Seventy-seven (Philammon)
Asklepios hardly felt anything at all while he stumbled. There were other deities here, nearby, but in his home they would take no note of one such as himself. Not unless they were looking for him. Gasping in pain with every step, trying not to touch his charred flesh against anything that might stick to it. The scars would heal if he could find the proper potion for the job. In this condition it hardly mattered. Arms hanging limply at his sides, it was enough to demand of himself just then that he keep moving. Into the confines of a room. His workshop, where the 'magic' happened. Philotes and Peitho had gotten away. There was nothing to be done for Hedylogos or Pothos. And as for himself... he had done harm. To save a life, but the feel of it, twisted his stomach into knots. He'd already vomited once, stumbling half-blind down the marble corridors of his home.
Now, here in the inner sanctum of his temple, he was going to black out. And before that happened, he needed to find the right mixture. Stumbling into one counter, and then another, trying to see his way around all the myriad obstacles in his path. Fire. Fire and smoke and steel. Asklepios collapsed with an audible creak of bones, a crack of his forehead against marble that would ring out down the hall because of his still-open door. The bottle was somewhere. Flailing wildly, his hand reached the counter and used the edge to pull the healer up. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. His opposite arm, right, it was swinging to and fro in search of the bottle. Only one bottle, about six inches tall and a deep brown. The sort of thing they used to put rubbing alcohol and other drugs into. He had prepared it for a myriad of reasons, none of which had proved to be correct or even closer to accurate as time went on. Asklepios could have shot the man that had such poor planning skills.
Oh, yes.
That was him.
A legion of bottles crashed to the floor, liquid and glass mingling together powerfully. Blood on his hands, on his wrists, on his face. Everywhere. He'd just cut himself on his own medicines, for example. The bitter shame of such folly would have to register later. For now Asklepios fumbled with one bottle after another. Bloody hands smeared makeshift labels, some of them descending into the hellish pit of unreadability. Asklepios began hurling them over his shoulder in frustration. Philotes and Peitho would be fine. Hedylogos and Pothos were dead. His strength was leaving him. Even with the bleeding in his shoulder reduced he had only a moment or two left before he succumbed to unconsciousness, his injuries too numerous and varied for his body to continue functioning normally. If he hadn't ingested the proper vial by the time he passed out, he was going to be in for a long sleep.
A very long sleep.
There.
With a hideous groan, Asklepios pinched his nose against the assault of the flavor that would soon be descending upon him. Gasping powerful at the awful taste and quickly swallowing as much of the liquid as could be drained into his mouth in a short amount of time, the healer slumped to the floor for a second time. His bloody hands left a streak on the counter, and when his head rebounded against the marble this time he didn't rise. Vision was narrowing. This was never a good sign, of course, but he was going to catalog things until he had no opportunity left to do so. Interesting to note that his reaction time was quicker, responses to his thoughts and will faster, and yet his actual motor control was in the tank as some of his modern colleagues might say. The disconnect between the mind's desire to ensure the continued functionality of the body with the body's total lack of co-operation was a fascinating dichotomy.
He would have liked more time to think on it.
"Phil..."
It came out more as a gasp than a name. His brother hated being called 'Phil'.
"Phil... I need your help, old boy..."
The faux-accent was normally a favorite of Philammon's, but now he was slipping into quite against his will.
Well, this was going to end rather quickly, wasn't it?