The first night they spent in this tower, Terra hadn't been able to sleep – it was too strange, too alien, indoors-but-not, and one of Kefka's nightmarish creations could stumble over them at any moment. But a week in here had made it close enough to normal that she could turn off the awareness and sleep, out of necessity. She had more practice at that than most.
It had worked until now, in these little rooms right at the core of the tower. She'd opened the door, and outside, there'd been a stone spire. She'd looked up, and seen sky and a winged form, and terror had clenched around her heart and sent her back inside. Scurrying like a mouse, she could hear how he'd say it, and she hoped it was just memory and imagination, that he couldn't speak into her mind.
So no, she couldn't sleep, and it was to Locke's credit that he didn't even ask rhetorically when he poked his head out of the tent. His hair was tousled and colorless in the firelight, his face shadowed with stubble, and he looked so tired she couldn't imagine why he was having trouble sleeping. "Tomorrow, you think?" she asked. They were waiting for Cyan's group to arrive.
"Probably. Hard to say."
"I hope so."
"Really?"
"I want to get it over with," she said. "Maybe I shouldn't, but it's not like I get to spend my last days with the kids, you know?"
"Hey," he protested, no trace of sleepiness left. "We talked about this."
"I know, but Locke—"
"Be realistic with Edgar," he said. He reached for her hand, pulling it from her knee and then holding it awkwardly like he wasn't sure why he'd picked it up. "I'm not going into this with any plans to lose anyone, you hear me?"
She sighed. He got her hand arranged between both of his and squeezed it, for emphasis or to demand a better answer, and she said, "I know."
"You're going home when this is all over," he said, pulling her hand to his lips and pressing them against it. "I promise."