Amenone continued to tend the head wound of the one young man. Her eyes began to grow weary, and there was not much more she could do for him. He only appeared to get worse and worse. She continued to sing softly, the chanting of words helping to keep her awake.
Resting her face in her palm, she began to give in to the growing temptation to rest her eyes. Anyways, many of them had fallen into slumber themselves.
She leapt from her seated position, grasping at her chest. The dark shadow of a man stood in the entrance, tall and oppressive in appearance. The candle light splashed it's faded light into his face as he wobbled further inside, as if he was drunken. His eyes were seemingly veiled, face reddened, and expression formed into a look of extraordinary pain. She did not know his name, but somehow he knew hers.
"Fever," he simply sputtered, stumbling over to the nearest bed and falling into it.
Somewhat alarmed, Anemone came to his side, looking him over. He seemed to drop out of consciousness , and she examined him briefly. It did not take long to find a wound in his side, bloody, untreated, and bubbling with the goo of puss. She shook her head; how long had this gone untreated?
She quickly walked around the room, gathering a tub of fresh water and an armful of cloth and herbal ointment. Taking a breath, Anemone pulled a chair next to the man's bedside and got to work.