Free Spirit Wars by Mon D Rea

medieval scholar, wrote:
    “For
in that time, that the storks pass out of the country, crows are not seen in
places there they were wont to be. And also for they come again with sore
wounds, and with voice of blood, that is well known, and with other signs and
tokens and show that they have been in strong fighting.”
    The
truth is, Angel Storks are attracted to love because that’s what they’re
composed of, in the same way the Reaper Crows are irresistibly drawn to
anxiety, omens, and thoughts of vengeance because they have the ability to
divine the future. And so members of these two great opposing camps are
constantly locked in battle for control of an individual or a territory.
    After
dueling, an individual Guardian Angel or Guardian Reaper might attach itself to
a Keeper. Like a live shadow clinging on as long as love or a grudge feeds it,
it begins to inherit human traits like self-awareness, speech, and emotion. But
the longer it stays in the mortal realm, the harder for it to return to its
original world and nature, which will ultimately be fatal.
    They
have carried on a proud tradition of reaching out to man since time immemorial.
The oracles of ancient Greece definitely had them. Those priests pored over
tomes of esoteric manuscripts and attracted the Crows, but the rest of society
mistook their voices for that of God. Similarly, whenever two great lovers felt
tremendous passion for each other, a Stork could be stirred deeply enough to
descend upon them.
    Then
in the Age of Enlightenment, humans who had Guardian Angels or Reapers were
sent to asylums. Having just discovered electricity, man thought he had
discovered an all-around cure in the form of electroshock treatment. But this
did nothing save torture the Keepers and force many a Guardian to finally leave
their side out of pity.
    There
are still a few Guardians left these days. They’re the most constant, loyal
companions and familiars; the wisest, chattiest, and most enchanting beings.
Every Wiccan and holy man wants to have one but nobody knows precisely how
Keepers are chosen.
    I wasn’t
lucky enough to have a Guardian of my own, and I assumed this was because I
didn’t have an umballicus to begin with. Or at least nothing I could see with
my own eyes.
    ****
    The
old-timer nuns at the orphanage said they discovered me inside a cardboard box
on the porch. Oldest sob story in the book. Except when you were the
protagonist of that story, it was a lot harder to accept. There were nights
when lying in bed at night the loneliness would come so fiercely I wondered if
I wouldn’t be doing the world a favor if I ceased to exist; and I’d stifle my
cries with the pillow. Or sometimes at my hideout on the roof of the orphanage
a voice would urge me to jump off the tiles onto the courtyard four stories
below.
    As in any other institution, there was a great deal of
brainwashing involved in the business of orphanages, I had come to realize with
some fascination at the age of fourteen. All the other orphans spoke of a
“forever family” like it was the most natural thing in the world, like there
was nothing wrong with every one of them in the first place. They would pose to
have their pictures taken like right-as-rain puppies with eyes eating up half
their faces. I imagined if I checked the websites I’d find the same layout for
puppies as for orphans.
    I knew the drill: prospective adopters would arrive. As soon as
they walked in, they would be surrounded by the toddlers, all four of them
taking them by the hand and pulling them in to play. The young ones would all
look clean, well-fed, and happy. The visitors should come at night though
because that was when the off-limits stories told themselves. One orphan sucked
his thumb like a tired, little animal. Another wet his bed every night or would
indeed try to make it to the bathroom while clinging to his inseparable blanket
(which made me wonder if Linus of Peanuts had ever been an orphan).
These were our most