed the way Ragnar, the only other wolf awake, watched him now from his place reclined across three bales, head propped on his arm. His body was relaxed, utterly still, his expression unguarded; his eyes glowed blue as gemstones, fixed unblinking on Leif.
Leif growled, softly, in warning. But he didn’t mean it, truly, and Ragnar could tell.
Damn the emotional perceptiveness of wolves, himself included.
“What?” Leif asked, when the staring continued.
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