The Soul of a Honeysuckle

Melina made her way through the dark path guided by the moonlight and a small torch in her hands. She had walked these roads many times over throughout the busy streets of Aeolia, making her way towards a small asclepion with the light of the Moon and her own memories showing her the way.

The asclepion was tiny, but still stood tall, well decorated with carvings of various moments in time. It was full of life, just like the deity it recognized, the god of healing and medicine. Well recognized, but not among the people who respected him. Not among the war heroes and fighters, the great demigods and gods among men. Not among the people who needed him most.

Asclepius. God of medicine. Melina’s father. 

Many doubted Melina’s heritage at first, due to her scrawny nature and trivial knowledge of the art of war. But, as they came to realize her strengths, it started to click. She had the blood of Apollo coursing through her veins, but not directly. Only via his son, a minor deity. Someone who was no fighter, no war hero - just a medic. Just the son of someone great. 

Which put Melina low on the scale of power. Far down near the bottom of the list of the most powerful people in her town, someone not desirable to the war going on no more than a commoner. There were men and women alike around her far stronger than her who had no godly blood, just the souls of soldiers, ready for battle. As far as the people around her were concerned, Melina had the soul of a healer - someone useful, but unnecessary in the grand scheme of things. People could heal without her, rendering her unhelpful towards the war effort. Rendering her useless towards her people. 

Melina remembered the first time she had tried to fight. She was young, but still brave. She didn’t have the soul of a soldier, but she did have the mindset of one. She was ready for battle, even though it was just a simple footrace. She ran, but she couldn’t keep up. She tried, but she would always fail. She would always be a healer. Unnecessary. 

Ever since that simple footrace, Melina always tried to fight. She tried to fight against what her soul was telling her to do with her mind. Together, they formed her psyche, and she tried to live her truth in that way. She might not have the soul of a warrior, but she could have the heart of one. The thoughts of one. The mind of one. 

Melina leaned down, holding out her torch and a bunch of honeysuckle flowers, which she had been named for. A plant used for healing, to honor her father. She took the torch in her hands and laid it down next to the plants, burning them, letting the flames grow to illuminate the sky further. 

“Asclepius,” she said, speaking her father’s name. “I offer you these plants for which I was named for, these symbols of purity and healing.” 

She stopped then as she watched the fire grow, the life being sucked out of the poor flowers as their bright peach color turned into a crisp black. 

“I come to you in peace, father, like the flowers before you. I come because I am in dire need of assistance, and I don’t know where else to turn.”

Somewhere up in the heavens, Melina imagined her father frowning, thinking of all the times she had come to him and said this, with no response back. That is, except for the one time, all those years ago. Back when Melina had lost that footrace.

She was devastated, lost in her thoughts. Would she have won if she had just run faster, or was she doomed to lose from the start. Was it her fault, or her father’s for cursing her with the soul of a healer, as those around her told her? Of course, Melina was quite young, and such thoughts were devastating her quickly. With nowhere else to go, she walked up the steep hill in the dead of night with a torch and some flowers, thinking only of how her father had cursed her to be this way. 

And so she ranted to him while the flowers burned. She watched the smoke of the fire grow further, surrounding her until she was lost in its mysterious void. Out of the soot and flames appeared her father, who smiled at her, showing her nothing but kindness as he spoke from the heart. 

“Melina,” he had said, “you have the soul of a honeysuckle, but the mind of a warrior. You think like a soldier, but deep down, you are a healer.”

Melina remembered the pain she felt as he spoke those words, but simply nodded and expressed her gratitude. Ever since that day, whenever something plagued her, she tried to lean towards her honeysuckle soul, guiding her towards her father. It made her powerless in the world, but it gave her hope that she could learn to ignore her mind and act fully on her soul, being fully what her name called her to be: a honeysuckle, blowing in the wind, life radiating from it as it helped heal the sick’s wounds. 

Then again, the flowers in front of her were pitch black.

“Father,” Melina said again, blinking away that painful memory. “Odysseus and his men have come to Aeolia. They are here to recruit men and women to the war with Troy. My mind and my heart tell me to join, but my soul tells me to stay a healer. I just...don’t know what to do…”

Melina then began to cry, her tears reflecting the fire in her heart. 

Or possibly just the fire in front of her, which they gradually started to put out as they dripped down her cheek. 

“I want to join, but I can’t. There is no part for me. I am powerless compared to these gods among men. There is nowhere for me to be in this war, and I know it, but I still want to fight.”

The words were slipping through her throat now, just coming out like vomit. 

“I know you say that I have the soul of a healer, father, but I don’t know if I truly do. That is, I know that there is healing in me, but it can’t be all there is, can there? There must be something in my soul that wants to fight. It can’t just be my mind. It just can’t.”

The words left Melina’s mouth without hesitation. She tried to gulp them back up, but they were gone, left only for Asclepius to listen, which he undoubtedly was now. No one disrespected the gods. 

Anger started to course through Melina’s veins, along with Apollo’s warrior blood. “You say that I am a healer, but that’s just not who I am! I can be a warrior, I can fight this war!”

The words just kept slipping down, dripping like the tears streaming from her eyes. 

The smoke from the dying flames started to rise yet again like they had so long ago, Melina now knowing that she had gotten her father’s attention. Oh no. No one disrespected the gods.

“Melina,” a strong voice said, coming from the smoke. Her father’s voice. “Melina, all those years ago, I did not say that you were simply a healer. I said you had the soul of one. And you do. But you have the mind of a fighter, as well, and that also matters. Because you are not only your soul, you are your psyche, too. Your mind makes up who you are just as much as your soul does. I do not believe that you cannot join the war with Troy. It is up to you,” he paused here, hesitating, “but you can join the war as a warrior, or a healer. Both are needed, and Odysseus knows that.”

And with that, as soon as Melina started to thank her father, he disappeared again, into the smoke. 

Still, Melina knew what to do. With the soul of a honeysuckle and the mind of a warrior, she headed back down the hill, guided by the Moon, towards Odysseus’s tent.