Larksong Grotto white fog

faust regarded her, the way her face softened at his words. no judgment, no skepticism—just quiet understanding. it unsettled him.
depends on who you ask, he muttered, lips curling slightly at her attempt to find goodness in something he wasn’t sure deserved it. respect wasn’t something his mother had taught him. it was something he had learned on his own, through hardship, through survival.
she wanted his name.
he hesitated, watching the way her eyes shone in the dim light. she had given hers freely, without hesitation. lousine. a name as soft as the way she spoke, as the way she seemed to move through the world.
faust. simple. blunt. he had never liked his name, but it was his all the same. nice to meet you, lousine. the words came out stiff, as if he wasn’t used to saying them. because he wasn’t.