Author's Note: The text of Daria's dream is a pastiche of John Ciardi's translation of Dante's Inferno, Canto XXXIV.
Disclaimer: Daria and Amy and Rita Barksdale belong to Glenn Eichler. The Buffy characters belong to Joss Whedon. Everyone else is mine.
X X X X X
Amy Barksdale woke up Wednesday morning from a lousy night's sleep -- the last time she remembered rolling over and looking at the last night, it was past 2 AM, and now it was just past 7, and she was wide awake.
At least she hadn't dreamed. She was glad of it. Her dreams would have no doubt thrown her conflicted feelings about the situation with Daria back into her face, so she was glad she hadn't had any -- or at least, hadn't remembered any.
After a shower, she felt at least somewhat awake. She called room service and ordered up some coffee, then opened her door and took her complimentary copy of the LA Times. When she sat down to read it, she was horrified at the lead story. She picked up her cell phone and was ready to dial when she realized she actually had no one she could call -- everyone would either be asleep, or, on the off chance they weren't asleep, would hang up on her. Putting the phone down, she finished that story, read the other story about her niece, and immediately flipped to the editorial page.
The Times itself wasn't commenting yet; its editorial was about something or other President Bush had done. Normally she'd be interested. Right now, Amy couldn't possibly care less. There were three letters about Daria, one positive, one negative, and one somewhere in the middle. Whether that was reflective of the actual proportions of the letters they'd received, or was simply Times editorial policy, she couldn't say. And to a large extent it didn't matter; the important thing is that there was no major outcry demanding that "the city keep that murderer locked up."
There was a knock at the door. Opening it, she found room service there with her coffee. She drank it while half-heartedly leafing through the rest of the newspaper.
When she was done with the coffee, she left the cup outside the room and went to see whether her sister was awake yet. Rita, who'd been awake for only about ten minutes when Amy knocked on her front door, had, of course, gotten a wonderful night's sleep, and couldn't for the life of her understand why Amy was so exhausted, the obviousness of which on Amy's face, it had to be noted, she pointed out in excruciating detail. Amy didn't bother taking offense any more. It would have been like getting offended at the wind when it blew papers out of your hand.
She handed Rita the morning Times; Rita looked at the headline, up at Amy, and then back down at the story. When she was done, she was as horrified as Rita had been. "Is she okay?" Rita asked.
"I don't know yet. I wanted you to see the story before I called," Amy said glibly, then pulled out her cell and dialed Carla Fisk's number.
It took her a couple of minutes to persuade the receptionist to route her call through; that she was not, in fact, another member of the media, but actually someone who had serious business to discuss.
"Ms. Barksdale," she said. "What can I do for you?"
"The first thing is let me know if my niece is okay," Amy said.
"Oh. Right. Yes, she is. I can tell you that much. She managed to successfully fight off a woman thought to be an infamous assassin, and ended up with no more than a few bumps and bruises."
"Thank you," Amy said, relieved. Daria was safe. That was the important thing.
Daria managed to fight off a hit woman? Either her nieces was tougher than she thought or contract killer standards had dropped dramatically since the 1930's.
"Unfortunately, I can't tell you anything else," the ADA said. "I've been assigned to prosecute the woman, so that makes it an active case."
"Good luck," Amy said. "Have you felt any more direct fallout from yesterday?"
"Some. It's still a big story, and it's not getting any smaller with the news of the attack on the prison. I've talked to a handful of reporters. You?"
"No. Of course, part of that could simply be that they don't know where we are yet. Like with Dr. Vaughn."
"Possibly," she said. "Anyway, if anyone starts harassing you too much, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Or your sister."
"I suspect Rita would thrive on the attention," Amy said. "And in any event, she's going to be back in Virginia in a couple of days."
"She is?" the attorney sounded surprised.
"Yes, of course. There's no point in both of us staying here for as long as it takes, but obviously one of us has to. I'm the one with temporary guardianship, and since I'm a freelance writer I can work from LA as easy as I can from New York. Rita and I will share the costs; we're going to look for a place I can rent by the month so I can get out of the hotel."
"Okay. Like I said, if there's anything I can do, let me know."
Carla Fisk was being civil and friendly, but there was a clear undertone of I-have-to-get-back-to-work in her voice. Amy didn't take it personally. "I'll do that," she said, and said goodbye.
"Daria's okay," she said to Rita when she hung up.
"Well, I got that," Rita said irritably. "I doubt you would have stood there chatting up the woman if Daria was dead or even seriously injured. I'm not that dumb, Amy."
"I didn't mean to imply that you were," Amy said, knowing she'd implied no such thing.
"And what was that crack about me thriving on the attention?"
"You deal better with the public than I do," Amy said. "If reporters try to interview you, you'll handle it well. That's all."
Rita was apparently only partly mollified. "I'd hardly say I thrive on having people asking insulting questions about my niece. But you're right that I'd deal with it better than you would. I mean, really, Amy. What were you thinking being so sarcastic to that horrid Talbot fellow yesterday?"
"I was thinking maybe I'd defend my niece from some vicious allegations. But perhaps I was wrong."
"Amy, your sarcasm isn't doing you any favors now either," Rita said. "I applaud your desire to defend Daria. I'm simply questioning your methods of doing it."
"Which is why I'm leaving it up to you from now on," Amy said.
"Is there anything we can do today?" Rita asked after a half minute or so of awkward silence.
"Well, ADA Fisk is busy, Daria hates us and Dr. Vaughn's not too happy with us either. We've already made arrangements for that other psychiatrist to come see Daria today."
"So, time for shopping?"
"I guess, if you want to," Amy said. "I'm not sure I want to take the risk."
"The risk? Amy, sweetie, this is Los Angeles. If a mob of reporters forms they're going to be looking for someone far more interesting than you and me."
Seeing Rita's point, even if she didn't quite buy it, Amy said, "Okay, then. There's nothing else we can do for Daria right now, so if you want to shop, we may as well shop." After a pause, "Besides, there's this bookstore I've heard a lot about."
"A bookstore?"
"You shop your way, I'll shop mine."
X X X X X
Daria read the Inferno until it was time for dinner. She checked the book out and was escorted directly to the cafeteria by a guard. "After dinner, you finally get to go back to your cell, Lehane," the guard said.
"Goody. There's no place like home."
Though it was against usual policy, the guards held onto the book during the meal, during which Daria regaled the other eaters at her table with her tales of how she'd fought off a hired assassin, yet again.
Then she was escorted back to her cell, which looked as though it had been gone through by a combination high-level janitorial service/police crime lab. If there was a square millimeter that hadn't been examined for forensic evidence, you couldn't have proven it by Daria. The good news was that the place was spotlessly clean, and of course that they didn't find evidence that Daria/Faith had been engaged in any nefarious business, because there was no evidence to find --
Except, of course, for the damaged wall, which had been covered up and plastered over. Since Daria hadn't been questioned by Lieutenants Hunter or McCall on the damage, she presumed Warden Juarez had explained it away somehow. Either that, or the police simply had better things to do.
As Daria was in for the night, she got back to reading the Divine Comedy. By lights out, she'd made her way through most of the Inferno -- Dante and Virgil were in the 9th and lowest circle of hell, and it was only a matter of time before they got out. She had only Canto XXXIV left to read, but that would have to wait until morning.
X X X X X
That night, she dreamed. And for the first time since she'd come back to herself, it was not set in a certain apartment.
In the dream, she herself was going through the Inferno -- with someone guiding her, someone she couldn't quite make out.
"On march the banners of the King of Hell,"
Said my guide. "See, there, ahead of us:
Can you see who he is? Can you tell?"
Like grinding machines seen at a distance vast
In an early morning fog, I saw his hands --
And through gestures they moved quite fast
Stirring up such a foul air and a vapor
That I had to hide behind my guide
For protection; first, rock, then paper
Then scissors, over and over again
Till one could not tell, no matter how closely
One looked, which one he threw right then.
The way ahead was barren and paved with ice;
Still, my guide had to prod me into action
For I would not move of my own device.
When we had gotten closer, she said,
"Now, look at the face of the one
Whom above all others you feel most dread."
And, Listener, I beg of you, do not make me tell
You how I feared who I was about to see.
I knew then indeed I was in hell.
The Architect of my Universe of Pain
Jutted his upper chest above the ice.
I looked briefly but did not want to ascertain
His features; for I knew that his face
Would fill me with the greatest of fear.
My guide said, "Courage! You are almost done the race.
Just turn your gaze upwards and confront
The one who sent you here, into this dread domain.
I realize it is not something that you want
But it is something you must do, must
To be finally free of this accursed place.
I told her, "I comprehend. I do. It's just
That it is so difficult to take that final leap."
My guide smiled and said, "It is. Just
Remember that once you are done you may keep
Those he tortures with you, forever. They will no
Longer be held here, in bondage, in this
Inferno of your own creation. Daria, so.
Can you look up?" My guide's words shamed
Me beyond any I had ever heard;
And I felt that I was suddenly enflamed
With the desire to finish this, for once and all.
So I forced my head to gaze upwards
And of course there is no doubt what I saw:
Willard Jay Harbaugh stood there, always making
Those gestures with his hands, causing a
Powerful wind that froze all of the 9th circle, taking
Me along with it. In his mouth he worked three
Victims between his pointed teeth -- keeping
Them in continual pain, till I set them free.
"Those up there, who suffer still," explained my guide,
"Are your sister, your father and mother.
And now you must decide."
And the decision I had to make was clear
As the ice upon which I trod:
It was time for me to face up to my fear.
"Harbaugh!" I screamed. "You have kept me here
Imprisoned in darkness, in twilight, in limbo,
In this private hell, for four long years.
No more. No more will I remain in this jail
Of your devising, just as I will not long stay
In the prison of the world. I shall not fail
To escape either. But," I said, turning
To my guide, "I will not leave this foul place
Alone. Should Faith still be here, burning
Or freezing, tortured in any manner,
Any way, any fashion at all, then where
The King of Hell still marches under his banners,
There, until she is freed, I shall remain."
The fierceness in my voice quite startled
My guide, who said, "She is not in this domain.
No. Faith has already escaped Hell and waits
For us, at the base of the Mount of Purgatory,
Where we also must go, to seek our fates."
"Harbaugh!" I screamed again. "Your power
Over me has come to its end.
Release my parents and sister this hour!"
The gestures did not cease, but the motion
Of the monster's mouth came to a halt.
Listener, the joyous, fierce emotion
That passed through me at that time,
I can barely begin to describe.
"Now," said my guide. "We may begin our climb
Up his body, now that your family has been freed
Of the hell which you yourself devised.
If ever you have listened to me, take heed
Of my words now. He can no longer
Control you, or harm them, in any manner.
Daria, you have proven you are stronger."
The climb was long and hard, but my guide
Never let my endurance falter.
Once we had reached the summit, we were outside
At the base of Purgatory's colossal peak
And I stopped, and gazed around, looking for
Faith, seeing that my future was no longer so bleak.
For my personal prison no longer had bars,
And we wandered out together, beneath the stars.
X X X X X
She was jolted awake. Not only had she dreamed, she had dreamed in poetry.
Weird. But that wasn't the most important thing.
Somehow, then, she knew that Faith was safe. She also knew that she could never tell anyone about it -- not wouldn't, but literally could not.
The final weight had been lifted. Her family was free. Faith was waiting for her, somewhere.
She looked at the book next to her on the bed, and decided that she didn't need to read the 34th and final canto. It wasn't relevant any more.
Daria had already made her way through the Inferno.