Chapter Text
She was a monster.
She was the creature hiding under the bed; she was the fear lurking out in the dark; she was the warning for naughty children to behave. She was the butcher of worlds; she was the silent assassin in the night; she was a killer.
She was a monster.
Until the day she wasn’t.
“Why does everyone ignore me?” Gamora asked.
The priest sighed, the lines on his ancient face deepened. “It is because you are cursed, child.” He was matter-of-fact about it; there were no unnecessary dramatics, no teasing or torment. Somehow, that was worse.
“But,” Gamora said, “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did not.” The priest reached out, his hand hovered for a brief, hesitant moment before settling on her head. “You did nothing wrong,” he reassured her, “you were simply born under the wrong sign.”
“Wrong sign?” Gamora had not heard this before. Her mother spent her time pretending that nothing was wrong, that her child wasn’t ostracized by adults or other children. Gamora though was no fool, she was young but she had eyes.
“The night of your birth the moon turned red and the sea grew rough. Your father’s ship was caught in the sudden tides and his body dashed upon the rocks.” The priest sighed, the weight of that horrible night still hung over their village. “You were born cursed and others fear it will rub off on them.”
“That’s—” Gamora shook his patronizing hand off. “That’s not fair, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“The only thing you can do,” the priest said, “live as best you can. Your life is cursed and your death will be a miserable thing, but the world beyond ours does not have to be.” He stood up, gesturing for the girl to follow.
Cautiously, she stayed close to him, trying to ignore the stares of passersby. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the good people making signs behind her back, wards against the bad luck that surrounded her. Now that she knew why they made these gestures, her heart grew hard and ever more sorrowful.
It was before the spice merchant’s stall that the priest stopped. “Do you see the pillar of salt?”
Of course, Gamora had seen it many times, it was the central attraction of the stall.
“This is your curse,” the priest explained.
A chill went down Gamora’s spine. Before, the thick pillar of solid salt had been a novelty, now its presence was a terror. “So, should I break it?”
“No, no,” the priest said, laughing under his breath. “The pillar represents your curse. This is an illustration to explain my point, understand?”
She nodded. Gamora was starting to understand more than she wished to.
“The salt will always be there, the salt is unavoidable,” the priest explained, gesturing to it. He grasped a small handful from a bowl at the edge of the stall. “But salt can be diluted, and can be drowned by the river.” Fingers spread, allowing the white grains of salt to flow back into the bowl. “The river, the water are the good things that you do, the pure thoughts that you hold. The more of these that you do over the course of your life the less the salt will matter.” His eyes were kind. “Do you understand?”
Gamora could feel the tears well behind her own eyes, and the fear pressing against her skull. “But the salt, there’s so much,” she whispered.
“And that is your challenge,” the priest said. “That is your burden. I am sorry.”
As the years passed, Gamora couldn’t help but grieve that the priest was wrong. Her curse wasn’t salt but blood, and the river of her soul was choked with it.
Her only solace was that the priest had been culled during the invasion of her world. He never lived to see the horror she would become.
“Hit her again, Little One.” The order rang out over the practice ring. The words echoed, dark and cruel, bouncing off the cold, hard walls to assault tender ears. “Hit her!”
Gamora, all of twelve years old, stared down at her terrified opponent. Nebula, still so young, still uncoordinated and growing, stared up at her with wide brown eyes. The girl’s lip was bloodied from where Gamora’s staff had struck her. Nebula was no threat, she was no warrior. She was nothing.
Gamora turned her back, her fierce gaze fixed on her father. “She’s down.”
“Nebula is not yet defeated, she may retaliate,” Thanos insisted. “Hit her again.”
This would not end if Gamora didn’t comply. They would stand here in this terrible stasis forever and ever, one child covered in sweaty bitter victory, a second child cowering with blood still drying and their father autocratic and critical lording over them both. He was never to be disobeyed, never to be challenged. That was the way of things.
Gamora swung with her eyes closed. Her arms vibrated as the staff connected. The crack of wood against flesh would haunt her sleep, but only until the next time they sparred.
The sound of a few pointed claps signaled the end of the match. Thanos, larger than life, loomed over his two “daughters.” “Gamora, excellent work.” His eyes were heavy as he studied Nebula. His words for her were less encouraging. “Your footwork is sloppy but your speed is improving.”
Nebula pushed herself to stand, wincing as she placed pressure on her left wrist. Something was wrong, the bones bent in the wrong direction.
Thanos sighed, gesturing to one of his servants. “Take her to the medic,” he instructed. “Have it replaced. Perhaps then she will be less fragile.”
Nebula roared in impotent anger. She launched herself at Gamora, her right hand, the good hand, outstretched. Gamora easily dodged the attack. With practiced eerie ease, she used Nebula’s momentum to slam her against the floor. Nebula squirmed, the clay and sand of the practice ring floor smeared across the blue skin of her cheeks.
“Enough.” Thanos’s voice was raised but only slightly. “Release her.”
Gamora obeyed, backing away from Nebula as if burned.
With quiet, measured steps, Thanos stepped into the ring. His massive hand clamped on Nebula’s shoulder and he quickly put her on her feet. As the child reeled from the sudden movement, Thanos told her: “Do not strike in anger, do not strike in rage. Strike for the sake of the mission. Sparring is a test of your prowess, squabbles outside of the ring should be settled with words.”
He pushed Nebula into the arms of his servant. “We are a civilized people.”
When Nebula was gone, sent away kicking and screaming, her father’s attention landed on her. “Gamora,” Thanos said, “fighting with your sister is inevitable. There will always be jealousy and competition. All you can do is rise above it as you did today.” He tucked a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze upwards. “Never start a battle with your siblings,” he said, “but always finish it.”
Gamora watched and Gamora listened. This was not the first spar with her sister and it would not be the last. Gamora internalized this advice.
Nebula, Ebony Maw, Proxima and others all tried to usurp Gamora’s place as their father’s favorite. All failed at her hand. As Thanos told her, she never started a fight with her nominal siblings, but she always finished it. Not all of them survived the lesson.
(Translated from the original Zen-Whoberi)
A rainbow of sin stained the hands of the
Dread Daughter of the Titan gone Mad.
Blood of mother, father, child all
Coated the cunning, gifted blade.
Blade so favored for the silence it gave
As its sharpness ran over throat and through stomach
Driving toward the grave
All those who would oppose Mighty Thanos’ plot.
None could stand before her, none could surpass
Her own self-loathing at her chosen path.
She felt doomed to wander, to do naught but kill.
If her own conscience can not save her
Whatever else will?
Gamora wasn’t certain which was more insufferable, being stuck obeying the orders of Ronan the Accuser or being paired with Nebula to do it. The years had not been kind to Nebula, her body broken and parts replaced every time she lost a match to Gamora. Her eyes were no longer hers, nor her hands, even the muscles beneath her skin were artificial. One of the only things that was truly her own was her heart, and even that was surrounded by a cage of metal.
Gamora looked at her poor sister in pity, glad that the damage wasn’t hers. Uncharitable, yes. Understandable, also yes.
If Thanos was to cull half the universe, to sever unnecessary lives to save the ones who remained, he needed his soldiers to be strong, he needed them to be dedicated. He needed them to be perfect.
Gamora, his perfect child, his beloved child, was sent to his servant Ronan’s side to assist him on this quest: retrieving the first of the Infinity Stones. It would be the start to fulfilling her father’s dream, of setting the universe into balance.
Why did the prospect weigh on her so?
Ronan sat before the window of his mighty warship, meditating before the black field of stars. Interrupting would not be wise, but Gamora did not fear the Kree.
“I was once told that there was a world after this one,” Gamora said, addressing the Accuser. “Do the Kree have a world beyond this?”
Ronan grumbled under his breath. Others he would have ignored, but Gamora’s question was a true one and he would answer true. “They do.”
“I was also told I was cursed,” she said, “that my actions would determine my path in the hereafter.” If this were the case then she was damned, damned, damned thrice over.
“Curses,” Ronan huffed. “What primitive nonsense. There are no such things.” He grasped the handle of his Universal Weapon, using it to help him stand. “There is naught but our outcomes and the striving towards them.”
Interesting, it was similar but not quite what the priest on her homeworld had said. “What sort of outcomes?”
“To cleanse this universe of the unfaithful, to purge all heresy from my sight.” Ronan’s gaze was blank, hollow. “Xandar and its excesses are a blight. My brethren may have ceased their just and holy war but I will not.”
“And serving my father,” Gamora asked, “how does this help your ‘outcomes’?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Ronan almost sounded amused.
She did not appreciate his condescending tone. “Consider it a philosophical matter.”
Ronan came to a conclusion. “You wonder about your soul.”
Losing her temper would not do, but it was tempting. “I do no such—”
“Your soul is of no concern,” Ronan said. “You serve my cause and serve it well, then there will be a just reward at the end.”
The end of what? The end of her life? The end of Thanos’ grand mission? Or at the end of all things? “And what is your cause?”
“The destruction of Xandar,” Ronan said, his voice earnest and fervent, “your father promised me an army to raze their wretched planet to the very soil. With the Orb we can do in hours what would take months, even years to accomplish.” His eyes burned. “The name of Ronan the Accuser will be seared into the memory of the Supreme Intelligence, passed down through the eons. My immortality will be in the praises of my people, in the righteousness of my deeds. A legacy of pious duty drenched in the blood of the Kree’s enemies.”
Gamora watched and Gamora listened, her horror slowly grew. What righteousness was there in the death of an entire world? What holiness was there in such an escalation?
Could she really stand there and watch this dreadful thing come to pass? Could she allow Thanos, her father, to take the Infinity Stone? Could she stop the inevitable even if she wanted to?
The taste of salt bloomed in her mouth.
What would it take to wash it away?