Page 48 of Astarion

“…Anyway, that’s why I came to Baldur’s Gate. And once I heard that there was an undead cult under the city worshipping a relic of a dead god—well, you can see why I’m here.” The paladin made a self-deprecating gesture. “Suffice to say, there were a lot more of them than I expected.”

“Yes, I imagine there were. So, you worship a badger?”

“No, no.” Den Suriel looked aghast. “I serve Lathander, the Lord of Morning. The Badger is an ideal we seek to emulate. Strong, fierce, tenacious…”

“Good at destroying henhouses.”

“I will have you know that I am murder on henhouses.”

Was that a joke? Hells, I think that was a joke. I didn’t know they made paladins with a sense of humor. Then again, I suppose Lathander is an easygoing god, as these things go. Except when it comes to undead. A thought occurred to Astarion abruptly. “How did you even get down here? The tunnels are full of wards to keep out the living.”

“Knocked down a couple of walls,” the paladin said cheerfully. “How about you?”

Astarion realized belatedly that he should not have started down this conversational road. Can’t some paladins tell if you’re lying? There were those ones who would come into court sometimes in Silverymoon, and the witnesses would be compelled to tell the truth. Shit. Was that a spell or just something they could do naturally? It had been nearly two centuries, and he honestly couldn’t remember. Baldur’s Gate never bothered with that sort of thing, truth not being a particularly valuable local commodity.

“I came with a rock gnome,” Astarion said, choosing his words carefully, just in case. “He’s very good at finding secret passages. Says the stone talks to him.”

“Useful, that.” Den Suriel nodded. “Any chance of him coming to find us?”

Astarion pictured Yousen attempting a daring one-gnome rescue and snorted with laughter. It made his nose hurt. “Not a chance. Incidentally, does my nose look broken to you?”

The paladin gestured at him to turn his head. “It looks fine from here, but there’s rather a lot of blood in the way. Hold on.” He got to his knees and awkwardly picked up a bucket of water that had been left near the bars, then shuffled in Astarion’s direction. “May I?”

Vanity warred with sense, and, as usual, sense lost. He scooted closer to the paladin. “If you would.”

There was a rag already floating in the bucket. It had probably been white at one point, and it seemed to match the torn end of den Suriel’s tabard. The aasimar took it and began carefully wiping the blood from Astarion’s face.

The water was shockingly cold at first, but the paladin’s touch was very gentle. Ahh, Astarion thought as coolness stroked across his lips, the sort of hands that can hold a sword hilt or a newborn chick with equal ease. He’d always been a sucker for men with hands like that. If the water was warmer, and if he hadn’t felt as though he’d been hit with a hammer, Astarion would have quite enjoyed the paladin’s ministrations. As it was, he couldn’t help a hiss of pain when the rag moved over his right cheekbone.

“It’s not broken,” den Suriel said, “but you are going to have an incredible black eye on that side. Was it one of the mummies?”

“Hideous creatures, aren’t they?”

Den Suriel shook his head. “Many ugly creatures are beautiful on the inside. Sadly, these aren’t.”

Astarion closed his eyes, partly so they could be washed and partly because the man had positively glowed with sincerity when he talked about being beautiful on the inside. It was enough to make a decent cynic ill.

The aasimar dipped the rag into the bucket again and set to work on the blood crusted in Astarion’s hair. “I feel like I should probably know your name if I’m washing your hair for you.”

“Petras,” Astarion said, wondering if den Suriel could sense the lie.

“A pleasure to meet you, although I could wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Likewise,” Astarion said, not entirely sure whether that was true. He tried to remember what else he knew about paladins, which wasn’t a lot. They didn’t tend to move in the same social circles as he did, even when he was alive. Clearly, he couldn’t tell Astarion was undead. Did he not have magic for that, or would it simply be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of undead in the immediate area? Astarion had never gotten out of the habit of breathing, which was a small bit of luck. All right, Tymora, I’ll give you that one.

On the other hand, if he could somehow point the aasimar in the direction of the other undead, he’d be a remarkably good shield. That was why you kept paladins around, wasn’t it? You stood behind them and let the enemy wear themselves out bashing against all that armor.

Hmm…

“That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid,” den Suriel said. “Your nose looks fine.”

“Thank Tymora for small favors.” Astarion opened his eyes and found the paladin’s face inches from his. Close enough to bite or kiss. He could smell the man’s blood—almost human, but with an overlay of something both bitter and fragrant, like incense.

It came to him that if he couldn’t steal the blood of a god, the blood of a child of angels might make a very good offering in its place.

They stayed there a moment too long. Those pupilless white eyes widened just slightly, then den Suriel dipped his head and moved back to his corner, chains rattling. Astarion began investigating the range of motion available to his manacled hands.

“What are your current plans?” he asked.