So busy that, after making rounds and speaking with all of his patients, Asklepios had nothing better to do than hole up in his apothecary for the vast majority of the day. The conversation with Philotes had, of course, gone less than well. Try as he might, though, Asklepios couldn't think of anything to distract himself with. A hangover combined with Philotes' confusing choice of words would confuse anyone. In point of fact he hadn't handled that encounter very well, and if he'd been given a chance to do it all over again Asklepios was fairly certain he would have used different words himself. Conversations were irreversible things, however, and all of them being equal it was probably best if he didn't run into Philotes in the halls of Epidaurus for a time. In the halls of any place for a time, if he were pressed to tell the truth, but that seemed harsh. She hadn't been cruel to him, nor he to her. Miscommunication just made him awkward. Not nearly as much as conflict did, however.
Conflict was worse.
Every manner of potion, tonic, elixir and draught which his humble mind could produce had been produced in Epidaurus that day. From the early hour of Philotes' arrival to the late hours of evening every inch of marble across the compound seemed alive with tantalizing and yet foreign scents - at least foreign to the visitors, if not those who lived in the place and made their tasks here on a daily basis. There was a measure of intoxication in it for Asklepios as well, though he might not have said so. Others, as he'd reminded himself with Philammon so recently, were in their element when playing an instrument or hunting. For Asklepios this was him, the purest expression of his self that he could find and take advantage of. Nowhere else did that peaceful purpose wash over him, remind him of why he'd stabbed Phlegethon in the first place. Why he'd tried and succeeded in saving some lives at that gala, even if there'd been nothing he could do for Hedylogos.
Was it that? Hedylogos. Should have saved him. Should have been... something more... to that Norse goddess who had threatened him. Asklepios rubbed his shoulder absently, and stared at the collection of bottles in front of his face. Sigyn, wasn't it? She seemed a very disagreeable sort. Threatening a healer was a sad crime in his mind. No, he should have been more... something. After being stabbed, burned and watching countless gods die in front of his face? There were no apologies owed there. Asklepios would never stop being what he was, and he was a rather polite sort of fellow. The loss of a friend, returning to find that friend's home in ruins... all of it must have been terrible. He was never going to settle this argument in his mind, was he? Rejecting whatever he'd said, accusing him of... the nerve of that goddess would never stop amazing him. And she stood in stark contrast to the goddess he was currently preparing to visit, didn't she?
Eir, at least, was like him in that everything she said was in earnest.
It was just that sometimes you couldn't understand what she was saying.
Well, he'd succeeded in distracting himself, but only by reminding himself of how foolish a Norse goddess could be.
The bottles were filled with tonic, all of them, and into a wooden box they went with careful precision. Each one hand cooled enough to be bottled corked. All of them based around ambrosia. Powerful analgesic with regenerative capabilities that nothing but Apollo's healing could match. She might like a few of those, his Norse compatriot. In the meantime he could mention this Sigyn goddess to her and see how she was doing. That might alleviate some of his guilt. Yes, it was guilt. Guilt over being uncharitable, even faced with such a horrendous combination of war-mongering and grief, knowledge and ignorance. That was why he was disgusted with himself. Or at least one of the many reasons. No matter what provocation she'd offered him, no matter how much of a fool he thought her to be, he should have been the better god.
And then there was Phlegethon.
Resolving not to think about it, Asklepios instead made his way to ... well, to her. Eir had apparently taken over a small row-house in Paris, something he was going to have to look into. France was a beautiful country, and as gorgeous as the wooded enclave of Epidaurus was, he did think about getting a summer home at times. Half-serious. Usually he dissuaded himself by reminded himself that having a summer home was a signature Apollo move. Like chai lattes, pretending to enjoy modern punk rock, and dressing in pale suits. Asklepios finally put a smile on his face as he knocked on the heavy wooden door that belonged to Eir.