-1Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, because I am not Joss Whedon's big, bouncing brain. More is the pity, because if I were, perhaps I would have money worth suing me over.
Author's Notes: This is just a character study of Inara, who I always feel kind of gets shortchanged about her job. Mal looks down on it, and the vast majority of fan fiction involving her has her giving it up in some way, and I just think she's really more serious about it than that. It's a part of her that she loves, and worked very hard for, and on which provides her with great satisfaction. So this is kind of that. I hope you enjoy it!
With/Without
The problems in life are as numerous as the stars in the Verse. There are those without food, without money, without friends, without hope. There are monsters in all shapes and sizes, who prey on the weakened and stalwart alike, who don't stay confined in closets or under beds. I know, because I've seen them all in my time in the world.
Or, I suppose it would be more apt to say, out of it.
I was born to a well-off family. I lived a life of joy, and comfort. My mother was beautiful, like a fairy story one would tell to children. I was very much a child in her arms. She was a former companion, and she had nothing but wonderful things to say of her time as one. She would tell me tales of her days as daughter of the House of Ibna. Her eyes would shine as she remembered learning her craft, and she would make me laugh with stories of her mishaps and triumphs.
She taught me how to meditate, how to learn myself to better know and understand others. We would wake before dawn, so we could watch the sunrise over the water of our backyard lake. It was a time for us, and us alone, with that morning quiet around us. My mother was a woman who smiled with her entire body, with her entire self, and by my Dedya's recollection it was a trait she was born with, had always had, even before her study at the House. Those misty moments in the day's first light are jewels in the crown of my childhood memory. Sometimes, during pauses, or when I would break concentration, I would look over at my Meyda and even with her face calm, her features the picture of reflection and focus, I would see her smile.
These mornings kept me grounded. I was taught early on, and very often, that there was nothing to living if I wasn't grateful for what I had, and thankful for who I was privileged to be. If I weren't taught these things, the rest of my childhood would have left me dreadfully spoiled. My father was a man who understood gratefulness, and he always said that the things he treasured most were my mother and I. He took enormous delight in finding new and inventive ways of surprising us with gifts.
He saw me study a plaque too closely at the zoo once, one about some exotic bird or another, and the next day he decided that it must mean that I had an interest in ornithology. The next day I had ten books waiting for me on the subject, and an animatronic pet bird who would float in front of me, holding the books and turning the pages.
It wasn't all tangible. One night, long past my bedtime I was roused by my mother and father and bid to dress in my fanciest of finery. For an eight year old, this is high excitement. I was whisked out to a play, an opera, with masks and beautiful music. I still have an old sound capture of that opera somewhere. I remember the sea of rippling silk, and the way my father looked at us watching the play, with the same expression as those following the opera itself. Pure satisfaction, and satisfaction that would last even when the music stopped.
They always supported me. Always. I don't truly understand how two people could ever be so wholly there for another person. They always looked on me with pride, and encouragement. They were even-tempered. They never yelled. When I did something wrong, one, the other or, in the instance I slammed
Lettie Borella's fingers with the piano cover, the both of them would sit me down, explain to me why they were concerned, and saddened (and in the case of Lettie Borella, extremely disappointed) with me. Then I would receive my punishment, with a thorough explanation of why they felt it was necessary.
It sounds like other parents, but when I was done, when I had achieved penance, they would tell me. They would say, "Inaralove, you have proven that you are remorseful of your actions. And I think you understand where you went astray. I'm glad that you have once again proven yourself to be the clever, kindhearted girl I know you to be."
They made me believe I could do anything.
It wasn't like it was all dulcet tones, and smooth waters. I was, perhaps contrary to how I would appear now- or, perhaps not- a rather spirited child. I got up to all kinds of mischief and they were sometimes quite flummoxed to find a way to deal with me.
But they always did, in the end. Or tried their best. And I've never known two people to make a more concentrated effort at it.
When I decided to train as a Companion, they were delighted. After all, I mentioned earlier that my mother had once been a Companion herself, before she and my father married. She was particularly solemn in explaining what would be expected of me, the effort and discipline I would have to put forth, I think so that I understood it wasn't all glamour, and fancy parties.
She didn't have to, really. Except for a very brief stint when I was six when I wanted to grow up to be a fairy princess, I had always wanted to attain Companionship.
Some people think that being a Companion is about selling the body, money for sex, the act, the payoff, and then it's done. Those people, those infuriating, cynical, misguided people, are so very wrong.
My life's work does surround sexual practice. But the heart of it is in its name. I am a Companion. I work to provide someone with a person they need, to help, and provide comfort. The training we go through is intense, and rigorous, with components of psychology, physiology, social relations, grief counseling- yes, that's right, grief counseling. One of my most fulfilling jobs ever was back on Sihnon, when a fifty-six year old woman had lost her husband in an unfortunate and untimely manner. She and I sat shiva for him, and she told me their entire story, all thirty four years of it, and when I asked why she felt she couldn't talk about these things with those closest to her she looked at me, oh, with these shining, hollowed, brave eyes, and said, "They knew him differently. They knew him as the brother, the father, the son. Anything I say to them, they will look at through eyes colored by what they know. I wanted to make sure that at least one other person in this world knew the man I know. Because what if I died tomorrow and nobody remembered Jacob the husband, the love of my life?"
There is so much joy in what I do. I am so proud of who I am and what I have achieved, and who I've helped. I was in training for House Priestess, a high, a distinguished honor, and I was an ambitious novitiate.
People were shocked when I left.
They shouldn't have been. I left not because of the job; I left because the music stopped.
My parents were killed together -they died holding hands- in a senseless manner. They were on their way to the Capital to visit me, in a recital and charity pageant my House was giving at the Solstice time, to raise money and awareness for some worthy cause. A traffic signal malfunctioned and the were hit from the side, and instantly my entire foundation was smashed out from under me.
I was very good at my work, and so were my good friends at the House, but I could find comfort in no one. This broke everything for me. If there was grief so deep, even a convent of Companions couldn't provide solace, then I had failed in life, in both their dreams and mine. They were gone, and there was no way for me to understand, to make sense of it, to find peace- balance. I decided to leave, travel the world, and the sky and find that balance again. To find a way to conquer my grief, that should I encounter its like in some client's form I would be able to provide them with what I was not able to receive.
On my way I've found that grief mirrored in distorted forms. There are monsters in all shapes and sizes, who prey on the weakened and stalwart alike, who don't stay confined in closets or under beds. I know, because I've seen them all in my time in the world.
The girl with the broken reality, the man with the broken sister, the soldier with the broken faith… They fit together with the piece of the girl with the broken family.
I've found my comfort, somewhere floating above the known and on the edge of not known at all, I understood suddenly life after grief. I understood it, and now I will master it, because I have found my companionship.
I just need to help them find theirs.