Daughters Revolution / Season 1, Episode 3
Blood on the Blade
Episode 3: Blood on the Blade
The wind bites at Solange’s face, raw and unrelenting, as she trudges through the muddy undergrowth, her boots sinking into the cold, wet earth with each step. The air smells of damp rot and gunpowder, a lingering ghost of the skirmish they left behind. Her fingers, stiff from gripping the knife for too long, ache as she adjusts her hold on the blade, its edge still crusted with dried blood. She doesn’t look at it. Can’t. Not yet. Beside her, Élise’s breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts, the younger woman’s hand trembling where it clutches the pistol. The question Élise asked hangs between them, heavy as the mist curling through the trees. Did they do right, fighting like that? Solange’s jaw tightens. She has no answer, not one she can voice without breaking something inside herself.
“Keep movin’,” she mutters instead, her voice rough, scraping against the silence. She steps over a gnarled root, her cloak catching on a thorn. The fabric tears with a faint rip, and she curses under her breath. They can’t stop, not now, not with the echoes of shouts still ringing in her ears from the ambush at the barracks. The royalist scouts could be anywhere, their boots crunching through the same forest, their muskets primed. Solange’s eyes dart to the shadows between the pines, searching for movement, for the glint of steel. Her heart thuds hard against her ribs, a drumbeat she can’t quiet.
Élise stumbles, her foot catching on a stone, and Solange instinctively grabs her arm, hauling her upright. The girl’s face is pale, her dark eyes wide and glassy, like she’s still seeing the blood on the ground back there, the bodies they left behind. “I—I’m fine,” Élise stammers, pulling away, but her voice cracks, betraying her. She’s not fine. Neither of them is.
“You ain’t gotta pretend with me,” Solange says, softer this time, though her gaze stays sharp, scanning the tree line. “But we don’t got time for fallin’ apart. Not yet.”
Élise nods, swallowing hard, her fingers tightening around the pistol. “Where’re we even goin’? You got a plan, or we just… runnin’ blind?”
Solange hesitates. Truth is, she’s got half a plan, pieced together from whispers and rumors in the weeks before the uprising started. There’s a camp, hidden deep in these woods, where others like them—rebels, deserters, women with nowhere else to turn—have gathered. A place to regroup, to arm themselves, to fight back against the king’s men who’d sooner see them all hanged or worse. But she doesn’t know if it’s real, or if the stories are just desperate hope spun into lies. “North,” she says finally, pointing with her chin toward the darkening horizon. “There’s people waitin’. If we can find ‘em.”
“If,” Élise echoes, her tone bitter. She kicks at a pebble, sending it skittering into the underbrush. “And if they ain’t there? If it’s just us, Solange? What then?”
“Then we keep fightin’,” Solange snaps, sharper than she means to. She stops walking, turning to face Élise, her eyes narrowing. “You think I got all the answers? I don’t. But I know sittin’ still means dyin’. So you either walk with me, or you don’t. Your choice.”
Élise flinches, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. She just nods again, smaller this time, and falls back into step behind Solange. The silence between them stretches thin, taut as a bowstring, broken only by the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant cry of a hawk overhead. Solange’s mind churns, replaying the chaos of the barracks—musket fire cracking through the night, the wet gasp of a man as her knife found his throat, the way Élise had screamed when a soldier grabbed her, only to stop when Solange drove her blade into his back. They’d barely escaped, slipping into the woods under cover of darkness, but the weight of it all sits heavy on her chest now, a stone she can’t shake loose.
The forest thickens as they push deeper, the trees closing in like a cage, their branches clawing at Solange’s cloak. The air grows colder, damp seeping into her bones, and she can feel the sweat drying crusty on her skin beneath her coarse linen shirt. Her stomach growls, a sharp pang of hunger she tries to ignore. They’ve got no food, no water, just the weapons in their hands and the clothes on their backs. She glances at Élise, whose face is pinched with exhaustion, her steps slowing. They need rest, need shelter, but stopping feels like inviting death.
“Over there,” Solange says suddenly, her voice low, pointing to a small overhang of rock jutting out from a low cliff face ahead. It’s barely a cave, more a shallow dent in the stone, but it’s something—cover from the wind, a place to catch their breath. Élise doesn’t argue, just follows as Solange leads the way, ducking under the overhang and sliding down to sit against the rough, moss-slick wall. The rock is cold against her back, the dampness seeping through her cloak, but it’s better than standing exposed in the open.
Élise sinks down beside her, pulling her knees to her chest, the pistol resting on her lap. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The only sound is the faint drip of water somewhere deeper in the crevice, a steady, hollow tap that sets Solange’s nerves on edge. She wipes her knife on her sleeve, finally looking at the blade, at the dark streaks of blood flaking off onto the fabric. Her throat tightens. She doesn’t know whose blood it is. Doesn’t want to.
“You ever think ‘bout home?” Élise asks suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. She’s staring at the ground, tracing patterns in the dirt with a twig. “Before all this, I mean. Before… everythin’.”
Solange’s grip on the knife falters for a split second. Home. The word cuts sharper than the blade in her hand. She can still smell the bread her mother used to bake, feel the rough grain of the table under her fingers as she sat peeling potatoes, hear her father’s low, gruff laugh from the doorway. But that was before the soldiers came, before the fire, before she learned what it meant to lose everything. “No,” she lies, her voice flat. “Ain’t no point. It’s gone.”
Élise looks at her then, her eyes searching, like she’s trying to see past the hard shell Solange has built around herself. “I think ‘bout it all the time,” she admits, her voice cracking again. “My little brother, he used to follow me everywhere, tuggin’ at my skirt, askin’ for stories. I keep thinkin’… if I’d stayed, maybe I coulda kept him safe. Maybe—”
“Stop,” Solange cuts her off, her tone harsh, though her chest aches at the words. She can’t let Élise go down that path, can’t let herself follow. “You didn’t make the soldiers come. You didn’t make ‘em do what they did. Thinkin’ like that, it’ll eat you alive. Trust me.”
Élise’s mouth opens, like she wants to argue, but then she just nods, her shoulders slumping. She looks so young in that moment, barely more than a girl, and Solange feels a pang of something she can’t name—guilt, maybe, or protectiveness. She turns away, staring out at the forest beyond the overhang, the shadows lengthening as the sun dips lower. They can’t stay here long. Every minute they sit still is a minute the royalists could close in.
“Get some rest,” she says finally, her voice softer now. “I’ll keep watch. Just for a bit.”
Élise doesn’t protest, just leans her head back against the rock, her eyes fluttering closed. Solange watches her for a moment, then turns her attention to the woods, her knife still in hand, her senses straining for any sound out of place—the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves that isn’t the wind. The forest is quiet, too quiet, and it sets her teeth on edge. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of the blade, the metal cool against her palm, a familiar weight. She’s not sure how long she sits there, listening, watching, before her own exhaustion starts to creep in, tugging at the edges of her mind. But she fights it, blinking hard, forcing herself to stay alert. They’ve come too far to let their guard down now.
The crack of a branch snaps Solange out of her half-doze, her head jerking up, every muscle in her body tensing. Her hand tightens on the knife as she peers into the darkness beyond the overhang. The moon has risen, casting pale, fractured light through the canopy, turning the forest into a maze of shifting shadows. She holds her breath, listening. There it is again—another crack, closer this time, deliberate. Not an animal. Her pulse spikes, her free hand reaching to nudge Élise awake.
“Get up,” she hisses, her voice barely audible. Élise’s eyes snap open, confusion giving way to fear as she sees the look on Solange’s face. She scrambles to her feet, clutching the pistol, her movements clumsy with sleep.
“What is it?” she whispers, her voice trembling.
“Someone’s out there,” Solange murmurs, her eyes locked on the tree line. She edges toward the mouth of the overhang, keeping low, her knife at the ready. The air feels heavier now, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. She can hear it again—footsteps, slow and cautious, crunching over fallen leaves. Her mind races. Royalists? Bandits? Or something worse? She gestures for Élise to stay back, but the girl shakes her head, her jaw set, and grips the pistol tighter.
“I’m not hidin’,” Élise mutters, her voice steadier now, though her hands still shake. Solange doesn’t argue—there’s no time. She nods once, sharp, and together they creep forward, staying in the shadow of the overhang.
The footsteps stop, and for a heartbeat, there’s nothing but silence, thick and suffocating. Then a voice cuts through the night, low and rough, speaking in a dialect Solange recognizes from the northern villages. “I see you skulkin’ there. Come out slow, or I put a ball through your skull.”
Solange freezes, her breath catching. The voice isn’t a soldier’s, not polished or clipped like the royalists. It’s someone else, someone who knows these woods. She weighs her options—fight, run, or talk. None of them feel safe. But before she can decide, Élise steps forward, her pistol raised, her voice sharp with defiance.
“Who’re you to threaten us?” she demands, though her hands tremble. “Show yourself!”
Solange grabs her arm, yanking her back, but it’s too late. A figure steps into the moonlight, tall and broad-shouldered, a musket slung over his back and a scarred face half-hidden beneath the brim of a tattered hat. His eyes glint, hard and assessing, as they flick from Élise to Solange. He doesn’t raise his weapon, not yet, but his hand hovers near the flintlock at his hip.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, his tone careful, measured. “Name’s Gideon. I’m lookin’ for folk like you—ones runnin’ from the king’s dogs. You headed north, ain’t you?”
Solange narrows her eyes, her grip on the knife unyielding. She doesn’t trust him, not for a second. Men like him—scarred, armed, roaming the woods—could be anyone. Spy, traitor, or worse. “What’s it to you?” she asks, her voice cold, edged with suspicion.
Gideon tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I know where you’re goin’. The camp. Hidden up past the river bend. I can take you there. But you gotta trust me first.”
Trust. The word tastes bitter in Solange’s mouth. She glances at Élise, whose face is a mix of hope and fear, then back at Gideon. Her instincts scream at her to walk away, to keep running on their own. But they’re tired, hungry, lost. If he’s telling the truth, this camp could be their only chance. If he’s lying…
“Prove it,” she says finally, stepping closer, her knife still in hand. “Tell us somethin’ ‘bout this camp. Somethin’ only someone who’s been there would know.”
Gideon’s smirk fades, replaced by a look of grudging respect. He nods slowly, his hand moving away from the flintlock, a gesture of peace. “Alright. There’s a woman runs it—calls herself Marianne. Got a scar down her left cheek, from a saber cut she took fightin’ in ’89. She don’t trust easy, neither. Sound familiar?”
Solange’s heart skips. She’s heard of Marianne, whispered about in taverns and safe houses—a name tied to rebellion, to defiance. But stories aren’t proof. She studies Gideon, searching his face for a lie, for any sign of deceit. The night stretches on, tense and heavy, as she weighs her next move.
Solange holds Gideon’s gaze, her knife still poised in her hand, the weight of it grounding her as her mind races. The moonlight catches the edge of his scar, a jagged line running from his temple to his jaw, and it makes her wonder what kind of fight left a mark like that. His story about Marianne tugs at something in her—a flicker of recognition, a name she’s heard in hushed tones over mugs of watered-down ale in backroom meetings. But trust is a currency she can’t afford to spend lightly, not after everything. Not after the barracks, the blood, the betrayal that still stings raw in her memory.
“Say we believe you,” she says, her voice low, each word measured. “What’s your price? Nobody risks their neck for strangers outta kindness.”
Gideon’s eyes narrow, but the smirk creeps back, faint and crooked. “Ain’t askin’ for coin, if that’s what you mean. I want in. Same as you. I been runnin’ from the king’s men since they torched my village last spring. Lost everythin’. Figure if there’s a fight brewin’, I wanna be on the winnin’ side—or at least the one that don’t kneel.”
Élise shifts beside Solange, her pistol still raised, though her arms tremble from holding it steady too long. “How do we know you ain’t one of ‘em?” she asks, her voice sharp but thin, like she’s forcing the bravado. “Could be you’re leadin’ us straight to a trap. Hangin’ rope waitin’ and all.”
Gideon chuckles, a rough, gravelly sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If I was with the royalists, I’d have shot you both by now. Or called in the hounds. Ain’t no profit in draggin’ two half-starved women through the woods just to turn you over. Easier to kill you here and be done.”
Solange’s stomach twists at the bluntness, but she can’t argue the logic. Still, her grip on the knife doesn’t loosen. “You got a map? Somethin’ to show us this camp ain’t just a story?”
He shakes his head, patting the worn leather pouch at his hip. “Nothin’ writ down. Too dangerous. If they catch you with a map to a rebel hideout, you’re dead before you can blink. It’s all up here.” He taps his temple, his scarred face unreadable. “But I’ll tell you this—the river bend I mentioned? You’ll hear it before you see it. Rapids so loud they drown out a man’s shout. Follow that sound, and you’re halfway there. I can get you the rest of the way.”
Solange exchanges a glance with Élise. The girl’s face is tight, her dark eyes flickering with doubt, but there’s a spark of desperation there too. They’re both exhausted, their bodies screaming for rest, their bellies hollow from days without a proper meal. The idea of a camp—shelter, food, allies—feels like a lifeline, even if it comes with a man they can’t trust. Solange’s jaw clenches. She doesn’t like gambling with their lives, but what choice do they have? Keep wandering blind and risk capture, or worse? Or take the chance that Gideon’s telling the truth?
“Alright,” she says finally, her voice hard. “You lead. But I’m warnin’ you now—if I get even a whiff of a lie, I’ll gut you before you can draw that flintlock. Understand?”
Gideon nods, unfazed, like he expected nothing less. “Fair enough. Keep your blade handy, then. We ain’t outta danger yet.” He turns, motioning for them to follow, his boots crunching over the frosted leaves as he heads deeper into the forest.
Solange falls into step behind him, keeping a few paces back, her knife still out, her senses sharp. Élise hesitates, then follows, her pistol lowered but ready. The night air bites at Solange’s exposed skin, the chill seeping deeper with every step, and the forest seems to close in tighter, the shadows thicker, the silence more oppressive. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig underfoot sets her nerves on edge. She watches Gideon’s back, the way he moves—steady, deliberate, like someone who’s walked these paths before. But that doesn’t mean he’s on their side.
They walk for what feels like hours, the moon sliding lower in the sky, its light dimming as clouds roll in, heavy with the promise of rain. The ground grows softer, mud sucking at Solange’s boots, and the faint roar of water begins to filter through the trees, just as Gideon said. The rapids. Her pulse quickens, a mix of hope and suspicion warring in her chest. If he’s right about this, maybe he’s right about the camp. Maybe.
“Close now,” Gideon mutters over his shoulder, his voice barely carrying over the growing sound of the river. “Keep quiet. If there’s scouts—ours or theirs—they’ll hear us before we see ‘em.”
Solange nods, though he can’t see it, and grips her knife tighter. Élise’s breath hitches beside her, the girl’s exhaustion plain in the way her shoulders slump, but she keeps moving, one foot in front of the other. The roar of the rapids grows louder, a relentless rumble that vibrates through the ground, and soon they break through a line of trees to see it—a wide, churning river cutting through the forest, white foam catching the last slivers of moonlight. The current is fierce, rocks jutting up like jagged teeth, and Solange feels a prickle of unease. Crossing that won’t be easy.
Gideon stops at the bank, crouching low, his eyes scanning the opposite shore. “Camp’s just beyond,” he says, pointing to a dense thicket on the far side. “There’s a shallow spot upstream we can wade through. Current’s strong, though. Gotta move careful.”
Solange squints into the darkness, trying to make out anything beyond the river, but it’s too dark, the trees too thick. Her gut churns. If this is a trap, they’re walking straight into it. She turns to Élise, lowering her voice. “You good to cross? If you ain’t, say so now.”
Élise swallows hard, her face pale, but she nods. “I can do it. Ain’t got a choice, do I?”
Solange doesn’t answer, just turns back to Gideon. “Lead on, then. But slow. I ain’t losin’ her to that water.”
Gideon grunts in acknowledgment and starts upstream, sticking close to the bank, his musket now in hand, barrel pointed down. Solange follows, her boots slipping on the wet rocks, the icy spray from the rapids stinging her face. The river’s roar drowns out everything else, making it impossible to hear if anyone—or anything—is closing in. Her heart hammers, every step feeling like a gamble, the cold seeping into her bones as they reach the shallow crossing Gideon mentioned. The water’s still deep, up to her thighs as she wades in, the current pulling hard, threatening to knock her off her feet. She grits her teeth, planting each step with care, one hand on Élise’s arm to steady her.
“Keep your head up!” she shouts over the roar, her voice raw as the water drags at her cloak, heavy and sodden. Élise nods, her face tight with effort, her pistol held high to keep it dry. Gideon’s ahead, already halfway across, his broad frame cutting through the current like he’s done this a hundred times. Solange watches him, her suspicion flaring again. Too easy. He’s too sure of himself.
They’re nearly to the other side when a sharp crack splits the air, louder than the river, unmistakable. Musket fire. Solange’s head whips around, her body dropping low on instinct, dragging Élise down with her into the freezing water. The cold shocks her system, stealing her breath, but she forces herself to move, shoving Élise toward the bank as another shot rings out, the ball whizzing past her ear, close enough to feel the heat of it. Her knife is still in hand, useless at this range, but she clutches it anyway, her eyes darting for cover.
“Get to the trees!” Gideon bellows, already scrambling up the muddy bank, his musket raised as he returns fire, the flash of powder briefly illuminating his scarred face. Solange doesn’t trust him, but she’s got no choice—she hauls Élise with her, the girl gasping and coughing as they stumble out of the water, their clothes dripping, the cold biting deep. They dive behind a cluster of pines just as another shot cracks, bark splintering above their heads.
“Who’s shootin’?” Élise gasps, her voice high with panic, her pistol trembling in her hands. Solange doesn’t answer, her mind racing. Royalists? Bandits? Or is Gideon leading them into an ambush, just like she feared? She peers through the branches, trying to spot their attacker, but the darkness and the roar of the river make it impossible. All she sees is Gideon, crouched behind a rock a few yards away, reloading with practiced speed.
“Stay down!” he shouts, not looking at them, his focus on the opposite bank. “They’re across the river. Two, maybe three. Can’t tell if they’re king’s men or just scavengers.”
Solange’s jaw tightens. If he’s lying, playing some game, she’ll kill him herself. But right now, survival takes precedence. She turns to Élise, her voice low and urgent. “You got one shot in that pistol. Make it count if you gotta. Don’t fire ‘til you see ‘em clear.”
Élise nods, her teeth chattering from the cold, her knuckles white around the weapon. Another shot rings out, this one closer, the ball thudding into the mud just beyond their cover. Solange’s heart pounds, her fingers slick with river water as she grips her knife. They’re pinned, outgunned, and soaking wet in the middle of nowhere. She can feel the weight of their odds stacking against them, heavy as the wet cloak dragging at her shoulders.
Then, from the darkness beyond the river, a voice calls out, rough and mocking, cutting through the roar of the rapids. “Throw down your weapons, and we might let you live! Keep hidin’, and we’ll hunt you ‘til dawn!”
Solange’s blood runs colder than the river. She knows that tone, the arrogance laced through it. Not bandits. Royalist scouts, or hired mercenaries—either way, men who won’t stop until they’re dead or she is. She glances at Gideon, who’s still crouched low, his musket ready, his face unreadable. If he’s with them, this is the moment he’d turn. But he doesn’t. He meets her gaze, his eyes hard, and gives a small, sharp nod, like he’s ready to fight.
“Got no choice now,” he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear. “We take ‘em out, or we’re done.”
Solange doesn’t trust him, not fully, but she nods back. Her knife won’t do much against muskets, but she’s not going down without a fight. She turns to Élise, whose face is pale, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “Stay here. Don’t move ‘til I say. Got it?”
Élise nods, though her eyes are wide with fear. Solange doesn’t wait for more—she creeps forward, keeping low, moving parallel to Gideon as he edges toward a better vantage point. The river’s roar masks their movements, but every rustle of leaves feels deafening, every step a risk. Her heart thuds in her ears, the cold making her fingers stiff, but she forces herself to focus. If they can flank the shooters, maybe they’ve got a chance.
Another shot cracks, and Gideon grunts, staggering back, his hand clapping to his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and glistening in the faint light, but he doesn’t fall. He curses under his breath, dropping to one knee, and fires back, the musket’s report echoing through the trees. Solange’s stomach lurches—she can’t tell if he’s hit bad, or if this is part of some act. But there’s no time to second-guess. She hears a shout from across the river, a cry of pain, and realizes Gideon’s shot found its mark. One down, maybe.
She moves faster now, circling wider, her boots slipping on the muddy ground as she tries to spot the remaining shooters. The darkness works both for and against her—she’s hidden, but so are they. Then she sees it, a flicker of movement near the far bank, the glint of a barrel catching the moonlight. Her breath catches. She’s too far for the knife, too exposed to rush them. But if she can draw their fire, give Gideon or Élise a clear shot…
Before she can think it through, she breaks cover, darting to the side, shouting, “Over here, you bastards!” The musket swings her way, and she dives behind a fallen log just as the shot rings out, wood splintering above her head. Her pulse roars, but she hears the click of a reload, slow and clumsy—the shooter’s exposed now, fumbling in the dark. She glances back, catching Élise’s terrified face peeking from the trees, the pistol shaking in her hands.
“Shoot, damn it!” Solange barks, her voice raw. Élise flinches, but she raises the weapon, her aim unsteady. The shot cracks, loud and sharp, and across the river, the figure jerks, collapsing into the underbrush with a wet thud. Silence follows, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the relentless roar of the rapids.
Solange stays low, waiting, listening for any sign of more. Gideon staggers to his feet, his shoulder still bleeding, his musket hanging loose in one hand. He scans the far bank, then nods to her, his face grim. “Think that’s the last of ‘em. For now.”
She doesn’t respond, just pushes herself up, her legs shaky from the cold and adrenaline. She hurries back to Élise, who’s still crouched, her pistol empty, her face pale as bone. “You hurt?” Solange asks, her voice rough.
Élise shakes her head, though her hands tremble. “I—I got him. Didn’t I?”
“You did,” Solange says, though the words feel hollow. Killing changes you, and she can see it already in Élise’s eyes, the weight of it settling in. She turns to Gideon, who’s binding his shoulder with a strip of torn cloth, his teeth gritted against the pain. “How bad’s that wound?”
“Won’t kill me,” he grunts, tying off the makeshift bandage. “But we gotta move. More’ll come. They always do.”
Solange nods, though her suspicion lingers. He fought with them, took a bullet even, but that doesn’t mean he’s clean. She helps Élise to her feet, the girl’s weight leaning heavy against her, and they follow Gideon as he leads them away from the river, deeper into the thicket on this side. The cold bites harder now, their wet clothes clinging to their skin, and Solange can feel her strength waning, her vision blurring at the edges. They need shelter, warmth, rest—but the camp, if it even exists, feels farther away than ever.
They stumble through the undergrowth, branches snagging at their cloaks, until Gideon stops abruptly, his hand raised for silence. Solange tenses, her knife ready, but then she hears it—a low murmur of voices, faint but distinct, coming from ahead. Not royalists, not shouts of pursuit. Something else. Something… familiar?
Gideon turns to her, his scarred face splitting into a grim smile. “Told you I’d get you here. That’s the camp. Marianne’s people.”
Solange’s heart leaps, but doubt gnaws at her still. She steps forward, pushing past him, her senses straining. Through a gap in the trees, she sees it—flickering firelight, the shadowy outlines of tents, figures moving in the glow. Relief floods her, sharp and sudden, but it’s cut short as a woman steps into view, tall and wiry, a scar slashing down her left cheek just as Gideon described. Marianne. Her eyes lock on Solange, hard and unyielding, and in her hand, she holds a pistol—pointed straight at them.
“Who brought you here?” Marianne demands, her voice like steel, her gaze flicking from Solange to Gideon, suspicion etched into every line of her face. “Speak quick, or I drop you where you stand.”
Solange’s breath catches, her hand tightening on her knife. They’ve fought, bled, nearly drowned to reach this place, only to face a barrel at the end. Her eyes dart to Gideon, searching for a sign of betrayal, but his face is unreadable, blood still seeping from his shoulder. The firelight dances, casting long shadows, and in that frozen moment, Solange realizes they’ve walked into something far bigger—and far more dangerous—than she ever imagined.