Many long hours had followed their departure from Alathea's company. Asklepios had pursued his brother to one place after another, Philammon almost madly searching for Artemis' body. For their father, for anyone. But that search had ultimately been in vain. Asklepios could no sooner have asked Philammon to abandon the search than he could have asked the world to stop turning, or the sun to stop rising. But at last both of them grew to understand - Asklepios, obviously, much more quickly than his brother - that the search was futile. Whatever had become of Artemis, whatever had happened to her and to Athena, there were no evidence of it now. Athena had gone from Epidaurus to keep her own counsel, doing as he'd feared she would do. And now all that was left was to return to Fort Worth, to his brother's home, and try to guide him through the frustration he was feeling. To do otherwise would have been uncharitable in the extreme. Philammon had been too good to him in the past, done too much for him. Asklepios couldn't hold with that sort of abandonment. That being said...
It was difficult.
Asklepios hadn't shed a tear upon learning of Artemis' death. She was family, and by most accounts a fair and honorable goddess. She was still a goddess that had killed his mother. No reason - not even infidelity - could warrant such a thing. Hermes had swooped down himself to carry Asklepios off the pyre, rescuing Apollo's child and delivering him to Chiron for training. Forgiving Apollo was hard. Forgiving Artemis was next to impossible. The faith she shared with her brother was something he could admire, but killing Coronis was unforgivable. So while Philammon didn't weep, Asklepios could carry any such burden for his brother. It wasn't as hard for him as it was for the more - surprisingly, more - gentled natured sibling. Artemis the fair huntress had shed her fair share of blood in her time. What concerned Asklepios wasn't any one death or wounding, but the battle itself. It had happened on Olympus itself.
Part of him, admittedly, had believed it would never come to this. Part of him had hoped that Hades could quell this before it got too far out of hand. Part of him hoped that Father Zeus would at least show fair reason and justice in this. His declaration had scattered the Underworld to the wind, caused divisions that most couldn't have seen coming. Perhaps that had been the plan all along. Yet the hard core of their resistance remained, and wouldn't be so easily driven off. War had finally come, actual war rather than petty battles. Was this what it felt like, watching Titanomachy shake the heavens and nearly unmake the world? The fear, the uncertainty? As surely as he knew anything Asklepios knew that existence would go on in one form or another. What wasn't so clear was what form that existence would take, and whether or not any of them would live to see it. War. Shaking his head was the only expression left to the healer, the only thing that encapsulated how he felt.
Anything else was inadequate.
A knock at the door roused him from the chair opposite Philammon. Even if it was his brother's home, Philammon was in no shape to put his best foot forward. At least, not from the very beginning. Yet Xenia was clear and he wouldn't turn anyone away in violation of that policy. All of that considered, it was Asklepios who moved toward the door. It was the hand of the god of medicine that opened the door to find - Philotes. He knew the goddess of friendship well, from frequent visits to deal with this scrape or that bruise. All of it explained by a rambling and amusing tale that was usually true, but went on long enough that Asklepios forgot the beginning in trying to catch the end. She was a warm spirit, one of his favorite patients. With anecdotes to match his own.
He was still surprised to see her here.
"Ah, Philotes," Asklepios covered his surprise - and inner monologue - by stating her name aloud.
Not as much for his benefit as it was for Philammon's.