Somewhere in a dark corner of his mind he'd felt what she felt. That urge to give up, give in, just finally break. Somewhere along the way he'd felt the need to keep going. It was ... it was right after the party, in Paris. His body littered in wounds, all of those that had died and a few still clinging to life calling out to him. Philammon had been gracious enough to do only what Asklepios had asked of him. And then finally he'd had a chance to rest. War was apparently not so tasking an option. The sword-wielders would do what they could at any opportunity. Rarely did they consider the toll it took on those like her, and like himself.
Asklepios imagined he would have been happy enough playing a reed flute on the back porch of his farmhouse, or taking up some other trade, if the world had no more need of his services. Often the toll was greater than any of them could imagine, and it wasn't a toll exacted from the ones who did all the killing. The ones that were put right back on their feet the next day by arts they couldn't possibly understand. Asklepios had railed against it before, but in the end it came down to a choice. Those who needed help were their patients, wherever they were. Abandoning them would be abandoning an oath that rested in the bones of every soul who'd ever taken to the art of medicine.
Long before the HIppocratic Oath.
Long before any other words were organized.
Wounds to be healed, should be healed. Even if new wounds were a day away, or less.
That was how the world worked, from top to bottom.
"Of course I will. We can talk about tennis or... tennis. Or not at all."