Chapter 2: The Emerald Encounter

Chapter 1 Illustration

"Help me."

The words hung in the air between them, impossible yet undeniable. Prince stood frozen, his mind racing to make sense of what he had just heard. Parrots could mimic human speech—he knew that—but this was different. The words hadn't been a mindless repetition; they had been a plea. Deliberate. Conscious.

"You... you can talk?" Prince whispered, taking a cautious step forward.

The parrot's amber eyes remained fixed on him, filled with pain but also with an unmistakable intelligence.

"Yes," it replied, its voice strained. "Please... I'm injured."

Prince knelt beside the wounded bird, his fear giving way to concern. Up close, the parrot was even more extraordinary. Its feathers weren't just green—they seemed to contain shifting patterns of light, like sunlight through leaves or the aurora borealis condensed into plumage. And there was something about its eyes—a depth that seemed almost human.

"What happened to you?" Prince asked, gently examining the injured wing without touching it.

The parrot winced. "Fell... from very high. Not used to this form yet."

Prince frowned at the strange phrasing but focused on the immediate problem. The wing was definitely broken, and there was a gash along the bird's side that was still bleeding slightly.

"I need to get you help," he said, shrugging off his backpack and carefully opening it. "But I don't know if I can carry you without hurting you more."

"Gentle... hands," the parrot managed, its breathing labored. "I trust... you."

Something about those words—I trust you—sent a warm current through Prince's chest. When was the last time anyone had trusted him with anything important?

With careful movements, Prince removed his school sweater and laid it in the bottom of his backpack, creating a soft nest. Then, with trembling hands, he gently scooped up the injured parrot, trying to support its broken wing without moving it.

The bird let out a small cry of pain but didn't struggle. Prince placed it as carefully as he could into the makeshift nest, leaving the backpack open so the parrot could breathe easily.

"I'm going to take you home," Prince explained, his voice soft. "It's not far. My uncle... he won't be there. He works nights at the factory."

The parrot's eyes seemed to study him, as if assessing not just his words but the person behind them.

"Thank you," it said simply.

Prince lifted the backpack with extreme care, holding it against his chest rather than slinging it over his shoulder. The weight of the parrot was surprisingly light, as if its bones were hollow like a bird's but even more delicate.

As he made his way back through the jungle, Prince found himself talking—something he rarely did with humans but often did with plants and animals.

"I come here sometimes, to the jungle," he explained. "When things get... when I need to be alone. Well, not alone exactly. Just away from people."

The parrot listened silently from the backpack, its amber eyes watching him.

"My name is Prince," he continued. "Not a very fitting name, I know. My parents had big dreams for me, I guess. Before they died."

"Prince," the parrot repeated, as if testing the name. "It suits you."

He looked down at the bird in surprise. "How could it possibly suit me? I'm nothing like a prince."

The parrot's eyes seemed to soften. "Names have power. Perhaps yours is not about who you are now, but who you will become."

Prince felt a strange shiver run through him. This was no ordinary conversation, no ordinary parrot. But before he could ask more questions, they reached the edge of the jungle, and he fell silent as they approached the scattered houses at the outskirts of town.

His uncle's house—now his house too, though it had never felt like home—was a small, weathered structure set apart from its neighbors. The paint was peeling, the small garden overgrown. It looked abandoned even though it wasn't.

Prince slipped in through the back door, moving quietly out of habit even though he knew his uncle wouldn't be home for hours. The kitchen was dim and smelled faintly of old food and cigarettes. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink from breakfast—his uncle's, not his. Prince always washed his own dishes immediately.

"It's not much," he said apologetically as he carried the backpack through to his small bedroom. "But it's safe."

His room was a stark contrast to the rest of the house. While small and furnished with secondhand items, it was meticulously clean and organized. Books lined a makeshift shelf made of cinder blocks and boards. A small desk held his school supplies and a collection of rocks, feathers, and dried flowers he had gathered from the jungle. The walls were covered with his own drawings—mostly of stars, plants, and animals.

Prince gently placed the backpack on his bed and carefully lifted the parrot out, placing it on his pillow.

"I need to find something for your wing," he said, thinking aloud. "And clean that cut."

The parrot watched as Prince moved around the room, gathering supplies. He found a small first aid kit in the bathroom, some clean cloths, and a shallow dish that he filled with water.

"This might hurt," he warned as he returned to the bed. "I've never treated a bird before. But I've read about it."

"You read a lot?" the parrot asked, its voice stronger now that it was resting.

Prince nodded, carefully cleaning the blood from the green feathers with a damp cloth. "Books don't judge you. They take you places where you can be someone else for a while."

The parrot winced as Prince cleaned the wound but remained still. "Where do you go, when you read?"

Prince's hands paused for a moment. No one had ever asked him that before. "Everywhere," he said softly. "Other worlds. The past. The future. Places where people like me can be heroes."

"People like you?"

"Weak ones. Lonely ones." Prince resumed cleaning the wound, which thankfully wasn't as deep as he had feared. "Invisible ones."

The parrot made a sound that might have been a sigh. "You are not as invisible as you think, Prince."

He looked up, meeting those amber eyes that seemed to see right through him. "How would you know?"

"Because I found you," the parrot replied simply. "Or you found me. Either way, we saw each other when no one else did."

Prince felt something catch in his throat—an emotion he couldn't name. To hide it, he focused on examining the broken wing.

"I think I need to make a splint," he said. "And wrap it so it can heal properly. It's going to hurt."

"I trust you," the parrot repeated, those three words somehow carrying more weight than seemed possible.

Working carefully, Prince fashioned a small splint from popsicle sticks he found in his craft supplies. With gentle hands, he set the wing as best he could and secured the splint with medical tape, trying to be thorough without restricting the bird too much.

Throughout the process, the parrot remained remarkably still, only occasionally making small sounds of pain. When Prince finally finished, the bird looked exhausted but relieved.

"Thank you," it said, settling more comfortably on the pillow. "You have kind hands."

Prince felt his face warm at the compliment. "You should rest now," he said, arranging a small blanket around the parrot, careful to leave the splinted wing accessible. "Are you hungry? I don't know what parrots eat, but I have some fruit and nuts."

"Later, perhaps," the parrot replied, its eyes already beginning to close. "Rest first."

Prince nodded, settling into his desk chair to watch over his unexpected guest. As the parrot's breathing deepened into sleep, he found himself studying its extraordinary plumage, the way it seemed to shimmer even in the dim light of his bedroom.

A talking parrot. An intelligent, articulate parrot with feathers that glowed like emeralds and eyes that seemed to understand him better than any human ever had. It should have been impossible. It should have frightened him.

Instead, for the first time in years, Prince felt something like hope stirring in his chest.

He reached for his journal and began to write:

Today I found a parrot in the jungle. Or maybe it found me. It can talk—not like normal parrots that just repeat things, but really talk. It has the most amazing green feathers I've ever seen, and eyes that look... wise. I'm probably crazy for thinking this, but it feels like this means something. Like maybe I was supposed to find it.

It's sleeping now. I fixed its wing as best I could. I don't know how long it will take to heal or what I'll do when my uncle finds out I'm keeping a parrot in my room. But for now, I'm not alone.

I think I'll call it Daksha. I read that name in a book once—it means "skilled" or "clever" in Sanskrit. And this parrot is definitely clever.

For the first time in forever, I'm looking forward to tomorrow.

Prince closed his journal and looked at the sleeping parrot—at Daksha. In the quiet of his room, with the soft sound of the bird's breathing, he felt a strange sense of peace settle over him.

Whatever this was—whatever strange twist of fate had brought this extraordinary creature into his life—Prince knew with sudden certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.