Thanks to viria for the awesome cover art and the plot bunny. She is awesome. Seriously. Anyone in Percy Jackson fandom, go check out her tumblr –– it's awesomeness. Seriously.

If I owned PJO and the characters, I would wake up. Because I'd be dreaming. So, lawyers, don't sue...please.

I knew that I had a home now; I just didn't stay there. I don't know why, I guess I've just been more of a loner at heart. A free spirit, as Percy might call me. But Percy was gone, Annabeth was broken, and I was living away from my home because a certain blond haired son of Jupiter was waiting for me to show my face. Well, not exactly. He didn't even know I had ever been there, at least, I hoped he didn't. I dunno. I guess I was just paranoid. Three years of living in hell –– literally –– can do that to a guy.

It was early spring when I found him. I had just visited Hazel at Camp Jupiter, but Octavian was a little ticked off at me because I might have called up a few dead guys to teach him a lesson the last time I'd visited…what? I was provoked, okay? You steal one of my stuffed dogs and cut it to pieces, zombies are what you're going to get, my friend.

Anyway, Reyna had encouraged me to leave, so, wisely, I did. It wasn't one of my best days, I'll tell you that. The glares that some of the Roman campers had sent me wouldn't fade, I was exhausted from a whole day of shadow traveling and fighting monsters, and what Thalia referred to as my emo mood was coming back again. I was alone and hungry, and even though I knew I could just go back home, I didn't.

On my way back, I stopped off at one of my favorite graveyards, a small one on the outskirts of some tiny town in Wisconsin. I liked it because it wasn't too big or well-known, just the kind of place where a guy could spend the night among dead people and not be bothered. There were a couple of larger headstones and two mausoleums, but for the most part it was pretty low-scale. It wasn't very new; only a few people had been buried there recently and a lot of the graves outdated even me. A few trees were scattered around the plot of overgrown grass and weathered grave markers.

It was cloudy when I arrived, the layer of drab gray above me threatening to drop rain. Whatever. I could use a bath, anyway. No one was around, so I climbed over the crumbling stone wall that surrounded the cemetery and dropped over the other side. Once in, I just stood there and looked around. I could sense the dead underneath me in multitudes, their soulless shells just waiting…waiting…waiting. Waiting for what? I wondered sometimes, but never did I get an answer. Their souls were gone, so the body was useless.

Hands in my pockets and my head down, I made my way over to a nearby oak tree and plunked myself down underneath it, leaning against the thick, rough trunk. My sword clanged on a rock with a resounding ring, at which I flinched and glanced around to make sure the sound hadn't caught any unwanted attention. It hadn't, but as I looked from side to side a flutter of movement caught my attention and I turned my gaze up. Flapping away from the tree were two large black birds –– two crows, startled by the untimely and clumsy crash of my weapon.

In different circumstances, I might have ignored them. But then I saw yet another movement out of the corner of my eye –– from the nest in the tree, about ten feet above the ground, fell a small gray object. I felt my heart literally leap in my chest. As time passed in slow motion, it hurtled towards the ground, and I dove forward to catch it…

When I opened my thin, pale fingers I found in my palms a gray-speckled ivory egg, which was a little bigger than the average chicken egg. It felt cool and smooth in my callused, clumsy hands, but inside I could feel –– no, rather, I could sense the tiny body glowing and pulsating with the warmth of life.

I scrambled up and pushed myself against the tree trunk again, cradling the egg close as I stared at it. I looked up to the nest. The two crows –– the parents, I think –– were alighting back on their home branch, and I could hear the little hatchling crows cheeping for food. The parents didn't seem to notice that one of their eggs was missing.

My wide eyes were drawn back to the egg when I felt it move. It wasn't just rolling due to the shift of my hands; no, it was actually moving. Enraptured I watched as it shook, shuddered, and then cracked.

I almost dropped it when the beak poked out of the shell.

But I didn't. Terrified as I was, I managed to keep my hands underneath the egg as the beak worked its way further out, chipping away bits of the shell to make the hole bigger. My hands were shaking in fear and sweat started to bead on my forehead as the tiny life made its way out into the large, dark world.

And after an indefinite time that felt like an eternity, the mangled shell gave way and a tiny bird spilled out into my cold palms.

Actually, "bird" might be an exaggeration for the tiny thing that writhed and shivered in my hands. About two inches long and painfully skinny, the nearly naked hatchling was pink and covered in scraps of wet, wispy gray down that didn't look warm or capable of helping in flight at all. My heart was pounding as I held it, not able to take my eyes away.

Of course I was scared. Any other child of Hades would be, and I was probably the jumpiest and weakest of them all. Because, after all, we, the children of the Underworld, were death. This was a life, and a very fragile life at that. If I made the wrong move, I could end up killing it. Living things have never really liked me. Plants, animals, people…if it's alive, it has a general grudge against me.

I didn't think that this baby bird would be much of an exception.

Carefully, I pushed the shattered remains of the shell away and cradled the hatchling crow as gently as I could manage. It squeaked as it shivered and curled into a ball, as if trying to seek warmth from my hands. Upon finding little or none, it let out a hoarse, nearly inaudible cry.

"Sorry," I whispered ruefully. "I'm not good with living creatures."

It only squeaked again in response, which I took for meaning, You got that right.

I glanced back up to the nest above me. The parent crows and the other hatchlings were just lounging around –– if birds could lounge, at least, but that's the only word I had for it –– as if nothing was wrong, as if they didn't notice that this newborn had vanished. They probably didn't.

"You know, we're not so different, you and me," I said to the baby crow, cupping my hands closer around it to make it comfortable. Its eyes were closed and it was still curled up in what was probably the avian approximation of the fetal position, quivering and shaking. "You're on your own, I'm on my own…" A wry, half-hearted grin lingered on the edges of my lips. "And look what we're doing. I'm talking to a crow, and you're in the hands of a human. That's got to be breaking some rules for you." I reconsidered this and frowned. "Well, half-human."

It just squeaked again and nudged against my curled fingers. I couldn't help it –– I laughed. "Hey, that tickles!" I smiled as it continued nudging against me with its wet little head, almost snuggling in my palm. It shook itself out in a way that I've seen dogs do, then settled down into a more comfortable curled up position.

My smile faded. Was it dying? No, its life aura, which was something of a silvery black shade tinged with violet, was still steadily pulsating. It was very much alive.

At that moment, it lifted its head, opened its beak, and let out a raspy chirp. It continued to do so, keeping its beak wide open. Then I realized. "You're hungry?"

It just kept chirping eagerly. I shrugged ruefully. "Well, I'm hungry too." But I could live without food for a while longer; I wasn't so sure about my new friend. I didn't really know what crows ate, but I knew that I had a granola bar in my backpack…which was pretty much it.

Wait, didn't birds eat worms? And didn't I see that one episode of that one nature show where the mother bird ate a worm and then…?

Oh, gods.

No way in Hades was I doing that.

Grimacing, I looked back down at the begging bird. It was so helpless and weak…I didn't want to do it, but I knew I had to feed the hatchling somehow. It was either my utter disgust or the bird's death, and I didn't think that I would never forgive myself for the latter.

I stood up, still with the baby bird cupped in my hands, and stomped down on a patch long grass to flatten it somewhat. Carefully holding the bird in one hand, I softened out the grass with my other, then gently placed the bird into the makeshift nest on the ground. It just lay there, watching me curiously and rasping its pleas for food. "All right, all right! It's coming!" I called to it, reflecting briefly on how Bianca must have felt whenever I nagged her for something that took some time to get. But at least she didn't have to do this.

I knelt on a bare patch of ground and dug my hands into the damp dirt. If I had been feeling up to it, I might have been able to call up a skeleton or two and have them dig for me, but (one) I wasn't feeling particularly strong and (two) I kind of wanted to do this on my own. I guess I could compare the feeling to a mother who didn't want to entrust her first and only child to a babysitter.

Quite a few scoops of dirt and two very grimy hands later, I finally got deep enough to find earthworms. Gingerly I pulled one out and stared at it in disgust. Trying to keep myself from shuddering, I crawled back over to the baby bird and held the wriggling worm pinched between my thumb and index finger. I channeled a bit of my dark, angry power through my finger, and immediately the worm stopped moving. I felt all five of its hearts stop, one after another. And I wasn't sorry. In fact it might have been a mercy to the poor earthworm, not to mention to me.

I couldn't believe that I was doing this, all for some annoying, nagging, scrawny little bird. Sure, I'd eaten some pretty disgusting things during some of the worse, more desperate times in my life, and technically I wasn't even going to swallow this so I wasn't exactly eating it, but…well…this was crossing the line. Closing my eyes and pinching my nose, I cracked open my mouth.

I'm not going to say exactly what I did next. Because if word of this gets out to anyone I know, I'll not only be the guy who lives in the Underworld and talks to ghosts but also the guy who…um…never mind. I say no more.

I think I chewed it thoroughly, but soon I couldn't take it anymore and spit it out into my hand. The baby bird was still squawking for food, so I scraped the bits off into its beak. It gobbled them up gratefully as I retched onto the grass nearby and washed my mouth out several times with swigs out of my water bottle. When we were both satisfied, I sat and glared at the bird in its makeshift nest.

"I hope you're happy."

It didn't flinch under the ferocity of my famous death glare. Somehow I wasn't surprised, because the glare wasn't even sincere. It cocked its head at me, let out its rasping chirp, and then rolled off the little grass nest.

I felt my heart leap in my chest again and I dove forward to save the hatchling. I was just in time to catch it, though later I thought that maybe the little bird was just acting to get my attention. Because get my attention, it did. As it nuzzled its bald head into my palm and fingers, I took on the stern, "mother-knows-best" look and tone that Bianca had always used with me.

"Don't you ever try that stunt again."

It shivered and shook its head as if to agree, which was when the wispy down brushed against my skin. What little feathers the hatchling had were drying, which I wasn't sure if it was good or bad. I guessed that it was good, but again, I wasn't the best with living creatures so I wasn't sure.

What should I do with it? I didn't think I could give it back to the crow parents; I wasn't sure if they would accept it back and didn't know of any way, short of climbing the tree, that I could give it to them. I didn't know of too many people who might be able to help me care for this little hatchling, and the ones that I could think of I could not use seeing as I was reluctant to shadow travel with the little one.

Apollo help me. Usually I didn't pray to Apollo, him being the god of the sun and the light and all, but seeing as one of his sacred animals was the crow and this in my hands was a crow, I didn't have many other options. I half expected Apollo to strike me down right then and there for daring to touch one of his birds –– especially me being the dark, hated son of Hades I am –– but I wasn't burned to a crisp, so I must have been good.

In fact, it seemed as if Apollo was watching out for me. Because out of the corner of my eye I saw a small, somewhat intact shoebox half hidden in the grass about twenty feet away. Keeping the hatchling cradled in my cupped hands, I got up and made my way over to the shoebox. Upon opening it, I found inside a white towel, a Ziploc bag of dog food –– supposedly to feed the bird with –– and a small red and yellow handbook titled Caring For Your Baby Crow, by Fred A. Sungodd. I didn't know about the Fred part, but from the title, author's middle initial, and the last name I instantly knew that my prayer had been heard.

I looked down to the baby crow in my hands. "Maybe," I whispered to it, "just maybe, you'll make it."

Then I turned my eyes to the rapidly darkening twilight sky. "Gods, I hope you do."

I didn't leave the cemetery for two weeks. Sure, I had to get food and stuff like that from the nearby town, but I usually didn't leave. I slept there and waited there as I carefully followed the directions in Apollo's handbook to help the baby bird grow. Every day I would wake up and fearfully check the box, hoping that he was still alive and always finding him still breathing. It always brought joy to me in knowing that at least we had both survived the night.

I knew that I had a job. I knew that I had to find Percy. But instinct told me that it could wait. I had worried, stressed, and toiled enough over the past three years of my life. It was time to let that pay off. Time to just let it go.

The crow slept in the shoebox, which of course was what it was for. I fed him dog food –– which was a whole lot more pleasant than already-been-chewed worms –– and soon he started to look more like a bird and less like something you'd find crawling on the outskirts of Tartarus. His eyes finally opened, revealing large, intelligent gray orbs. Fluffy jet-black feathers started to grow on his body, hence his name, Jet. Why had I decided on that name? I didn't know. But at least he had a name now.

Most of the townspeople knew about me. Several times I sensed them lingering at the gate of the old cemetery, watching me with wide eyes. Me, the strange, dark little boy with the strange, dark little pet, who slept among the headstones with a small shoebox by his side. They never said anything to me, not a word, until I asked them to please fetch a meal for me from McDonald's because I didn't want to leave Jet alone. They were always very nice, very polite, very respectful. Maybe it was because I was creepy and poor, or because small town people are generally more considerate than large city people (no offense, but that's just from my personal experience). Probably a bit of both.

Jet became something of a fighter, just like me. Monsters would come often and I'd fight them off while trying to keep Jet out of danger. But even flightless, he was fierce and very protective of me. He would usually be the first to sense the monsters, cawing and hissing when they came closer. He didn't like most other humans, evidenced when some random town lady thought him to be a "cute little birdy" and tried to scratch his head. Wrong move. I had apologized to her for her bitten finger –– not a serious wound in the least, but a rather memorable one in any case –– and scolded Jet, but once we were alone we both secretly laughed together. He seemed to know me and just me.

As Jet grew bigger and more independent, he ventured farther than my hands and to the rest of my body. He found my hair to be rather fun to play with yet hard to grasp, though many times did I laugh as he perched on my shoulder and nipped at the unruly locks that were the same color as his feathers. He also had a habit of climbing onto my hand and pecking at my silver skull ring –– he seemed to like shiny things, which wasn't a surprise to someone who also secretly liked shiny things. Though I had to reprimand him once because he tapped the ring the wrong way and accidentally raised some woman who had been buried in the '70s and had to be re-buried by me before the sun came up and people saw.

He really liked my jacket. Oftentimes, if he was particularly energetic, he would pick at the fuzzy white fur of the collar, always making me laugh. And when he was more subdued, he would climb into the left chest pocket, which was just the right size to hold one fluffy little crow chick. He would chirp and I would gently scratch his feathered head, not able to help the smile that eventually surfaced every time. Sometimes he slept in that pocket, which was safe only because I always sleep on my back. I wasn't so sure about it –– my nightmares could get me pretty riled up sometimes –– but Jet trusted me. He would snuggle up in my pocket and fall asleep to the steady beating of my heart and the gentle rise and fall of my chest, content as could be.

I think he thought that I was his mother.

And I started to think of him as my son.

Soon came the time when his wings grew and he tried to learn how to fly. Too soon, I thought. I hadn't counted the days I had spent there in that small town graveyard with him, laughing as he climbed on my clothes and hair or relaxing in the woods as he cawed in his little raspy voice and pretended he was a big fierce bird of prey. But I knew it had been quite a long time, maybe about a month or so.

Sometime after the second week, Jet became too big to sit in my pocket. He perched on my finger, and when he became too big for that he sat on my arm and sometimes my shoulder instead, balancing as I walked. We would sometimes go into the town like this, just me and him, strolling down main street as if there was nothing wrong with a goth homeless boy carrying a fledgling crow around on his shoulder. The townspeople didn't really care; after all it was a relatively small town and almost everybody knew about me and Jet. Especially that poor lady whose finger had been nipped, but she was rather forgiving.

But as he grew more independent he also grew more into an adult bird. His fluffy little feathers grew long and sleek, transforming him from a little fuzzball chick into a miniature version of an actual crow. And soon I didn't have to chew his food for him anymore. He liked peanuts and sunflower seeds the best, a lot of the time just eating them whole.

He tried to fly more and more often. I didn't know where he had picked up on the habit; it was just instinct, I guess. Instinct and wishful thinking. I couldn't blame him. Who doesn't look up and wish they could fly like the birds and not be blasted out of the sky by Zeus? Well, maybe just the first part for most people.

And then one day, he did it. We tried every day, practiced flying out in the sparse woods near the cemetery. I would run with Jet on my arm, then thrust him out for him to take off. No success yet, nor any injuries –– except for that time when I wasn't looking where I was going and fell in a small creek, mildly injuring just me –– but one day, he did it.

It was just our normal practice routine. I jogged slowly through the sparse trees, then soon sped up. Jet perched on my right arm facing forward, spreading his majestic black wings as the wind rippled his feathers. And when I sensed he was ready, I thrust out my arm and he unlatched, flapping his wings.

And then he was flying. He was actually doing it. I couldn't help myself. I whooped and cheered for him as he soared up into the air, cawing and cheering with me. His small black shape contrasted against the clear blue sky as he circled overhead, his glossy feathers reflecting the light of the sun as he came closer to the ground. It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever seen.

His very body seemed to glow as he dove down and started circling closer to me so that I could see him. His black feathers glimmered with gold as if the sun had touched him, and soon I realized that it had. What I was seeing was the blessing of Apollo on one of his sacred birds, raised by a demigod child who wasn't even his. Pride blossomed in my chest. I had done it. I, the son of Hades, the King of Ghosts, the Prince of the Dead. I had helped something survive. I had saved a life.

Jet cawed and alighted on my arm. I laughed. "Jet, you just flew. You can fly!" Then my smile faded as the implications settled in. "You can fly." He could leave. "You're free." He could leave me.

In response he cawed again and leapt into the sky to see what those wings could really do. I just stood there with my head uptilted as I watched him spiral and circle like he'd been flying for his entire life.

A small flock of about ten large black birds –– other crows –– soared by, and the tiny shape I knew to be Jet seemed to notice them. My heart broke when I saw him, after a hesitation, join them.

I really couldn't help myself anymore. A tear traced a path down my pale, grimy cheek. "You're free."

I was about to turn and trudge back to the cemetery to retrieve my stuff in preparation for leaving, but then I saw something peculiar. From the small flock in the sky, one of the crows broke away from the group and started flying down…down to me. "Jet?" The bird cawed in response and alighted on my shoulder, threading his beak through my thick locks of hair, just like he had done when he was a little chick. I laughed weakly. "I guess we both forgot to say goodbye."

He let out a mumbling squeak, a louder and deeper version of the hungry, wistful plea he had given me on his birthday, the day he had hatched. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a peanut. He took it in his beak, cracked it, and ate it in that adorable way that always made me smile. When he was done, he locked my gaze in his large, intelligent gray eyes, and I could almost read the farewell written in them.

"Goodbye, Jet."

I gently scratched his head, and in response he nuzzled my hair again. Then he spread his wings and leapt into the air to rejoin those of his kind.

And then he was gone.

I realized something in the weeks that I spent with that little bird. I had never smiled so much in the presence of anybody, and if I had, it was somewhere in that long-lost time when I was innocent and my family was alive. I found joy, real and pure joy, with Jet, a kind of joy that was new and bright and so indescribably amazing, a joy that I knew I might never find again.

And I realized something in the moment he left. I had not felt so much sorrow since the death of Bianca. Because just like her, he had left.

He had left me alone with only the memories of laughter and light to hold on to.

Nico's and Jet's song –– Hold Me Now by Red

References:

www . crows (.net) / life . html (but without the spaces and parenthesis because the links hate me)

My bird-loving little sister, who gives her approval to this fanfic n_n

If that wasn't enough and I got something wrong, feel free to tell me. Politely. All flames will be used to toast marshmallows.

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