An inn was found soon enough, much cleaner and cheaper than the one in Ostwick. The innkeeper, a small blonde woman with a string of coins hanging around her neck, gave long, wary looks to the blood-splattered Sten, but she accepted payment for two rooms and arranged for hot water to be delivered without Amell even having to ask.

The rooms were identical: large beds with sandy-hued covers, wooden floors covered by threadbare rugs, the colors worn out by time and use, elegant cabinets and shelves, ornate carvings on all of the furniture and semi-circular windows with green shutters. There were bath tubs, as well, hidden behind screens painted with elaborate aquatic scenes, something Amell had never quite seen before.

She left her things by the bed and returned to Sten's room just as a servant (a jittery elf boy, his eyes firmly held towards the ground) arrived carrying a bucket of hot water and some clean rags. The innkeeper had been true to her word. Amell took the elf's burden and sent him away. He bolted down the stairs as if a pack of mabari were on his heels. She shook her head and entered her companion's room.

Sten had removed his armor, revealing a long slash to the side, just above his right hipbone. It was obscured by a bloody shirt and probably already half-healed from the spell Amell had cast right after the battle, but it still frightened her a little to see it. Sten showed no outward sign of discomfort, but then, he was not prone to revealing pain.

Amell sighed. There was no use scolding him for not telling her sooner; she should have guessed he was injured more than he let show when her healing spell had not healed the gash on his forehead as well. Of course, by that point, she'd been almost out of mana, so there was no guarantee she could've done much about it.

"Take your shirt off," she told him, taking one of the rags and soaking it in water.

Sten obeyed without question and she was relieved at this. Had she said the same thing to Zevran, or even Alistair, she would have inevitably received some joke or innuendo in response. It was an odd day indeed, when she was feeling glad that the Qunari had no concept of flirtation.

Turning around again, she took in Sten's form, trying to ignore the vague discomfort she always felt when she saw a man shirtless (and my, hadn't that been a fun day when Zevran had discovered this particular fact about her). She focused her attention on taking stock of his injuries instead of dwelling on anything else. The slash to his side she'd already seen, but he also had a nasty injury to his shoulder, which looked more deep than wide. His forehead was also still bleeding, as head injuries were always profuse and stubborn bleeders.

She did not have as much practice at healing as Wynne did. Were she to live as long as Wynne (which was not likely, given her... condition), she would not become as skilled a healer as the elder mage. But she was still a capable healer, if nothing else, and sometimes, after long battles when Wynne had gotten as battered as all the rest and she still stubbornly refused to care for herself before others, it had been Amell's duty to drag the old woman off to the side and tend to her. She would learn much from these occasions, as Wynne gave advice and gentle instructions once she relented to being taken care of.

Swallowing a knot in her throat (she missed Wynne dearly, she realized, even though it had been less than a month since her departure), Amell approached Sten. The Qunari looked down at her impassively.

"Sit down," she gestured towards the bed. He did so and kneeled down by him, carefully dabbing at the wound on his side with the wet rag. There was a minute flinch, almost imperceptible, but very telling in someone as stoic as Sten.

Healing spells could be generally beneficial to anyone with injuries, but they were most effective when concentrated on one injury at a time. It also helped if she knew how serious a wound was.

As soon as it was cleaned, Amell placed her hand over the slash and sent gentle waved of healing energy into it. Flesh knitted back together completely, leaving only dry blood behind. She then rose to her feet (and this actually placed her height nearly level with Sten's, a novel position, to be sure) and focused her attention on his shoulder. The wound was graver than anticipated and she had to repeat the spell before it was reduced to a smaller, half-healed scab.

"That one was very deep. Why didn't you tell me about it right away? It couldn't have been easy to use your arm," she said with a frown, carefully wiping away the remaining blood with the reddened rag.

"It is fine now," Sten rumbled.

Amell raised her gaze to him, intent on telling him that that wasn't the point, but she paused as she saw the gash on his forehead.

"Oh, I almost forgot about this," she said and raised her hand to the injury.

"It is not serious enough for your attention," Sten replied and made a move to turn his head away.

But she placed one hand against his cheek to keep him still and another touched delicate fingers to his forehead, already sending magic into the flesh, healing it completely. She felt the fraying edges of strain as she finished, her mana, not completely recovered from the fight, now spent in full.

"There, all gone," she smiled slightly. She inspected the thin line of blood that remained behind, but as far as she could discern, there was no injury left.

That was when her eyes drifted lower and met Sten's and she realized how close they were standing. Somehow, her hands had fallen to his shoulders and she could feel the warmth of his skin and the firmness of his muscles under her palms, but this was all secondary to the sharp sensation of proximity, to the simultaneous close and distant feel of body heat and to his violet eyes looking into hers, to the expression of mild surprise on his face that probably mirrored her own.

Neither moved away, an almost preternatural stillness descending upon them. It was as if the initial moment when they could do so-- when they could awkwardly pull away from each other, mindful of personal space and propriety-- had passed and released them, and now they were in completely new territory, past a line neither had acknowledged existed until now.

It was tense and frightening, but strangely compelling, this new closeness. Amell could feel something inside her twisting sharply-- almost like nervousness, but oddly pleasant-- and her head feeling lighter, though perhaps that was the effect of mana depletion. It felt as if there was something more she was supposed to be doing, or maybe that Sten was supposed to, but he was only sitting there, as paralyzed as she was, which struck her as odd. Sten was supposed to keep his wits about him, she thought dimly as her hand rose to his cheek again, slowly and hesitantly, while her eyes did not break contact with his. And then his hand rose to her waist and settled on her hip and this almost gave her enough courage to lean in--

When a knock on the door sounded.

Amell flinched and took a step back, feeling once again like a little girl caught by the Templars doing something forbidden, except more embarrassed than terrified.

Sten looked momentarily startled himself, but his face settled back into an unreadable masque and his eyes fell to the floor.

"That..." Amell cleared her throat, not realizing how dry her mouth was, "That must be the water," she said at last and hurried towards the door.

She opened it rather abruptly, startling the young elven servant, and she passed by him without a glance.

Once she was in her room, she leaned heavily against the door and breathed out shakily.

Mana depletion, she decided. She was acting odd from mana depletion. That must have been it. Because she was not even going to consider any other explanation.

---

Author's note: updates might slow down as exams are approaching. Sorry.