Work Text:
The first time they had traveled together, The Abomination had a sense of dread that settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Something had changed, he wasn’t quite sure what, but those who had once turned their nose up at him at best, and sent him away with vicious, vile words and threats and worst, remained silent as he was brought into their circles. It seemed as though someone had convinced the zealots of the Hamlet that working together would be better for them all in the end, no matter what their beliefs, and in the end they had begrudgingly accepted.
Still, among those who had once shunned him, The Abomination still felt entirely unwelcome.
Those who didn’t care about his appearance nor curse were a godsend. The Antiquarian was a kind lady, and seemed eager to do her best to welcome him to their simple, but well established group, of which they had recently suffered a great loss.
“Our Crusader,” She’d said. “We did what we could for him, but I do think he went out how he wanted. A warrior of passion, ‘till the very end.”
The loss of a man that The Abomination had never met weighed heavily over his and everyone else’s head. Sadness and grief for them. Guilt, and a heavy, crushing burden to pick up right where their last front-liner had fallen, to carry and lead them to greatness when he himself felt so out of place in this world, let alone in a group of strangers. Their first delve into the darkness together was one of the hardest things he had ever faced, and despite The Antiquarian’s initial kindness, The Abomination could feel all eyes on him from the moment they set off. Their expectations and standards for him were high, and by the gods he did not want to disappoint.
The Antiquarian was proud of him for seemingly coming into his own as they days long journey into the dank caverns progressed, and The Highwayman seemed to take a bit of grief tainted amusement at the ferocity that The Abomination threw himself into battle with. While both were clearly hurting after the loss of a teammate they had come to trust and admire, they did what they could to welcome him.
It was the eyes that continued to stare that left The Abomination with sleepless nights around the fire-pit though. Shrouded in darkness behind a cowl, barely visible by but a faint flicker of light from the flames that reflected off a cold, steely gaze, The Abomination could feel the man staring at him from across the pitiful camp site that they group had managed to throw together. No words came from him though, harsh or kind. Instead the man, perhaps the most fanatical of all the Hamlet’s zealots, stared at him like he was not some great beast to bring into battle, but prey, a weak lamb to his own personal slaughter.
And while The Flagellant’s stare left The Abomination with many uncomfortable evenings where rest eluded him, it was in battle where the man’s gaze left him filled with his own sadness, ill with guilt that didn’t belong to him. When The Flagellant would give a battle cry that would put the greatest warriors to shame, only to turn his weapon on his own flesh, as his blood ran red down his back, The Abomination could only watch as their enemies were crippled, blood oozing from wounds that didn’t exist.
And when The Flagellant would raise his hand, stained with his own blood, to the sky and scream for the gods, The Abomination felt better, felt life return to him and broken bones mend. His gaze would turn to The Abomination once more in the heat of combat with an expression that could only be read one way;
I give my life to you, but you don’t deserve it.