Another drabble! Halfway there, now; who knew that updating a pre-written story could take so long...
Prompt: tentacles, originally posted 4/5/07.
Will has not told her about the Dutchman, or Davy Jones, or even his father. The little she knows she learns by night, for only when they lie in darkness deep as the unfathomable depths of the sea does he speak: desperate dream-ravings, she would call them, did she not know that wakeful nightmares prowl the seas. And so she calms him through their off-watches, smoothing sweat-soaked hair, holding him until his talk of men with monsters' faces and monsters' hearts fades.
When she sleeps now, she dreams only of clinging, crushing tentacles, and death.
Death wears her own face.