The Heartwood little bird

It grows, near enough now to overflow from the pot as the anger continues to boil within him. What is he going to do though? Beat sense into the girl? He’d be no better than his keepers, but that’s just it; he’s never been, and never would be. There is no redemption.
He snorts, exhaling slowly as he deflates. Each sharp edge of his face flexed in irritation, of anger and sorrow and grief. Jealousy eats at his soul for she can cry so openly about it, when he’s yet to shed tears since the first they fell in the Pit that awful night.
They lost someone irreplaceable.
If not to find him and take vengeance then—Why are you here.