Cicadabuzz watches as the flickering light of the den falls across Deathberrykit's frail form. The scent of infection is heavy in the air—thick, sour, and unmistakable. For weeks now, the kit has been slipping away, the fever never truly abating, and the cough worsening by the day. Cicadabuzz has done everything they can think of, tried every remedy known to them, but nothing has worked. It's all been in vain. The herbs rest on the stone floor before them, crushed leaves and powders, the remnants of failed attempts, their pungent odor mixing in the air. The mixture of feverfew, yarrow, and marigold did nothing. The poultices of comfrey and burdock were applied, but they hadn't brought any relief, not even a moment's respite. Cicadabuzz even tried a handful of coltsfoot, knowing it could soothe the lungs, but the kit's body had rejected it, just as it rejected every other attempt.
They knew this outcome was coming; deep down, they've known it for days, weeks even. The kit is beyond saving now. Their eyes flick to Deathberrykit's fragile body once more, the weak, shallow breaths that rattle through her chest, the dullness in her once-bright eyes. Cicadabuzz watches her struggle, but there's no judgment in them—no pity. Only a grim acceptance of what needs to be done. They've seen this before. Not often, but enough times. Death is a part of life, and Cicadabuzz knows that holding on, clinging to false hope, would only drag out the suffering. Serpent had taught them that. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh slips from Cicadabuzz's mouth. There are no tears to shed, no soft words of consolation to offer. That is not their way. Instead, their claws slide over the ground, moving with purpose, as they draw out a small, red berry from a pile in the back of their den. There are times when the earth offers no mercy. It's time for them to step in, to end this.
Cicadabuzz's gaze remains steady, their heart—if one could even say they had one—unchanging. No hesitation in their movements as they take the berry into their claws. The deathberry is small but potent, and they know from experience that a full dose is too much for a young kit. No, the kit will not suffer longer than she must. They slice the berry in half with a single, controlled swipe of their claw. The sharp tang of poison fills the air, though Cicadabuzz doesn't recoil from it. They know it well. The side of the berry with the seeds they set aside carefully, their eyes narrowing in calculation. The seeds, potent as they are, would bring swift suffering before death—too swift, too painful. They won't allow that for the kit. Not theirs.
The other side—the half without seeds—they carefully pierce with a claw to carry. Cicadabuzz shifts, their posture languid but precise. They walk to the bed of moss where the kit lies, their movements slow and deliberate, every step measured. There's no rush. There's no need for it. Cicadabuzz sits beside Deathberrykit, their gaze sharp but impassive. Their breath steady, they raise the half-berry to the kit's lips, waiting a moment, almost as if contemplating the finality of it. Without a word, they place the berry on Deathberrykit's tongue. The kit's frail jaw moves slightly, just enough to allow the bitter taste of the deathberry to settle in. Cicadabuzz's eyes remain locked on her face, watching for any reaction. But there is none—not yet.
The moments stretch out, long and quiet. Cicadabuzz waits, listening to the sound of Deathberrykit's breaths, feeling the familiar weight of finality settle in. They don't think of what comes after. They do not wonder if the kit will feel anything. What matters now is that it's done. The pain will cease. The suffering will end. It is the only mercy left to offer.