When Gwydion went to feed the hens, he was shocked to see one caught in the fence, its wing twisted behind it. He pulled it out, but it pecked at him, and scratched a deep line in his arm. Its good wing tried to beat at Gwydion's head. He had put the chicken back in the pen, but it listed woozily to one side. He knew then he couldn't leave it. He had been avoiding thinking about the passages in 'The good wife' which detailed the best ways to kill small animals such as chickens, and the carefully crafted cone of wood nailed to a post outside of the wash room. But now, it seemed, he couldn't avoid it any longer. Sure he could wait and see if the chicken somehow recovered, but it seemed somewhat cruel to do so, as Gwydion watched the bird stumble and hold its wing awkwardly at its side. Making up his mind, Gwydion retrieved his sharpest knife and caught the chicken again, which was much easier then it should have been, seeing as though the bird couldn't even run away from him. After making sure the old wooden bucket was in the right place, he lowered the chicken head first in the cone. He had to help it fold the damaged wing in, and it twisted in his hands. Once its head popped through, Gwydion steeled himself and with shaking hands, made one quick motion along the side of the chickens neck. The chicken didn't even cluck as Gwydion watched the blood pout from the wound into the already stained wooden bucket which he had left alone before now. 'The good wife' had recipes which used blood, but Gwydion felt a little ill about that thought, while he held the knife which had done the deed. He went and washed the knife, being careful of the sharp edge. He knew he would need to cut off the head once the blood stopped, but that didn't need his sharpest blade. He put the blade back and grabbed one of the older, thicker knives. He tried not to think about how easy it had been to kill the chicken, tried to remind himself the bird had been suffering, and this was better for everyone.
He still felt guilty about it. Sure he had butchered the animals the old women delivered, and happily eaten them, but that was different. Those animals had already been dead.
After want felt like forever, the blood stopped, only occasionally dripping from the open wound. Gwydion quickly cut off its head. Inside the cone, the legs and wings kicked out, and Gwydion shuddered in sympathy. He decided to put it all out of his mind, it was better if he pretended that this was just another animal the women had brought. With that at the forefront of his mind, Gwydion set about plucking and cleaning the animal, ignoring the way the body was still warm in his hands.
He couldn't eat it that night, and gave most to a oblivious Manannan, and a large piece to the cat, who looked at Gwydion as if it was the cat's due and not a special treat. That night the cat curled up on Gwydion's bed, and he accepted the accidental comfort.