[He moves in closer, kneeling neatly on the edge of the bank, and reaches out a tentative hand. He doesn't realize the minor quake in the movement, how such normally steady, methodical hands give away how shaken he feels.]
It shouldn't be real.
[It's quieter. Less insistent. And that one key change between "isn't" and "shouldn't" is larger than it seems for someone so dependent upon the conventions of reality that have all come so quickly crashing down around him.
His shaking hand makes contact, the scales both smooth and rough against his palm all at once, but very very real. Unmistakable as anything else.
He swallows thickly, and then removes his hand. A pause, and then he finally offers:]
It seems I owe you an apology.
[It's still slightly panicked, as he tries to push back the nagging, disproven doubt. The whole situation has been a struggle, but it seems this is the first to give him real reason to doubt. So yes, Oona, perhaps his brain is a little broken.]
he would be the deadest sailor. the most dead.
It shouldn't be real.
[It's quieter. Less insistent. And that one key change between "isn't" and "shouldn't" is larger than it seems for someone so dependent upon the conventions of reality that have all come so quickly crashing down around him.
His shaking hand makes contact, the scales both smooth and rough against his palm all at once, but very very real. Unmistakable as anything else.
He swallows thickly, and then removes his hand. A pause, and then he finally offers:]
It seems I owe you an apology.
[It's still slightly panicked, as he tries to push back the nagging, disproven doubt. The whole situation has been a struggle, but it seems this is the first to give him real reason to doubt. So yes, Oona, perhaps his brain is a little broken.]