Chapter Text
The world is black and white.
And those are colors, if you know what to look for. If these are the only nuances your brain has been trained to observe. Shades that whisper of warmth, that hint at cold; black and white can be colorful for those who have known nothing else.
Regulus’ favorite color is grey. Early morning grey, like the soft murmur of planets, like the stillness of a world asleep. That kind of grey.
He doesn’t like the polarizing pigmentation of white, nor the absence of pigment from black.
Grey is middle, grey is something. Not quite either.
That is who Regulus is, too. Not quite either.
He is part of his community, but not quite. He is quite skilled at maths—as is everyone on the ship—but not quite a genius. He is normal—but not quite. His interest lies, also, in something not quite what it should be.
Regulus’ interest is in languages. A rare interest—STEM being better suited for his people's needs, as he’s been told relentlessly, for decades.
He could have it all, if only.
‘If only you didn’t daydream so much. If only you got it, the way your brother does.’
It would have been disheartening to hear so constantly, if Sirius hadn’t been so adamant that ‘It’s good to dream, Regulus. They’re only jealous of the ease with which you disappear in your brain. It’s fuzzy magic, something they’ll never have. They’re upset about the lack of control they have over you. Do not let them win.’
Regulus didn’t want his parents to win. He didn’t want them to lose, either. Didn’t want this divide he had been born into. And regardless of his desires, his career had been traced from birth.
His job is measuring stellar distances. Calculating the transit time between one location and the next, searching for the perfect planet to land. It’s astronomy and interstellar travel, wrapped up in a complex package that would be better suited for someone smarter, no doubt. Someone like Remus. But there are rules in place on the ship, and that’s the job Regulus was bred for; it’s the job he’s doing.
He’s good at it, but it isn’t what fulfills him. It’s an important job. He should be honored; rare are the people allowed the kind of access Regulus has. The kind of knowledge.
‘You are finding us a new home,’ Riddle once said. ‘You honor the Gods.’
The Gods are important to their people; a lot of their lifestyle hinges on them. Pleasing them, and honoring them.
This is a hard concept for Regulus to grasp. He isn’t stupid by any means, but he is confused. Everyone is working hard to please the Gods. Have been, for four thousand years. His people are all so quick to bask in the knowledge that what they are doing is pleasing the Gods somehow, but this doesn’t make sense. If the Gods are happy, satisfied with the work, honored…why have they never come down to meet their people?
So Regulus does something that isn’t allowed, an unwritten rule. He’s never heard it spoken out loud, but like all unvoiced truths, its weight is undiminished by its silence. The edict is clear: you do not question the Gods.
And yet.
Regulus doubts.