disclaimer: not mine
The Weight of Water
All around him, the Nautilus creaks and groans. As on many such nights, this woke him. Now his feet fall with cemetery-quiet, like autumn leaves. At three in the morning, not even the crewmen are about, and the halls are silent but for that creaking. Kept awake, he frets at the weight of water, of weakness, of dreams.
Being here makes him think of being in a tomb. Much like Paris in that respect. Much like many things. How Nemo stands it, Henry can't imagine.
Edward isn't helpful.
You make everything a tomb, Henry. Let me get some sleep.