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Being a duke wasn’t the simplest job in the world.
Finn knew that fact ever since was old enough to understand his place in D’Qar. His parents had taken him aside and gently explained to him that one day, the entire city would be under his rule. “Hopefully that will not happen for a while, Hashem willing,” his mother had said, looking the young marquess in the eye, “but when the time comes, you will be ready.”
“When will I know I’ll be ready?” he’d asked. At eight years old, the concept of ruling over D’Qar seemed distant.
“There’s no way of knowing for certain,” she’d replied. “We can prepare you with lessons, but nothing can measure how good a ruler is. That—” She pointed to his heart. “—is something you will feel when the time is right.”
At that point, the young Finn had grown too sleepy to continue the discussion, and he’d been tucked in bed. Signora Galletti had kissed him goodnight and reminded him of his horseback lesson the following morning—for even if she was a duchess, she was still his mother.
And as he grew older, Finn began to understand the inner workings of being a duke. He fenced, read ancient texts, studied Torah and the history of the city, learnt diplomacy and negotiations. All his tutors praised his wit and strength, had declared him to be a fine asset to the throne once the time would come.
And yet, he remained doubtful of his true abilities once he would ascend.
Perhaps, he was not quite ready.
Finn was twenty years old when his father made a questionable decision.
When he first announced Ginevra Phasma as the head of the guard, Finn had his doubts. The captain was, by all means, a formidable soldier, with her broad shoulders and commanding presence, but there was something amiss about her; she was cold and callous, with hardly a shred of emotion within her tall frame.
“A brilliant strategist,” boasted the duke of the new captain. “Signora Phasma is no doubt deserving of her new title. She may not ever be able to replace Leia,” he said wistfully, “but hopefully be a formidable substitute in her absence.”
Signora Organa had retired not too long ago, claiming fatigue and old age, though many suspected the disappearance of her only son might have played a part as well. Either way, the charming old captain was gone, and Finn doubted the new guard would be able to fill in her position.
However, after two years of Phasma, he had to grudgingly admit that she was good at her job. Under her command, crime had decreased, the palace had grown safer, and D’Qar had developed a reputation among its neighbors as a powerful city. There was no doubt that she was efficient, sharp-minded, and good at doling out orders; no wonder his father trusted her so much.
However, Phasma was not always attending to her captain-duties. That was expected; she was, after all, a human being with needs and desires. What was less expected, however, were long stretches of absences (in which her orders were relegated through Hux, a sour-faced Saxon) and furtive whispers to her soldiers (the duke never seemed to notice).
And even more suspicious was when he’d catch furtive glances of her in the alleyways, conversing with a hooded stranger…
Finn was conversing with a friend when he spotted her again.
“…and that’s when I told Bacca you couldn’t toast with water,” Rey was saying, “but he was too busy—Finn, are you alright?”
“Yeah,” he said distantly, eyes fixed on his off-duty guard, in deep conversation with the stranger in the black hood. “I’m sorry, could you excuse me for a moment?”
She frowned. “What’s going on?”
“The captain of the guard,” he said, gesturing to the alleyway where they were conversing, and then dropped his voice. “I think she might be up to something suspicious.”
She looked to where he had pointed. “All I see is that she’s talking to someone…”
“Instead of doing her duty as captain.”
“Oh.” She lowered her brows. “That is a little odd. What do you reckon they’re up to?”
“Shall we find out?”
Holding a finger to his lips, Finn beckoned to Rey, and they silently crept closer to the wall, making sure to keep a safe distance. Leaning in close to each other, the duo turned their attention to Signora Phasma and the stranger.
“…everything in order?” the cloaked stranger was asking, in a deep voice. Rey stiffened.
“As it should be,” said Phasma in her usual icy tone. “I don’t believe the Duke suspects a thing. That damn fool believes that all is secure.” She laughs—a short bark. “He even assigned our own Hux as his personal guard.”
The man scoffed. “What a fool.”
“However, this might be more of a challenge than we thought,” she continued. “The Duchess has her reservations, I’m sure—and their damn son might be the biggest challenge.” An icy wave of panic rolled over Finn. “He takes too much after his mother—there’s no way he will be easy to eliminate.”
Eliminate. The word seemed like a sharp knife, the way Phasma spit it out.
Rey squeezed his hand.
“Then he must be dealt with swiftly,” said the man. “And what of my mother?”
“She is definitely suspect of our operations,” said Phasma, “but what can she do? She’s retired—I’m in her position now. There’s nothing that old crone can do to stop us now.”
Rey gripped Finn’s hand tighter, as the awful realization of who the stranger is washed over Finn.
“Very well,” said Ben icily. “When can we prepare to attack?”
“Within the week, likely—I will need to prepare the troops.”
“Good.” He saluted. “Long may the Order prosper.”
“Long may it reign,” she echoed.
Ben turned to leave. Towards them.
Rey swore. “Quick, quick, they’ll find us!”
“We can’t be suspicious,” whispered Finn. “Just act normal.”
“How?”
“Bacca told you what?” he said loudly, beginning to walk forward.
Confused, Rey cocked her head, before catching on. “Oh, he was ridiculous—told be you didn’t need a glass of wine to properly toast, but I—oh, cousin!”
Ben froze. “Signorina Rey,” he said, dully.
“Of course!” She ran up to him, embracing him. “Oh, I am so glad to see you safe!” She planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Shall I tell my father you said hello?”
He winced. “Give Signor da Cielo my best regards,” he said in a strained voice.
“Fantastic,” she said, finally releasing him. “Well, I must be off. Fate be with you, darling cousin!”
With a final enthusiastic wave, she ran off, skirts carefully bunched up in her hand.
As soon as she reached Finn, she frantically wiped her mouth. “Oh, why did I have to do that?”
“Thank you, though,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as they departed. “You saved us back there.”
“At the cost of my sanity,” she grumbled. “Well, I suppose you must be off, then?”
“Regretfully,” he said. “I should reveal to my parents all that we heard.”
“That much is true.” Reaching her fruit stall again, she quickly kissed him on the cheek. “May fate be with you, Finn.”
“As with you,” he said, running off in the direction of the palace.
Yet, somehow, he felt like he was too late.
“Captain Phasma is conspiring against you,” said Finn breathlessly as soon as he barged into his father’s study.
“I beg your pardon?” said the Duke, turning to face his son with furrowed eyebrows. “What is this you are accusing Signorina about?”
Finn gripped the edge of the desk, still trying to catch his breath. “She is planning to overthrow you,” he gasped. “Father, I saw her, I heard her—she was talking to Signora Organa’s son, father, they called you a fool, father, please, listen—”
The Duke frowned, readjusting his spectacles. “I was under the impression that her son had passed,” he said.
“No, I promise, he’s alive,” he said, hand shaking. “And they have plans—something about an order, an attack on the palace—father, you’re not safe with her around.”
“Hmm.” He looked back down at his work. “Well, if you so insist, perhaps I shall keep a closer eye on her.”
“Please do,” said Finn.
He nodded. “Thank you for letting me know,” he said, as a sort of way of ending the conversation. Finn nodded, before leaving back the way he came.
With all hope, his father would act in time, before it was too late.
Finn woke up a few days later to the sound of trumpets, blasting out an alarm: siege.
Instinct kicked in. He rose up quickly, reaching for his clothes and slipping them on, suddenly realizing one truth; Phasma was right. The Order was laying siege on D’Qar.
Determination raced through his head as he prepared for the attack. He would not let those monsters take over his city.
Kicking his door open, he raced down the stairs to the royal armory—only to be stopped by a firm hand on his neck. He yelped.
“Hush, dear, it’s only me,” whispered his mother. Finn turned around to see her face tense with worry. “Finn, you have to go.”
“Mother—”
“They’re looking for you,” she continued, eyes wide. “Dear, you are our last hope, they will kill you if they get the chance—”
“Mother, I cannot hide,” he said, trying to escape her grasp.
“But you must!” Letting go of her son, the Duchess began to rifle around the armory. “You are our future—your country needs you.” She pulled out a set of armor—dull and gray, unlike the proud polished dark of Finn’s own. “Here, put this on.”
He obeyed.
“You’ll blend in with the rest of the guard,” she said, helping him into his breastplate. “And don’t stop; run as far as you can from them, you understand?”
“Yes, mother.” The weight of the armor seemed to sink him down—or perhaps was that only his own self doubt?
Picking up an old helmet, she placed it upon his head. “Go forth, my son,” she whispered, gently stroking his cheek. “May fate be forever with you.”
A lump rose in his throat. “Farewell,” he said, slamming the visor shut and giving her one final embrace, before racing out of the armory.
God only knew how long he ran: down the hall, through the throes of battle, out the doors, and down the streets. He kept running as far as his legs could carry him, and then he ran a bit further; anything to put as much distance between them and himself.
He only allowed himself to stop once he reached an old villa flanked by lemon trees and grapevine. Bending over and gasping for breath, he forced himself to go forward just a few more minutes before knocking at the door.
Within seconds, he was answered by a weathered man with a gray beard and a confused look.
Finn dropped his visor, praying Rey’s father would not take any offense. “Pardon me, Signor,” he said, breathing heavily, “but might I be able to spend the night here?”
Several months later, Finn still found himself in the da Cielo manor.
The first morning, he had tried to excuse himself, explaining that they were under no obligation to continue to house him, and Rey had looked at him funny and said, “You stay here as long as you need.” And so, he had continued to stay there.
He had been in the dining room later that day when the news was delivered that Duke Galletti had been slain, and that in the death of the rest of the family, the First Order of Christ would have “no choice” but to take over the rule. Finn had cried then, holding on to Rey; not just for the end of his city, but for the death of his family, and for the tragic fact that he couldn’t have joined them. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt completely hopeless.
Alas, what could he do? Almost nothing, it turned out; while he had originally wished to aid the family in their business, Luke had turned it down, insisting that so early in the regime, it would be dangerous for him to show his face. Thus, most of his time was spent cooped up in the manor.
Despite his powerlessness, though, Finn still strived to occupy his time and his mind. He strolled through the courtyard, desperate for any hint of fresh air; he played cards with Rey; he took up fine arts, starting with sketches of fruit in bowls, and slowly graduating to other subjects.
And with little else to do, his painting skills dramatically improved within the year. For Rey’s nineteenth birthday, all he could offer was a portrait of her; despite its lack of usual elegance, she had loved it.
Slowly, as the months passed, Finn began allowing himself a bit more freedom. He’d go on evening strolls with Rey, just barely violating the curfew, and spent more time near the once-grand squares of D’Qar, taking a sketchbook with him and losing himself in art. And from these small observations, he began to notice his people, miraculously leading their lives as if the regime wasn’t hovering over their neck at every moment. There was a desire to continue life, he noticed; a want for freedom, a thirst for revolution.
How he desired to help them, he thought, idly beginning to sketch a nearby bard.
He only wished he knew where to begin.
Finn would find his answer exactly a year after the regime.
As he expected, the Order had discovered him holed up in the da Cielo manor, and had dragged him away; for hours, they had interrogated him, insisting that he knew about the whereabouts of a group of rogue soldiers. And, as much as he wish he was aware of any rebellious action, he unfortunately had no idea.
All of his comments earned him another few seconds of his head submerged in water.
Regardless, he was a Duke’s son (or perhaps, just a Duke); he himself being trained in the fine arts of combat and escaping bondage, he was able to weasel out away from his captors. And, hell, if there was any sort of rebellion going on, it was about time he joined them.
For the first time in several months, he found himself headed to the armory. And, Baruch Hashem, his original set of armor was still there, hidden beneath dull breastplates and thick tunics.
He looked at the armor for a moment, before shaking his head; it would take too long to put on.
Instead, he turned his attention to the wall behind him, where, with a lump in his throat, he found his father’s old longsword and shield, emblazoned with the delicate family crest. He leaned forward, gingerly tracing the six pointed star with his finger.
Then, he steeled himself, grabbing the sword and scabbarding it. Even at the cost of his life, he would be willing to fight to drive out these monsters, to free his people.
And, perhaps, it was at this moment that he truly became a leader.