Chapter Text
Jace felt eyes dig into his back, but every time he looked for the source, the gaze would fade. He has been watched. Been attacked in his home. Been kidnapped a couple times. It comes with his job. And so he believes that he has a good tell on whether or not he's being stalked. And this one felt different. Like eyes weren't just digging into his back, no. They clung to his face. His throat, shoulders, chest and stomach, twisting in his guts and lungs. He could feel the stare dig into his thigh, crawling into his knees and stinging their way to his legs. It felt like eyes were stuck to him everywhere. Tracking his every move and action. And it never stopped. Unless he looked for it.
Was it a work of a curse? He makes sure to wear any charms and keep any wards active. Down to stripping the blessings off of objects and applying them to his clothing. But, a slip or two can still occur. But still, this strong? And to track his every move? So stalking. Someone decided to stalk him for however long they want. In this new, rather interesting way. But who had he pissed off to bring such a curse upon him? A vengeful priest? A Protector? A knowledge God? Maybe knowledge is the key. The feeling of eyes. Watching. Knowing. But he has not associated with anyone with eyes in their iconography. Still, that perverse feeling of being watched could still come from them. Some of their lot is known for trickery and mischief.
A God putting a curse on him however? A bit rude. Well, maybe his name is really, really getting out there. And they are smart enough to peel through to his secret identity. Only so much he can ward off. And he just got that particular deceit blessing in as well. Silly him. Knowledge and deceit go hand in hand, don't they?
So should he cleanse himself? Salt bath?
A salt bath, yes. Maybe his wards finally fizzled out and need upkeep. Maybe it's just some curse from a particularly angry priest who just so happened to figure out who he is. Ugh, that's going to be a problem that needs fixing.
Jace prepares a mixture of purified salt and holy water, adding it to the warm, running water. A few lilies from the garden he's cultivated. Huh. It's like a soup. A purification soup. A flowery, quite salty, soup. How delicious it must be.
Getting in the bathtub was weird. But, if all goes well, then it will only feel slightly weird next time. He quietly settles in the solution, the water sloshing around him. He watches as his hair floats around him, the lilies bobbing in the small waves. His chin dips below the water, then his mouth, shutting his eyes. Hm. Tastes like salt. And he should be done in half an hour. And if the eyes are still stuck to him, then maybe stronger measures need to be taken.
He sits up sharply, sloshing water onto the floor. Jace sputters the salt water from his lungs, breaths petering out to a small, guttural wheeze. Hm. Maybe he should not close his eyes again. Who knew salt baths were so relaxing. Relaxing enough for him to sleep. Does he need to readjust his schedule? Or is it the work of some petty, low grade curse stacked on the one he already has? One that makes him sleepy. Well, more sleepy.
No, no it can't be a sleepy curse. Who would do that? Cast sleepy upon thee. He chuckles to himself, watching as a lily flower rides the waves it's on.
Oh that is concerning. Jace plucks the flower, raising it up and just staring because it's wilting. The delicate petals, giving of a faint white glow, burn out one by one, dipping downwards as it turns dry and limp. Oh. That's new. Concerning, yes, because that has not happened before. Because Jace really thought he could just let the lilies absorb this curse, or at least some of it. But it's wilting. And his stomach turns or sinks or maybe it flutters. Because the flowers have never wilted. A mark for death does not make these flowers wilt. Wishes for ailment or eternal suffering does not make these flowers wilt. They should be thrumming with the curse itself, then plunged in the water he bathed with to preserve it. But no, no it's wilting. And Jace wonders if the water he's in is even holy anymore. If this is some anti-holy or corruptive curse that's forever attached to him that no one but the one who bore it can reverse.
No, no he's jumping to conclusions. Maybe this curse in particular is unique. There's a lot out there, a lot that the most skilled theologian has no answers for. Maybe the flowers were overburdened. But he's seen flowers overburdened before. It just, stops. It should hit a certain capacity limit not just wilt. Or maybe this wilting is a part of the process? But he feels watched. The lily should take the motif of the curse not just wilt. It should transform into something else and have a distinctive glow of its own, but there's nothing. Nothing but a dry, dead flower in the palm of his hand, already snipping away from itself.
Jace stops smiling, takes a deep breath, the salt still stinging his nostrils, getting out the bath, uncaring for his haste because he needs to experiment on something. This water, yes this water. It should be nothing but regular water, no? Stripped of its blessing and somehow nullified. The eyes dig into the back of his head, a shiver slinking down from the base of his neck to his back and isn't it just so interesting?
What does the curse bearer do in their free time? Do they also write? Do they also struggle with acne? Or are they clear skinned? What type of face routine do they have, then? Or is there isn’t one at all? Maybe they won the genetic lottery on that front.
Jace scratches his cheek, his nail picking away at dried blood, twirling a decaying lily in his other hand. What flowers do they like? Jace doesn’t have much of a green thumb. But maybe the curse bearer does. Maybe they’re a gardener. And they have their own backyard filled with vegetables. Lined up in neat little rows, where the tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, pumpkins, everything they could possibly need grows. Or maybe it would just be flowers. Maybe they have a greenhouse packed with poppies and roses and lilies and lavender. Weeping bells and wildflowers of any color and size, its unruly stalks flowing over the table they sit on.
He plants another talisman on himself, doing nothing, the eyes boring into his spine, leaving him sick. He wonders if placing this curse makes the user sick. If they’re retching over the sink, muscles aching with a need to rest, bones too tired to hold their weight. He wonders if the curse user is alright. He wonders why they would do that to themself.
Jace stands up, setting the talisman back where it belongs, padding down the attic stairs. He goes to the kitchen, grabs the kettle, and fills it with water. He sets it to boil, eyes curling in his throat, swallowing back down to settle in his stomach. Does the curse bearer like camomile tea? Do they like honey? Jace finds honey too sweet and thick for his liking. But maybe the curse bearer likes it. He sifts through the cabinet, taking a tea bag out from the open box. He grabs a packet of sugar as well, setting them aside as he sits at the kitchen table.
He wonders, and wonders. If this is a theologian he can never compare to, wise beyond their years. If this is some priest or god he has to eventually kill. If it’s someone he can befriend. But, with the nature of this curse, he is unsure if he can befriend them.
Maybe wondering about them is a part of the curse. The curse of knowing how strange it is, how it reacts to blessed objects. How it got past his wards. How it sticks to him like a second skin now. It makes him giddy, Jace pushing down a smile. Ah, he needs to stop wondering, but how could he stop with a gift like this? It’s such a strange curse. Such a strong curse. Such an interesting curse put on him and no one else. And for what exactly? To spy on him?
His phone buzzes, the tea kettle whistling. He turns the stove off, the sound dying out as he pours himself his tea. Well, now they know he likes chamomile tea. With a spoon of sugar, and a wedge of lemon. Jace sips, the liquid washing over his nerves. Ah, right, phone.
“Tiger speaking.” How much can the curse bearer hear? Does the reach extend to the other line?
Can they hear his thoughts? His stomach churns. He swallows, the ache in his throat not budging. Another contract. A monotheistic God. His knives should be enough.
He puts his phone away, huffing. Where is his sweet little cat?