Sometimes Ana takes her Plimpies for a walk. Not all at once but she alternates. She gives them one bow if they’ve already gone for a walk so she can keep track and not give one more attention than the others.
One day she takes Grim for a walk down to the Mediterranean Lake. Grim is her favorite plimpie, and he stands out from the rest. He has a scar on him. She doesn’t know on what part of his body, but it’s on his body. That makes him special. He’s special also because he was the first plimpie she got when she went plimpie hunting with Morti. He will forever be her favorite plimpie.
So Anastasia has a little leash around his leg and she lets him drift in the lake while she walks around it’s edge. She’s sober today. Well, she had a cup of mead before she left, but she’s not drunk. And right now she’s fine with that. She doesn’t need mead to feel light-headed when thinking about Morti gives her the same effect. He’s her favorite high, but she’ll never tell him.
She sits down on a rock and stares out at the lake where Grim is floating upside down, his legs sticking up above the water. She smiles fondly.
She lets her mind drift to Mortimer and how handsome he is. How wonderful of a ruler he is, even if it is the dead. How nice he is despite dealing with the lame that is the non-loving. How much she wants to kiss him. She bites her lip and tightens her grip on the leash. It hurts to think about him, but she doesn’t stop.
She sits there for a few hours and thinks of the god. It’s on days like this that she wishes she could just run to Deitero, cry into his chest and complain about boys. But she doesn’t, because contrary to popular belief, she is an adult. And she’d never stoop so low as to act THAT childish.
She notices Grim is bouncing around on the land and smiles. He’s the most adorable of all the adorables to ever adorable. She stands up and dusts her pants and goes over and grabs Grim. She hugs him tight but pulls away quickly when he bits her shoulder. She smacks his face lightly and drops him to the ground. He rolls around a bit after the initial bounce. She smiles. She loves her Grimy. She’ll always love her Grimy. But she’ll never love Mortimer. She doesn’t love him. The stares of longing, the quickening heart beat when he’s near, the ache in her chest, the almost constant thinking about him, mean nothing.
Because she doesn’t love Mortimer, not with every drunken fiber of her being. Nope, not at all. Not one bit.