May is a surprisingly pleasant dead-weight in my arms.
And...
There should be a much more pleasant word for that term.
I shake my head and glance down at the snoozing little six year old girl in my arms. Her golden hair faintly shimmers and reflects the light of the moon as we walk.
Although she's asleep, one of her little fists still grips onto the front of my armor, as if she's worried that she'll fall if she doesn't.
Or...I realize, with a spike of sadness in my heart, maybe it's because she's afraid I won't be there when she wakes up if she's not holding onto me?
A soft, sad smile passes over my lips and I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head.
I can't blame her, really.
In fact, I'm probably the last person in this world to be judging May for needing reassurances that I - that we - won't leave her like the rest of her family has.
