Barbed Rhubarb Chapter 12: SEVERANCE

Another week. Another practice. Barb arrives early.

The warehouse is quiet. Moth isn't here yet. Just the space. Training mats. Weapons on walls. Late afternoon light through dirty windows.

She sets down her bag. Starts warming up. The familiar motions. Stretches. Footwork drills. The sword forms Moth has taught her over the past month.

Her vines hug her body, her muscles more toned than they’ve been in years. People at work stare. Jamie says it looks like Barb’s been working out. Everyone else stares like she’s from another planet.

She's so tired of being viewed like something diseased.

At exactly 6 o’clock, the door opens.

Not Moth. Lyra.

"Moth isn't typically late," Lyra says, looking around. Sets down her expensive bag. "Fae council business must be running long tonight. "

"Oh."

"I can leave if you'd prefer to practice alone."

"No. Stay. Please." The please comes out before Barb can stop it.

Lyra's expression does something complicated. "Fine. Show me your warm-up forms."

Barb doesn’t like the idea of Lyra running this session, but she follows her instructions. Steps through her warm-up. The stabbing sequence. Footwork. Basic parries.

Lyra watches with clinical attention. "Your shoulder is still dipping on the thrust sometimes. I've told you this."

"I'm trying."

"Don't try. Do." Lyra crosses the space. "May I?"

"What?" Barb looks at Lyra quizically.

Lyra steps behind Barb. Close. Her hands come to Barb's shoulders. Cool. Precise.

“That’s… fine.” Barb manages to mumble.

"Keep them level. The power comes from your core, not your arm. Like this." She guides Barb through the motion. Her body pressed against Barb's back. Too close to be just instructional.

Barb's breath catches.

"Again," Lyra says. Voice low. Close to Barb's ear. She doesn’t let go of Barb.

Barb does it again. Shoulder level. Thrust from the core.

"Better." Lyra's hands linger. Just a moment too long. Then she steps back. "You're learning."

"You're good at teaching."

"I'm not teaching. I'm just making observations."

"Right. Observations."

They look at each other. The space between them charged with something neither is naming.

"Spar with me," Lyra says. "Properly. No accommodation."

"You'll destroy me."

"Probably. But you need to know more about what real combat feels like." Lyra picks up a practice blade. "Besides. You're better than you think, and you really do have potential."

They face each other. Blades up.

Lyra attacks first. Fast. Controlled. Testing. Not like their first sparring match.

Barb parries. Counters with her stabbing form. Stab stab stab.

Lyra blocks easily. "Good. But you're still thinking too much. Stop planning. Act. React."

They go again. Faster this time. Barb is learning to read Lyra's tells. The shift in weight before she strikes. The way her eyes track.

She gets a touch in. Light tap to Lyra's ribs.

Lyra steps back. Something like approval in her eyes. "Again. You're learning."

"Thanks." Barb smiles. Almost laughs.

"I’m still taking it easy on you, Threshold Girl." Lyra smiles back. Not a devious grin. Something small. Real. "Again."

They spar for twenty minutes. Barb loses every exchange. But she lasts longer each time. Gets more touches in.

They break for water. Sit on the edge of the training mat. Close. Breathing hard.

"Work was shit today," Barb says. Not sure why she's sharing. Just needing to say it.

"What happened?"

"Not just today. People ask if I’m contagious. Like my curse is something they can catch. Like I'm diseased instead of just different."

Lyra is quiet for a moment. "People are fools. You're not diseased. You're not even cursed. You're threshold. There's a difference."

"Okay, okay. You're not wrong." Lyra laughs, and Barb is momentarily glad her face is already pink. "I'm so tired of apologizing for existing."

"Then stop apologizing." Lyra's voice is fierce. "You're something new. Something that shouldn't exist but does anyway. That's not something to apologize for. That's something to own."

"Easy for you to say. You're beautiful and perfect and fae. I'm—" Barb gestures at herself. "This."

"This," Lyra's voice goes quiet, almost whispering as her eyes search Barb’s face, "is rare. Perhaps dangerous. Certainly interesting."

"You keep saying I'm interesting."

"Because you are." Lyra looks away. "I've lived almost two centuries. Most of it has been profoundly boring. Same forms. Same expectations. Same social structures. Same rules. Same empty performance for a father who doesn't care about me. But then you show up. Fumbling. Apologetic. Turning pink and growing vines. And you absolutely refuse to give up, even when you’re completely out of your depth." She looks back at Barb. "You're the most interesting thing that's happened to me in decades."

The words hang between them. Heavy. True.

"I don't understand you," Barb says quietly. "You help me and then act like you don't care. You look at me like you're seeing something you want. But then you leave. Every time. Like you're scared of what might happen if you stay."

Lyra's expression cracks. "You don't know what you're suggesting…"

"Don't I?"

Lyra's voice is unsteady. "I've never been unsure of myself. But I’m sure I care about you. And…" Her voice trails off.

"And?"

"And you're everything I shouldn't want." Lyra's voice breaks. "You’re an unknown. You’re a risk. You don’t belong in my world, according to my father. Not just you. Anyone threshold. But the more you change, the more confident you become. It’s intoxicating." She stops. "I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop watching you."

She shakes her head and doesn't continue her thought. Just stands abruptly. Picks up her practice blade.

"Again," she says. Voice hard. "We're not done."

Barb stands. Eyes wide. Heart pounding. "Lyra."

"I said again."

They face each other. Something electric in the air now. Something dangerous.

Lyra attacks. Fierce. Desperate. Like she's trying to drive Barb away through violence.

Barb meets her. Matches her. All the weeks of training coming together.

They move across the mat. Faster than before. Harder than before. The blades cracking together with real force.

"Stop holding back," Lyra snarls. Heavy swings. A sharp lunge. "If you want something, take it. Stop being so fucking careful and—"

"What do you want me to do?" Barb shouts back. Her form fast, faster than she's managed. "You tell me I'm interesting and then run away. You touch me and then act like it means nothing. You just said you can't stop thinking about me and now you're… what? Fighting me? Trying to hurt me?"

"Yes!" Lyra's voice is raw. "No. I don't know what else to do. All I know is performance. Perfection. Combat. Everyone is better off at blade's length. So yes. I'm fighting you. Because that's the only honest thing I know how to do."

Their blades cross. They're face to face. Both breathing hard. Both flushed.

"You want honesty?" Barb says. Voice shaking. "I have been thinking about you constantly. And I hate it. You’ve got a huge fucking ego. You’re childish. You're a bitch. You’re infuriatingly right. And talented. And gorgeous. I show up early hoping you'll be on time. I practice late hoping you'll stay."

Lyra stares at her. Something breaking in her perfect face. "You shouldn't want me. I'm empty. I've never loved anyone in my entire life. I don't know how to care."

"Then learn."

"I don't know how to do that either."

"Maybe you could learn if you stopped pushing everyone away." Barb's eyes are locked with her opponent. Are they actually opponents? "Stop pushing me away."

They're not fighting anymore. Just standing. Blades crossed. The only thing keeping space between them.

"I don't know how to do this," Lyra whispers. "I could destroy you with how much I want you."

"Then destroy me. Or don't. But stop pretending you don’t feel something."

Something in Lyra snaps.

She kisses Barb.

Hard. Desperate. Both practice blades clattering to the floor between them.

Barb kisses back. All the weeks of tension releasing at once. Her hands in Lyra's perfect hair. Lyra's hand gripping Barb’s shirt, pulling her closer.

They break apart. Both breathing hard. Staring at each other.

"I'm going to ruin this," Lyra says. "I'm going to hurt you. I don't know how to be gentle with things I want."

"I’m not a thing. I’m a woman. I'm not asking you to be gentle. I'm asking you to be honest."

"I'm terrified. I've never been terrified of anything. And you make me feel…" Lyra stops. "Everything. You make me feel everything."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know. I've never felt it before."

They stand in the quiet warehouse. The kiss still electric between them. Something irrevocable has happened.

"We should—" Barb starts.

"Finish training," Lyra says. "Before I do something stupid." She stops. "Just. Let's finish training."

They pick up their blades. Face each other again. But everything is different now.

They spar. Faster. Harder. The kiss still humming between them.

Barb is better than she's ever been. Fueled by adrenaline and emotion and weeks of training coalescing into instinct.

She presses Lyra. Actually presses her. Gets touch after touch. Forces Lyra to work for every parry.

"Yes," Lyra breathes. "Like that. Don't hold back."

Barb doesn't hold back. Stab stab stab and thrust. Over and over. All her rage at being called contagious. All her fury at being visible and wrong. All her loneliness. All her wanting Lyra and not knowing what to do with it.

They're evenly matched suddenly. Barb's emotion against Lyra's skill. The air crackling with magic and tension and everything unspoken.

Lyra pants. "You should leave. You should run. I am—"

"What? Cruel? Empty? I don't believe that. I think you’ve been so self absorbed for so long you forgot you could care. But you don’t get the girl, and you don’t get over yourself by denying who you are. I should know." Barb is exasperated, her eyes wet, her brow drenched.

"You don't know me."

"I'm starting to."

Lyra attacks. Fierce. Almost vicious. "You think you can fix me? Make me better?"

"I don’t want to fix you." Barb blocks. Counters. "I'm just trying to be here. With you."

"Why?"

"Because you make me feel like taking up space. Because when you look at me I feel like something worth seeing instead of something to apologize for."

The words unlock something in Lyra. She attacks with real fury now. Not sparring. Fighting. Like she's trying to drive Barb away through sheer force.

"Stop," she snarls. "Stop making me feel things. Stop being so fucking human and real and—"

Barb snaps. Contagious. Threshold. Weird. Weeks of Lyra pushing and pulling and pushing again. Weeks of wanting and being wanted and not knowing what to do with it.

Her insides feel like they're on fire. The vines on her arms pulse. Magic flooding through her. Threshold magic. Neither human nor fae. Something new.

She moves faster than she should be able to. The practice blade in her hand feels different. Sharper. Real. It shouldn't be able to cut. It's designed for training. Blunted edges. Safe.

But Barb's magic is running through it now. Making it real. Making it deadly.

She strikes. The stabbing form forgotten. She runs entirely on instinct. On reading Lyra. The vines hold her. Guide her.

What happens next is not form. Not technique. It is something older. Not quite instinct.

The blade connects in a sweeping arc. Clean. Through Lyra's arm. Just below the elbow.

The arm separates.

Everything stops.

The severed limb falls. Hits the mat with a sound Barb will hear forever.

Lyra stares at her arm. At the stump. At the silver-red blood, fae blood, luminous and wrong, spilling onto the training mat.

Then she looks at Barb.

And laughs.

Not quite hysterical. Not quite sane. Somewhere between shock and awe.

"You—" Lyra's voice is breathless. Disbelieving. "You actually—"

Her legs give out. Shock and blood loss. She collapses.

Barb drops the blade. Drops to her knees next to Lyra.

"Oh god. Oh god. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—" Her hands are shaking. Reaching for Lyra. "I'm so sorry."

Lyra is staring at the stump. At what used to be her arm.

"Threshold Girl," she says. Voice distant. "No one has touched me in decades. My father made sure of that. Wrapped in cotton wool. Safe. Boring." She looks at Barb. "You took my arm."

"I'm sorry. Please. I'm so sorry."

"Stop." Lyra's remaining hand reaches up. Touches Barb's face. Blood on her fingers. "Stop apologizing. You hurt me. You meant to hurt me. Own it."

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes you did. In that moment you wanted to hurt me and you did." Lyra's smile is broken. Strange. "Do you know what it's like to be wrapped in cotton wool your entire life? To have everything be safe and empty and boring? You cut off my arm and I've never felt more alive."

"You're in shock."

"I'm seeing clearly." Lyra pulls Barb's face closer. "You're magnificent. You're dangerous. You're exactly what I knew you could be."

Then she passes out.

---

Barb screams for help. Moth appears from somewhere. Sees the arm. Sees Lyra. Sees the blood.

"What did you do?"

"I don't know. We were fighting and I lost control." Barb is sobbing. "Please. Help her. Please."

Moth kneels next to Lyra. Examines the wound. Their face is grim.

"I can cauterize it. Stop the bleeding. But I can't reattach it. The cut is too clean. Too much magic. This is... wrong."

"No. Please." Barb pulls at her own hair, her clothes. The big open warehouse suddenly feeling closed in.

"It's gone." Moth's hands move over the wound. Magic flowing. Cauterizing. The smell of burned flesh and something sweet. "Permanently."

They work quickly. The bleeding stops. The wound seals. Scar tissue forming over the stump.

Lyra stirs. Opens her eyes. Looks at the place where her arm used to be.

"Gone," she whispers.

"I'm so sorry," Barb sobs. "I'm so sorry."

"I told you to stop apologizing." Lyra's voice is weak but clear. "You did this. You have power."

Moth calls someone. Fae healers arrive. Load Lyra onto a stretcher. One-armed now. Forever.

As they carry her and the severed arm out, Lyra looks back at Barb.

"My father will be furious. Be careful." Then, softer: "You were magnificent. Don't apologize for having power."

The healers take her away.

"I hurt her. Permanently." Barb whispers after taking a few breaths, none of which actually help her calm down.

"You did. The form broke. Something else came through." Moth looks at her for a long moment. "That wasn't training. That wasn't just threshold. That was something I haven't seen in a very long time."

Barb sits on the training mat. Covered in blood.

Moth touches Barb's shoulder gently. "You should go home. Keep your own sword close."

Barb stands on shaking legs. Looks at her hands. Silver-red fae blood, Lyra's blood, drying on her palms, in the creases of her fingers, under her nails. She can't get on the bus like this. She can't get even think about taking her scooter. She's shaking too hard, and she has her own sword with her, and her bag is wrong, and everything is wrong, and she is standing in a warehouse in southeast Portland covered in the blood of someone who just kissed her and whose arm is now detached from her body and she cannot do this alone.

She takes out her phone.

Calls Robin.

It rings twice.

"Hey, what's—"

"I need you to come get me." Barb's voice comes out steadier than she feels. "I'm at the warehouse. I'm okay. I can't explain right now. I just need you to come. I’ll text you the address."

A beat. Just one.

"I’ll be right there," Robin says. "Don't move."

She doesn't ask questions. She never asks questions first. This is one of the things about Robin that Barb has spent years taking for granted and is only now, covered with fae blood, beginning to understand the full weight of.

Barb sends the address and sits back down on the mat. Puts her phone in her lap. The sword leans against the wall where she left it before the session started, before everything changed. It hums quietly. Almost sadly. Something that feels like I know. I know. I know.

She waits.

Robin's car pulls up eighteen minutes later. The sage-green Kia with the Coexist bumper sticker and the concerning engine noise that Robin trusts absolutely. Barb gets in. The car smells like rosemary.

Robin looks at Barb. At the blood on her hands, her clothes. At the quality of Barb's face, which is the face of someone who has been through several things in close succession and hasn't processed any of them.

She doesn't ask what happened. She puts the car in drive.

They ride in silence. Portland night moving past the windows. At a red light Robin reaches over and puts her hand over Barb's briefly, just a moment, the way she does sometimes without making anything of it, and then takes it back.

At Park View Terrace, Barb gets out. Robin gets out too, moves to follow her up the stairs.

"I'm okay," Barb says.

Robin looks at her.

"I am." Barb stops. Faces Robin. Starts again. "I need to be alone tonight. I'm sorry."

Something moves through Robin's face. She understands. All of it, probably, or enough of it, because Robin sees things most people don't, and has been seeing Barb specifically for years. She doesn't say what she sees.

"Okay," Robin says. Simply. "Call me tomorrow."

"I will."

Robin gets back in the car. Doesn't leave immediately. Barb can feel her still there as she climbs the stairs, gets the key in the lock on the second try, goes inside.

Robin’s car sits in the parking lot with the lights on for another ten minutes. Barb watches between the slats of her blinds. She cannot take her eyes off it.

When it pulls away, Barb sobs.

---

At some point, Barb’s phone buzzes. Unknown number.

My father knows. He's beyond angry. Be careful. -L

Another text:

You were marvelous. Don't apologize for having power.

Barb stares at the messages. Lyra's words.

The vines pulse. Magic underneath her skin. Threshold power. Dangerous. Real.

Barb doesn't know what she is anymore.

But she's not apologizing.

Not for having power. Not for being threshold. Not for any of it.

Tomorrow there will be consequences. Lyra's father. Fae politics. Robin. Whatever comes next.

Tonight, she showers for far too long. She sits with what she did. What she has become.

Someone Lyra called magnificent.

She closes her eyes. She doesn't actually know what she is.

But she's done being small.

She sleeps.