Hello there dear reader! Welcome to the 3rd installment of 'The Darkling Thrush'! I'd like to give a little warning, this is going dark real quick. I'm going to have to switch this to the 'M' category soon. Not now but soon.
Let's give a shout out to Majestic and Boah joestar! Thanks for the reviews guys! It means a lot!
III
Russel: Part 3
Summer was sweeping through Vale, and the back end that was Oakwood was caught in the middle of a heat wave. Beads of sweat ran down unamused faces as the entire graduating class of Oakwood Academy sat in rows at the center of the school's field. It was a sea of heavy gowns and cheaply made, practically see through, caps sandwiched by bleachers filled with applauding family members and the occasional friend from out of town.
Sitting amongst the sea of blue, in the 'T' aisle, was Russel Thrush age 17. Unlike the rest of his silently frowning schoolmates, Russel wasn't sweating because of the heat. In fact, he'd actually planned ahead and shaved his head again, cutting off that haunting mullet he'd been experimenting with. No, Russel was sweating because he had the unfortunate distinction of being the poor sap sitting on the cover of the Grimm launcher at the center of the field.
After the incident with Prom earlier, Russel's chances of getting mauled had increased even more. All it took was someone behind a desk in some monitor room deciding they didn't much like Russel and out would pop a Grimm, ready to murder him. Just like it did back then. That trudged up some bad memories.
It had been two years since that day in gym class. All of the students who'd stood and watched Russel freeze up in the face of an Ursa had all gone on to unlock their auras. In fact, pretty much the entire student body materialized the phenomenon. Everyone but Russel. The fact of the matter is, that if it wasn't for his stellar grades, Russel wouldn't be graduating at all.
Not having an aura almost sunk his chances entirely. Imagine facing the world's largest Grimm with nothing but napkin. If he had an Aura, Russel would probably be able to force feed the monster the napkin and make it suffocate. But without it he was just the afternoon meal.
"And now, here to present her winning speech, Marie-Anne Cherri!" The Academy Headmaster gave up the mic for said student.
That snapped Russel out of his thoughts. He looked up at the stage, slightly leaning out of his seat because of course he was seated behind some six foot hulk.
Marie-Anne Cherri was a crafty one, sure, but she was nowhere near Russel's grades. The reason she was standing up there by the podium was because she'd won the honor to give a speech to her graduating class.
Russel had submitted something for the contest. One final 'up yours' to all those amongst him he didn't like. As well as being able to tell his dad publically he'd made something of himself. Russel Thrush of all people had achieved something and he wanted everyone to know it.
But, of course, Russel wasn't standing up there living the dream. The school counselor had actually pulled him aside and sat him down to discuss his entry. They look at those things you know. To make sure no one does anything profane or says something they just don't like. Everyday censorship at its finest.
So the counselor told Russel he liked the emotion, that it was just very 'Russel'. It was going good, the counselor was telling Russel great things, buttering him up with compliments. And then came the 'but'.
"But, would you mind sending in another draft? One with a little less 'Russel' for the family's sake?"
It went as well as one would expect it to. Some cuss words here, some cuss words there, a dirty comment about the counselor's mother and then Russel found himself disqualified.
'Ah, oh well,' Russel thought to himself while he was being escorted out the main office and handed a pair of detention slips. 'At least it couldn't get any worse.' But then, they announced the 'winner' and that it was Marie-Anne.
Now Russel just had to do something to settle some bad blood once and for all.
Marie-Anne took her place behind the podium on stage. She extracted a sheet of paper from somewhere under her gown and held it to read from. The student body and the faculty, along with all their families gave her their undivided attention.
This was Marie-Anne's moment. Time to give the people a speech that was uplifting and hopeful for the future. Something that acknowledged that fear of the unknown but would empower those seated in front of her to do better than they would alone.
She took a moment to prepare herself. A deep breath and a quit calming shutting of her eyes to block out the hundreds of pairs of eyes that were watching her.
"Good afternoon, esteem faculty and families of my fellow graduates. It's an honor to be standing up here today." Marie-Anne spoke into the microphone. "I know we think we're immortal, we're supposed to feel that way. We're graduating. But like our brief time together, what makes life valuable is that it doesn't last forever."
Funny thing about Marie-Anne. Like most people with an aura, she had a semblance. That special unique ability only you'd get. Her semblance was 'super sight'. It was like she had telescopes for eye balls. They didn't pop out or anything like a how an actual telescope worked, she just had the ability to see farther than anyone else.
A rather lame semblance if you asked literally anyone else. But they had their practical applications in the field. But anyways, any good speaker didn't just read from a note card they had in front of them. Amongst great poise and possessing a great voice, a great speaker makes eye contact with their audience. It was a way to get them invested on a whole other level.
So Marie-Anne surveyed her classmates, looking over their faces and making eye contact with every one of them. And that's exactly what Russel was planning on. So when he felt those eyes of hers fall on him, the Thrush cap forward over his eyes, revealing a small message he'd stitched onto it beforehand.
'Curious huh? What do the letters mean? Perhaps they form a message of some sort?' Russel thought in a mocking fashion.
Anyone else would've overlooked what Russel had done to his cap. But Marie-Anne couldn't because of her eyes. He'd caught her attention. So she reeled her vision back and read the phrase he'd so eloquently stitched to his cap.
And so, Russel sat back in his seat as he was treated to a show. He didn't have Marie-Anne's eyes, but he could see every moment of doubt on her face. Here she was, this student this aspirations, crumbling down bit by bit within. And he was the only one who could see it.
"But-But nothing lasts forever." Marie-Anne managed to get out. She staggered forward, that doubt in her head plaguing her. All because of two simple words.
All around faces twisted as they were put off by the message. What was supposed to be a last hurrah turned into sudden dread. The thing about being a great speaker? It's also about how you deliver the material. And now Marie-Anne was delivering it poorly.
"W-We, aspiring Huntsmen" She faltered once more, looking off into the crowd once more. "W-We kn-know this well." She stuttered. "But-t that's the price of life. A good death. One that we and we alone live."
"Thank you." Marie-Anne managed to say before quickly pulling away from the on stage podium.
There was a slight delay of applause amongst the crowd. Russel shrugged, guess they were expecting more. And there probably was, but they never would know, Marie-Anne had sipped right to the end to escape embarrassing herself further. So he was the first to start clapping, and soon others joined in. It should've been the entire assembled audience applauding, but it was barely even half.
'Merry firggin' Christmas, Russel.' Russel mentally patted himself on the back over a job well done.
After a speech by their valedictorian, and a noticeably louder applause, The Headmaster took the podium once more. The applause ceased and they began to call the students up row by row to receive their diploma.
When his time came, Russel followed his row up to the stage and reached the stairs. One by one their names were called until finally the Headmaster spoke his. So Russel walked up to the stage. He passed by his counselor and gave him a good look at his pearly whites. The counselor glared at Russel, he knew the boy had a hand in Marie-Anne's misstep. But he'd never be able to prove it.
Russel met the Headmaster who handed him his diploma. And with that, Russel raised it over his head. He'd officially graduated. The display earned a rally of applause from those family members who didn't know Russel. He walked off stage and proceeded through a sea of glares back to his seat.
Russel glanced upward on the way, spotting his Father sitting up in the bleachers to the right. Russel wondered what he was hoping to find, acknowledgement, pride? He found none of that in his father's eyes only that stone cold stare he'd known for seventeen years.
After the ceremony, the pair of Thrush's walked home. Russel had no one to say his goodbyes too. He'd burned whatever friendships he had at Prom and wasn't looking back. The walk was one of silence. Occasionally, Russel would glance over to his Father, trying to read him and peer into his head.
But the older Thrush was just a stone faced man with a greying beard. He gave no indication to what sort of thoughts brewed within his head. The man didn't congratulate Russel or shower him with kind words. He just walked with his hands in his pockets.
They reached the walkway heading up to their home. Russel reached out for their gate, only for a voice to catch his attention. "Hey there you birds!" An older, milder voice called out to the Thrushes.
"I'll be in the house." The Thrush Patriarch muttered before taking off up the pathway to their house, abandoning Russel to deal with the old man making his way towards him.
Russel turned around, facing an old man way past his prime. Hegemony Marlowe was his name. And he was probably the closest thing to family Russel had. "How you doing Marlowe?" Russel waved to the man.
Marlowe was always that old farmer who lived next door. He was silver haired, not white, he had a little way to go before becoming useless. He walked with a cane and limp and often was hunched over.
Marlowe was a huntsman from another time just like the Thrush Patriarch, but more progressive in his farming. Marlowe actually owned several other farms around Oakwood. He'd always wave hello whenever he'd see Russel walking home and Russel would return the gesture. Sometimes they'd talk, other times they wouldn't. Guess this was one of those times where they talked.
"I heard you graduated. Congratulations." Marlowe spoke with an honest almost paternal tone. Russel would always find it was odd to hear positive reinforcement in that tone.
"Eh, it was nuthin'." Russel shrugged. It was a half-truth. While graduating itself was difficult in its own rite, what Russel really took away from the experience was him finally getting one over on Marie-Anne. But, it was better not to mention that to such a nice old man like Marlowe. He might just start thinking of him differently. "Whatcha up to old man?"
"Managing the business of course." Marlowe chuckled lightly as he eyed Russel's comment skeptically, not really buying Russel's comment. "Your Father must be proud."
Russel frowned slightly. "Eh, you know him." He shrugged, playing off the comment.
"With your days at Oakwood over, are you ready to take the next big step to becoming a Huntsman?" Marlowe inquired in a persuading tone.
Russel knew what the old man was implying. Beacon Academy was still accepting applications. His grades were solid, but his lack of an aura would be a deal breaker if he wished to attend. But the truth was, Russel didn't want to go. He'd just completed his course at Oakwood and was now on top of the world.
He didn't even need to go to Beacon. That was for those guys who wanted to make careers out of being Huntsmen. But truth is, Russel is a farmer. He'll always be a farmer just like anyone else in Oakwood.
"Farm until I die." Russel replied coolly. He removed his cap from his head and gently set it on one of his fence's posts.
"That's a shame." Marlowe frowned. "Barely anyone in Oakwood goes on."
"Well, what do you expect Marlowe?" Russel ran a hand through his recently shaved head. He could feel the mohawk sprouting down the center already. "This is it right? This is where retired hunters come to spend the rest of their days. I just skipped to the end."
"Shame." Marlowe sighed. The old man began to turn and walk away. "You'd have made a decent Huntsman."
They exchanged farewells and went their separate ways. Russel pushed open the gate, and walked up the path to his house. He entered whistling and found his dad hanging out around the kitchen. Feeling a tad bit puckish, Russel entered the kitchen, grabbing a candy bar out of a cabinet.
"So what're you gonna do now?" The elder Thrush asked aloud.
Russel looked over to his Father as he shed the blue gown. Beneath it, Russel wore his green sleeveless hoodie and white under shirt along with a pair of brown pants. It was an odd question to hear coming from his Father. The elder Thrush rarely ever took any interest in his son's affairs, his showing up for his graduation was just one of those few exceptions. It appeared the day was still young and there were more surprises to be had.
"Help around the farm as usual." Russel shrugged.
"Hmph." The elder Thrush scoffed.
"What?" Russel's eyes narrowed at his father.
"No one's gonna give you anything." His Father spoke lowly. "I keep telling you that. But you seem to never, and I mean never ever listen!" He shouted.
Russel stared at this Father as he continued to beret him. "Look at you, killer. You just graduated from Oakwood and now you're gonna be another shit shoveling farmer just like you've always been. You're hopeless dammit."
"Well what you want from me?!" Russel shouted angrily. "You sent me to Combat School and I graduated! It's over, finished! I did everything you asked of me and yet your, what, you're disappointed in me?"
"Were you expecting a gold star, Killer?" The Thrush Patriarch asked coldly. "For all those 'A's you kept getting', you still dumb as shit, killer."
"Quit calling me that?!" Russel shouted, his eyes slightly watering. "I'm not a killer!"
"Tell that to your Ma." That comment stopped Russel in his tracks. "That's right. You are a Killer. And you always will be."
After that it went as well as any of their other arguments went. Russel always said something his dad never liked. The Thrush patriarch would throw the first punch and then they'd fight, just like always.
It died down like it would. The older Thrush would find himself sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cold beer and Russel would end up back in his room. There were no attempts to seek forgiveness just like always. And that angered Russel.
Sitting by his desk, looking out his window longingly, the younger Thrush thought of all he'd endured in the past 17 years of his life. What the actual hell was his malfunction? This wasn't how a normal father and son handled problems. No, but this was how they did it.
'This is your life, Russel ol' boy.' He internally mused. Russel glanced over to the contents of his desk. There was a hand written copy of his graduation speech just sitting there. He reached out and snatched it up, quickly crumpling it and throwing it over to his trash can in the corner. 'Congratulations, you graduated.'
There was a light off in the distance. Russel opened the window and stuck his head out for a better look. Here was smoke rising up into the night air. A blaze was running through the neighboring farms.
Russel squinted and could make out figures in white standing around the blaze with torches. It didn't take Russel long to sum up what was going on.
"Dad!" Russel span around and raced out his room into the main hall of their house. "Dad!"
"What the hell you callin' me for?" Russel found the older Thrush firmly seated at the kitchen table, a cold beer in his right hand. "I ain't talkin' to you."
"Fire." Russel stated. There was a code amongst farmers. When another Farm was in trouble it was all hands on deck. Not even the Thrush Patriarchs foul mood would prevent him from his neighborly duty. "Someone's setting farms on fire."
The older Thrush looked up to his son, a serious look on his face. "Get me my sword." Russel nodded and exited the kitchen. The older Thrush stood up and took one last swig of his drink, emptying it and crushing the can.
"Here." The older Thrush felt a sudden shift in the air and could feel something being offered up to him. The Thrush Patriarch was expecting his son to be pulling that stupid gag where he presented his sword instead of his, only to find that it was the opposite.
Russel presented his Father the sword he crafted years ago, his 'Darkling'. "No time for jokes." Russel said, motioning for his father to take the sword.
There was a shimmer in his Father's eyes, one he'd never seen before. He'd seen hate, he'd seen drunken rage, and pitiful depression. But this was something else. If Russel didn't know the man any better, he could have sworn that was pride in his eyes.
"Right." The elder Thrush took his sword from his son's hands. "No time for jokes."
With that, the Thrushes gathered their gear and set out into the night.
So, next chapter we're going to meet the White Fang! How about that?
I'm trying my best to add that layer of psychology to Russel. For the most part, I think I'm succeeding. I'm also trying my best with these OCs. Marlowe actually was inspired from reading 'Heart of Darkness'. But more on the dear old farmer later.
'Til next time dear reader. Later days!