A/N: Alright, so rather than have Her stand it's own, it is now Chapter One of My Love Shall Ever Live Young Extras. I haven't changed any content in this story; just added some more of the same variety.
Disclaimer: The characters of Twilight are the property of Stephanie Meyer and Little, Brown. I'm just borrowing them to work my way out of writer's block and have some fun.
You feel a pull, a tug in the direction of her.
Your love. The love of an eternity. The love you are separated from for the first time in...you can't measure the years. You'd say the first time since what men call "pre-history" but even you don't exaggerate that much. Your exploits have been documented by men, turned into song, told in tales woven over fires. Nonetheless, this is the first time since men replaced the Tuatha Dé Danann as rulers of your Land that you and your love have been separated.
It is your brother's fault. He's hiding from you; you don't know why he did what he did, or how much malice was involved. Sometimes his "jokes" turn out more serious than he intends. Then again, sometimes he's a malicious bastard and you wish you weren't related to him. Just why, why did your father have to be so very fertile? You'd thought for some time now that your brother actually liked your love. They'd always gotten along, as much as two creatures with opposite personalities can get along. Til now, his "pranks" had been focused solely on his siblings, never their spouses.
But now she's gone, born into a family you've reincarnated into before, but in a branch that is so far away—you can't follow her. You are bound to the Land in a way that she is not; you can only go so far when you are playing human. You can't be born anywhere else. And now she's out of your physical reach.
You feel the tug toward her anyway, and you realize that because you haven't funneled your energies into a frail human body, you can at least keep tabs on her as she lives this mortal life. Not being with her physically does not mean losing her totally.
Except you know that being born into a mortal life means your memory of in-between, of immortality, is erased. She won't know who she is.
She won't know who you are.
She won't know why she feels incomplete. You will, but you won't be able to tell her.
Perhaps in a few decades when she's grown older, her spirit will remember its ancestral home and she'll come back in this new body. You could do something then. Take a corporeal form and meet her as you, a god in his home land. Remind her. Woo her all over her again.
When she is born into her new, tiny, screaming body, you are there in the hospital with the human parents and extended family and the little boy who will be her brother. You idly hope he's a better brother than the ones you have been dealing with for eons. If he's not, you think, then at most she'll have to deal with him for 80 or so years. Not terribly long when you consider how long you've been suffering your own siblings.
While you and her family for this lifetime are waiting on her to make her debut to this life, you entertain yourself by swinging your transparent hand through people's heads, and by laying your ear against the straining abdomen of the woman birthing the love of your existence. You think it's funny that your love gets more active in her attempts to be born when you do this. She's already drawn to you, and she hasn't even drawn breath yet in this life.
Human births are so messy.
After the doctors and nurses get her breathing, you immediately make yourself known to her, cooing in her mind, making soothing noises, letting her know she's loved. To your surprise, she responds to you. Babies who are minutes old aren't, you think, usually calmed by hovering deities invading their tiny malleable brains. You love it. You love her.
You are beyond jealous when her human father is able to scoop her into his arms and reverently run his fingertips across her tiny face.
You are pissed off at your brother all over again for denying you this connection when he sent her to this inconsequential rainy corner of a continent you should never even have to think about. This should be home. This should be a hospital in Dublin or someplace, and you should be being born into this life within days of her. That's the way it works. That's the way it has happened since the two of you decided to see how mortals live.
You are going to find a way to permanently kill your worthless brother when you track him down and drag him out of hiding. It will make your father mad, but it will be worth the Dagda's wrath if you can make it happen.
Her family is talking now, beyond the little noises and cooing that occurs around infants. The nurse is asking for you love's name.
You hope it is something interesting, something dignified. You've both ended up with some very ugly names over the millennia you've been doing this.
"Isabella," says the mother. You don't mind this name so much. You would have preferred something Gaelic, but a name that translates to "beautiful" is appropriate, so you don't complain. You miss the name the father chooses as her middle name.
You watch as the nurse fills out the birth certificate.
Isabella Marie Swan.
Well, now. You think that she at least has a suitable name, since your love is, truly, a beautiful swan. She was the most beautiful on the Lough Dragan that day on Samhain when you picked her out amongst the crowd of fellow girls-turned-swans. You loved her when she appeared in your dreams. You loved her when you saw her as a swan. You have loved her in every incarnation you two have experienced.
You love her now, though she does not know you.
She will. You will do whatever is in your power to make sure that she is not alone in this incarnation; that your two souls will have whatever connection you can forge while you are...incorporeal here. Please, please let her in this lifetime visit your home land so that you can approach her and reconnect to her physically.
For a moment, you wonder if you can influence her family and convince them to move back to the father's family's ancestral home. Then you remember that any influence you have on mortals fades when you leave that same home.
Again, you make a vow to yourself to cause your brother an intense amount of pain. This is his fault.
The mother falls asleep, and the father gently places your fragile newborn love in a crib next to the hospital bed. Your love breathes deeply and squirms as her brother in this life places a cautious fingertip against her palm. "It's your job, Emmett," the father begins, "to take care of your baby sister. You and me, buddy. She's our responsibility."
Emmett, the little boy, the one who gets to play with your love as she grows and learns, nods solemnly, locking his big eyes with his father's. "Don't worry Daddy. I'll take good care of her. I won't let nobody hurt her." You decide this little boy isn't so bad. When you're bored, you might not wave your hand through his head. Making somebody lightheaded isn't what you do if you like them, after all.
You wrap your presence around her tiny body, and you hum her favorite lullaby in her mind, hoping she will get the rest she needs to start this life off right.