Asklepios' howl echoed throughout the room at the first kiss of ambrosia on his skin. It wasn't pain. No, pain was the wound in his shoulder that had been seared closed by a heated metal goblet. This was something else. It felt like his skin was alive with creatures, tiny and innumerable, working against his cracked flesh to bring it back to some form of life. Twisted onto his side, and then onto his stomach, eyes closed as he clutched the rapidly-reviving skin of his arm. Ambrosia was a scarce commodity, and one that he used only in the most life threatening of situations. This might qualify, but how was he to get more? With Olympus falling apart around them it seemed his supply would soon end.
How had they developed the nerve to assault a healer?
How dare they?
"Ha... ha... ah... thank you," Asklepios ground out; the healer finally managed to pull himself into a sitting position against one of the wood panels which formed cabinets beneath the counters. "Thank you."
It would have been a stretch to say that his strength was returning. But the wound on his shoulder was no longer quite so bad - or painful - as it had been. A deft bit of stitching, or more ambrosia, would see it right again. Much of his burned flesh was returning to normal, including - thankfully - his face, so the only real difficulty in speaking aloud to his brother was the fact that he couldn't believe what had happened. Aphrodite carried off. Hedylogos and Pothos killed, and then Peitho and Philotes nearly ended as well. He'd stabbed one of the Underworlders. Phlegethon, he believed it was. Now here he was, just thankful to have helped the women escape.
"Thank you," he repeated one last time. "I'm glad you came... I thought it would be the end of me."
Asklepios was still writhing on the floor, staring up at his brother with narrow eyes while the black lightless tunnel expanded ever so slowly. He wasn't going to die; although, as the night and following day unfolded, he might wish that he was.