Request: Ratchet-Halo--The Strength of Spirit

    The castle woke to the call of a screaming woman at daybreak. Lord Bán was the first one to come running to this sound, his hand clutched tightly around the hilt of his sword.
    It came from his niece’s bedchambers. The door was left ajar, so he slipped inside. The pre-dawn shadows still lingered there, but when some of the pale morning light lit his pallid face, a maid servant jumped in fright from out of the darkness, and nearly felt the cold steel pierce her breast. Upon realizing who he was, she frantically tried to explain what happened, but her words were like those of a mad man, disconnected and shaky. But the Lord needed no explanation. His niece’s bed was cold and empty, and her traveling cloak gone.

    Her two cousins, Kean and Ciaran, raised the alarm and began to organize search parties. Everyone in the castle was roused from the their beds, and went straight to work.
    Though the two cousins were both close to their missing cousin, Casey, Kean grieved for her disappearance the most, or at least he was more visibly shaken. His parents, the king’s sister and a lord from a neighboring county in the north, were killed in a Viking raid when he was just a yearling. The survivors found him cradled in his mother’s cold and bloodied arms, and sent him south to live with his uncles.
    For fourteen years he lived within the hospitality of his uncle’s keep, and was the best friend and good counselor to his only child, the fair Casey.
    Only two years her senior, he felt very comfortable within her presence, more so than with his other cousin, Ciaran, who was the son of the Lord Bán, the king’s younger brother. He was only nineteen, but was held himself with the same deportment as a wise man. Even in this fretful hour, he slid easily into the role of a leader. He wasn’t especially tall, but he was strong and had a rich, commanding voice and his grey knife-sharp eyes never missed a single detail.
    Kean always admired his cousin for his courage and his bravery, and he esteemed to have his praise. But try as he may, his endeavors were never quite the same as Ciaran’s. Long and hard he thought, but he couldn’t see what trait of Ciaran’s he lacked.
In the hustle and bustle of men donning their mail and marching to their horses, Kean lingered in his quarters, slowly gathering his traveling clothes while his mind wandered, as it was wont to do.
    Strangely, he recalled the day, nearly two months ago now, when the castle was enjoying a breezy summer’s day, and the three cousins decided to amuse themselves by riding through the king’s land. They rode through hills and dales so green and gay, galloping the placid hours away, till the came to Sheancoill: the Old Wood. This was a thick and dense wood that marked the edge of Casey’s father’s kingdom, ran wild for nearly three thousand acres, and until it thinned out and became the edge of the neighboring lord’s realm.
    The trees grew tightly together, and a mist always hung above the carpet of centuries of leaves. The elder ones at the castle warned to steer clear of the forest, for terrible beasts roamed between the trees, and some of the more superstitious folk told them of evil spirits and demons that lurked in its shadows, patiently preying on innocent travelers.
    Of course, that day they had no intention of entering the wood, for it was too gloomy for their current mood, and too hard to navigate, even on the path. Still, as they rode by it, Casey led her horse to the where the emerald carpet met gnarled and leafless trees, and stood still as a standing stone before the threshold. Her eyes were transfixed on something between the trees, but her cousins couldn’t see what.
    “Casey, are you alright?” Kean asked, leading his horse beside hers. She did not stir. “Casey?”
    “Cathasaigh!” Ciaran roared, and grabbed her shoulder, tearing her gaze away. She nearly fell off her horse with a scream.
    “Ciaran!” Kean reposed, yet his cousin in his rage didn’t hear him.
    “Cathasaigh, Casey! Whatever are you looking at?”
    She was silent for a moment, her hands white as she squeezed the reigns tightly. Though she fidgeted in her saddle, yearning to gaze back into the shadowy woods, her cousin’s icy glare was like an iron chain.
    “I thought I saw something: a fox perhaps. It must have run away. Now let’s go back; this journey has made me weary.” Indeed, her once rosy cheeks were now pale as alabaster, and her lips were pressed together tightly. Her horse led the way at a gentle trot towards the castle, not a word was spoken amongst them. Upon returning, the shut herself in her chambers and didn’t show her face again for the rest of the day. Perhaps she went back?
    Kean wove in and out of the throngs of men leaving for the stables, searching for his cousin. He found him at the entrance to the armory, speaking to one of the knights in a hushed tone. Their eyes met briefly, but his business with the knight was too important to close. Patiently, he waited behind the knight until he was dismissed.
    “Cousin!” said Kean, “Have you thought of looking in Sheanchoill for her?”
    “Indeed I have. In fact, I will be leading that troop of men, however, none of them have volunteered to come with me.”
    “I shall go with you!”
    “Good, cousin. At least you are not afraid of the dark, for that is all there is in that wood.”
    “Nay, t’ain’t the dark to be fearin’, rather what waits ye innit,” said an older soldier who was passing by. “There be an evil lurkin’ in there woods. Twisted, evil spirits, perhaps e’en the devil and his demon servants, too.”
    “But aren’t there good spirits, too?” asked Kean.
    “That’s what the legend says, an’ tha’s a good hope to hold on to, but e’en that couldn’t carry me through Sheanchoill.”
    “It is not carrying us, either. Come along, Kean, we must load up your quiver.”

   Within an hour all of the search parties were deployed. The two cousins were the only two who were searching Sheanchoill, and with torches in hand, they set off on foot for the forest path.
    The sky overhead was pewter grey, but so little light could penetrate through the thick canopy that it was like walking back into night. A thin mist clung around the trunks too, when there was space enough between them. The air was close, as though wind had never stirred through the woods for centuries, carrying the scent of decaying leaves, which was a thick carpet that disguised the gnarled roots that stuck up from the ground like the legs of a spider, ready to trip them and catch their feet as they walked.
    But what unnerved the cousins most was the silence. All was a still as death, and every snap of a twig or rustle of a leaf made them reach for their bows. Not even so much as a squirrel scurried around the trees. They felt like they had stepped through a threshold to an older earth, where no creature other than themselves roamed the four corners: a dark and primeval world.
    The two followed an ancient path, which was mostly smothered with undergrowth. Soon, the path blended into the great wooden landscape. This marked the end of the reach of civilization.
    “Which way should we go?” asked Kean, eyes darting around from gap to gap in the trees, keeping watch for movement.
    Ciaran knelt down and examined the ground. With a short finger he traced an old foot print in the shape of a woman’s. It was faint, but fresh.
    While his eyes were fixed on the track, Kean waited nervously beside him. Though he couldn’t hear anything, he could sense that something was watching them amongst the trees. Or maybe it was the trees themselves. His intuition told him that there was someone out there, and not a friendly presence. He had felt it ever since the brightness of the plain vanished in the mist. Anxiously, he stroked the feather of one of his arrows, ready to fire to kill, though he also dreaded that this presence was not of flesh but of spirit, and could not be killed.
    “This way, Kean,” said Ciaran after a few moments, and began to follow the faint trail.
Kean, with his bow held tightly in his white fist, kept closely behind his cousin. His eyes flashed with every rustle of the leaves, and every flicker in the mist. A cold sweat dripped into his eyes, but he was too afraid to wipe it away.
   “Kean!” his cousin grabbed him by the shoulder after watching him slowly succumb to hysterics, “Keep calm. You’re breathing so loudly and making such a ruckus it would only be a matter of time before you scared everything in the forest away but the hungry wolves.” These were far from comforting words, but they were all Ciaran left him with. He picked up the trail with the same relentless pace.
   “So there are wolves here, too?”
   “Probably. It is more likely to have wolves than demons in here.”
    “I wouldn’t say certes.”
    “If you’re wearing your cross, then you are wasting your time fearing servants of Hell. You’re better off being wary of the mortal monsters that wait in the shadows.”
   “But what of faeries and the good spirits of the woods?” Kean asked hopefully. Ciaran didn’t want to answer him. “Maybe we’ll find one and ask for help finding Casey.”
    “Don’t wish for good spirits when you fear the evil ones,” Ciaran muttered, but his cousin didn’t hear him. If thinking of faeries and elves kept him quiet, then let his mind wander in their magical realm while he led them through the darkness of the woods.
    It was just as well, for the trail was becoming fainter and fainter, and the sound of a flowing stream was growing louder. The prints, though they were clear in the mud of the swelled stream, vanished on the other bank. Just when he was about to curse in frustration, a strange form caught his attention amongst the trees across the water.