A while ago I read that the show's creators were open to Maeve returning as a guest. That she'd be a roaming demonhunter. That made NO sense to me. Dermott seemed to be integral to all of Maeve's motivation and he remained on the Nomad so… huh? So I decided to figure out a way it could work, kinda sorta.
Warnings: attempted rape, rape apologists, disfigurement, verbal abuse to a disfigured person. Terrible loneliness. Also non-descriptive consensual sex. I think I kept it all PG-13 but let me know if you think I should bump up the rating.
Part one
Her tongue felt too thick for her mouth, her arms and legs were made of lead, burning lead that dragged her down as she moved. The sand slid into the shallow wounds all over her limbs as she pushed herself up onto her knees. The movement unsettled her enough to retch up seawater from her stomach and lungs. And terrible as she felt, she was so, so grateful to be alive.
With bleary blinks she noticed she wasn't alone on the beach. Just a few feet from her Maeve recognized a lump of cloth and limbs as none other than her captain. Unsure if he was dead or alive she forced her protesting limbs into motion. The short distance seemed like an impossible trek to her, but she persisted, hand, knee, other side, hand, knee. Seconds ticked by, her limbs shook so hard she couldn't make out if Sinbad's chest was rising and falling or if it was as eerily still as the rest of him.
Finally she reached him, the relief too heavy to bear, she collapsed onto his chest. That sudden compression sent the Captain into a coughing fit. With the last of her strength she scrambled off of him and managed to turn his head to the side just in time. He retched up half an ocean's worth of seawater but never woke up. She curled protectively around him, shielding him from the hungry sea, ever trying to gobble them up, and gave in to her exhaustion.
No longer on a beach, instead she was floating. Too exhausted even to think, she looked up at the bright blue of the sky above her as the waves carried her into dark valleys and over white tipped crests at their whim.
Cold hands touched her skin. Her legs, hands touching her legs, pushing them apart. It was wrong, something was wrong. A sense of urgency. Hands further up her legs, cloth dropping down onto her knees. Breath in her face, touch at- her eyes flew open and almost of its own accord her right hand flew up, clapping over the looming face and pushing with all her might.
The stranger swore, jumped, touched his face where her burned handprint had marked him like cattle. He shouted, raved at her as she shook. Her hands found the meagre sheet and wrapped it around herself as she cowered in the corner. More even than the raving man, she was aware of the pricking straw in the stuffed mattress below her and the burning thirst in her throat.
At long last the shouting man left and she was free to lunge for the earthenware jug where she found clear, cool water that felt like divine blessing to her parched body. It spread through her like the touch of life itself, revitalising her. The jug drained, she had not drunk her fill, but was now aware enough to put first things first.
She was alone in a small shack, a fisherman's by the looks of it, his home consisting of just a single small room. A quick search revealed of all her clothes only her linen shirt, now salt stained and torn in places. She shrugged it on, grabbing the sheet from the bed to wear as a make-shift skirt. That done she took the jug and tired as she still was, ventured outside to look for more water.
A well-worn dirt path lead away from the shack and the sea, disappearing into the dunes. Staying in the shack clearly wasn't an option, so she tightened her grip on the jug and on shaking legs, walked the path.
The path ended at a small gathering of huts around a well. Several women had filled tubs with water and were washing clothes near the well, long lines of drying clothes stretched between the huts scenting the wind with fresh, soapy laundry.
Maeve opened her mouth to speak, but her poor disused voice abandoned her in favour of a froglike croak. Startled, the women looked up from their conversations and work. Several of them gasped in fright at the sight of Maeve.
"It's Sorol's witch!" One of the women held up a thick wooden stick she had been stirring the laundry with just moments ago. "Get thee hence, witch! Or feel the heft of my stave!"
"Please," Maeve held up the jug. "Water." the words burned in her throat.
"And poison our well? I think not!" The same woman raised her stave a little higher and took a threatening step towards Maeve.
"I'll go," Maeve did not feel strong enough to have a confrontation with these women. "Just please. Where else can I find water?" The words came out in fits and starts depending on the cooperation of her throat.
"I won't tell you again, witch," the woman stepped forward once more, looking more menacing with every step.
Maeve nodded, turned and staggered away.
She followed another dirt path towards the shade of some trees. Out of sight of the women by the well she found shelter between the roots of the broadest of the oaks. Leaning her head back against the bark she watched the lush green leaves playing catch with the sunbeams. Dire as her situation still was- without water, food and some safe shelter she wouldn't survive very long- she reflected that she was a damn sight better off than she had been this morning. Instead of dying in the water, or getting assaulted by some old guy, she was alone on dry land. Pretty good progress. Thinking of the creep, her own innate sense of practicality knew she had to do what her very self feared finding out. She had been unconscious in the hands of a rapist for who-knows how long. She took a deep breath, shoving all that was soft and innocent about herself to the very back of her mind and folded her skirt open. The long shallow cuts on her legs she was fairly sure she had come by at sea, encountering other flotsam. The cuts were cleaned but not bound. She steeled herself once again and gently probed at her opening. No soreness, no seed, fresh nor matted in her hair, no tears. Her inner thighs likewise were unbruised. Quickly she folded the skirt closed and took one, two, three tremulous breaths of relief. Her eyes burned with tears she didn't have the moisture to create. Regaining control of herself she continued her examination of herself, now above the waist. Her hands were swollen, her blood too thick now to flow properly. Her arms sported the same long, shallow cuts her legs did. On either side of her breasts four little round bruises appeared. Maeve shuddered at the thought of the old man grabbing at her unconscious body but pushed the thought roughly aside. She felt her face with her hands, it too was swollen, her lips chapped and painful, her left cheekbone felt tender, maybe she was bruised there.
Her examination done she closed her eyes and called Dermott with her mind. She put all her might into that call, not knowing if he was close or far. Alas, there was no sign of her brother, not even an echo.
First things first, water, food, rest, then find a way to contact Sinbad. If he didn't find her first; with all the consternation she had left in her wake, finding her shouldn't be too hard to do.
"Alas child, he will not find you. He no longer looks."
Startled Maeve looked around. "Master Dim-Dim?"
"You are to go it alone for a while child."
"What? No, you promised I would return Dermott to his own shape. I can't do that alone!" Maeve answered with her mind, finally aware that Dim-Dim was not actually near her.
"They will continue your quest while you spend your time honing your skills. You were liability to them child. Your lack of strength and skills would have gotten not only yourself, but all of them killed."
"No, master, they are my friends! I will get stronger, I promise, but with them. We'll get stronger together." Maeve argued.
"When I accepted you as my apprentice you made a vow of obedience. Obey my command now child. I will not have you endanger Sinbad and his crew!"
"But…" Maeve had never heard her master sound so terse. "But Dermott?"
"He has chosen not to walk your path with you. Now be well child and grow."
With that the presence Maeve felt disappeared, leaving her more devastated then before. But surely, surely, Dim-Dim was wrong on this one? Had he been alone so long that he had forgotten what friendship felt like? She was sure her friends would not just give up on her! And Dermott, after all they had been through, would not just choose another. Obedience be damned, she would find her friends.
A rustling behind her on the path startled her out of her thoughts. "Who goes there?" Her voice still sounded like a frog in its final death-throes.
"Uhm, Rachel? I live just up ahead," a mousy little woman stepped into Maeve's line of sight.
"You got water?" Maeve asked, trying to sound as friendly as she could in her circumstances.
"You musn't blame Deirdre for refusing you water, with the men gone she thinks its her job to protect us all," Rachel fidgeted with her skirt.
Maeve shrugged helplessly, whatever this Deirdre thought, it didn't negate her need for real, actual help.
"Look, if you promise not to hurt me I can take you to my home," Rachel offered. At Maeve's eager nod, Rachel helped the other woman up and together they walked up to a little house sitting in a pretty clearing between the trees.
Once inside Rachel ushered Maeve into a chair by a sturdy wooden table. After pouring Maeve a cup full of water Rachel opened a box by the hearth. Out of the straw packed inside the box she lifted a cloth wrapped pot. She set the pot on the table- the smells emanating from it made Maeve's mouth water- and busied herself finding bowls and spoons.
"It's not right to leave them as wash up on our shores to their fate. Not with so many of our own out on the boats, making their living on the water." Rachel directed her words more towards the objects she was handling than to Maeve but the message came across.
A thick stew was served up and Maeve fell upon it, ravenous.
"Well, my cooking has never gotten this fervent a response before," Rachel remarked.
"Oh, sorry," Maeve made an effort to slow down.
"No, no, it's good! Eat up, plenty more where that came from. My husband doesn't like my mutton stew, so I try only to make it when he is out to sea," Rachel seemed to warm up to Maeve a little. "Now, I don't think I caught your name."
It was miraculous how much good the plentiful supply of water and food did. Her throat and chapped lips felt better by the moment, her limbs gained strength, even her thoughts spend up.
"Maeve," she said between bites. "So no one's come asking for me?"
"I haven't seen a foreign sailor in years. Did you fall off a boat? Were you travelling?" Rachel asked, curious about the stranger at her table.
Maeve nodded. "During a storm. It came at us out of nowhere and I fell overboard. I think… I remember waking up on a beach, my captain was there too, barely alive but I got him breathing…"
"Sorol didn't see anyone else on the beach you washed up at." Rachel furrowed her brow.
"The tide must have gotten me while I was out," Maeve said. "I remember floating. But this Sorol, what's his problem?"
"Well uh," Rachel shrunk back a little from the vehemence suddenly in Maeve's voice. "He's been praying for a wife since his late wife passed away. When you washed up he was sure you were the gift he had been praying for. He even stayed behind from the boats while the other men sailed, to care for you. I don't think it's right what you did to him."
Maeve scoffed at that. "Imagine waking up from a drowning to some stranger's pecker poking at your entrance! I didn't know what I was doing when I burned him, but I am glad I did. Maybe next time he'll remember to ask a woman if she wants him inside of her!"
Rachel squirmed uncomfortably. "He considered you his wife already. He probably didn't see any harm in it."
"I don't care if this was our tenth wedding anniversary! If I am not conscious enough to agree to the goings on, I am to be left unassaulted," Maeve argued, angry that Rachel was defending the vile man who had violated her unconscious body just hours ago.
"Well, it's going to be trouble, believe you me. He skipped a fishing trip to care for you and now he has nothing to show for it. He might come and claim you to make up for the loss," Rachel explained.
"He'll get a lesson in taking responsibility for his actions if he tries anything," Maeve said darkly.
Rachel apparently, did not agree with this but decided not to push the issue. "Now, what was the name of the ship you sailed with? The menfolk will be back in a week or two, they might have news."
"The Nomad, it sailed under Baghdad's flag. Sinbad, that's her captain, is an emissary of the Caliph," Maeve was relieved to let the more loaded topic drop as well. Rachel had been the only person to offer her aid so she couldn't afford to alienate her. Added to that, her feelings on what happened on waking up that morning were still brittle and shifting, she needed a trusted friend to talk it through with, not this well-meaning but ultimately defensive woman.
"Had he captured you for the Caliph?" Rachel asked, her eyes big.
"Ah, no," Maeve thought that Rachel didn't think her evil, but apparently the whole witch thing had made an impression. "I was a part of the crew." She thought of a way to frame her presence on the crew in as non-threatening a way as possible. "The Caliph gets many requests for help from the outlying islands. It could be monsters, magic, even scientists gone insane… He sends us to rid the islands of their troubles. And you see, magic can't always be countered by mundane means, that's where I come in. I'm a sorcerer's apprentice."
"Have you… Did you… The Caliph of Baghdad, have you met him?" Rachel stammered.
Maeve nodded, the woman across from her practically fell to her knees. Everything became just so much simpler then.
Two weeks later Rachel's husband dropped her off on the shores of the mainland. The villagers had provided her with a sword, a pack stuffed to the gills with food and a purse filled with what dinars they could spare. On top of that they had furnished Maeve with new boots, new clothes and a thick woollen cloak. Apparently, taking part in the rescue of the Caliph's daughter in law was tantamount to being royalty herself.
Now Maeve had two goals: find her crew (obedience be damned) and get stronger (alright so obedience was not to be totally damned). She set one foot in front of the other and started her journey.