If he could have, he would have slapped Philammon for delivering the news that way. Let her sit down, let her take the wine, then give her the bad news. Asklepios had given news that wasn't welcome for much longer than Philammon, and the fact that his brother was sometimes emotionally stunted helped no one - including Philammon. Asklepios sighed heavily when she looked at him again, repeated that word over and over again, a mantra. Oddly enough, he felt more for Philotes than he had felt upon hearing Artemis was dead himself. That was his problem, not hers, but Asklepios did wonder if that said anything good about him or not. Probably not. The wineglass went on the table, despite his massive urge to drink it.
"From what Zeus' attendants and Athena told me, she was dragged off the mountain," Asklepios had a steady voice, as though whatever emotions he might've possessed were unaffected by the dark tidings. "By Moros. Akheron was there, as well; he wounded Athena and left her for dead."
Left her for dead.
A pause.
"I'm sorry, Philotes," and his voice held a note of compassion, even if it was by far the steadiest in the room.
It wasn't a competition, but part of him wanted to glare at Philammon just then. Was his heart made out of a stone? Even Asklepios, who felt nothing for their aunt outside of some sort of broad contempt, was managing to be more decent than Philammon. They were brothers, and as close as two brothers could be, but sometimes Philammon's behavior puzzled him. Would the musician's god suspect Oizys next? Or Asklepios himself? This madness had to stop, no matter how much grief he felt. Philotes, Asklepios knew for certain, was a good and warm goddess. Slap him? Strangle him. For starters. Normally understanding, normally compassionate, but now...
Well, at least part of Asklepios' frustration was that Philammon could feel such grief for the goddess that had killed his mother.