[ That's much better. Jaune wiggles his fingers when his palms are finally empty of bits of wood, and makes a mental note to find a better weapon next time, or to find a pair of gloves.

Which is a little like a kind of promise, or so it occurs to him when she speaks so unhappily of one she's forgotten. That gets him to lift his head, his brows coming together in consternation. It picks at something almost like the tweezers picked at particularly deep splinters, an odd, twisting ache that twists the corners of his mouth as he thinks. ]

I have a promise to keep too, I think. Or something like a promise.

[ Solidarity, again. It seems to be the first thing he reaches for when he's trying to comfort people. ]

I don't think mine is to you, either, but...that's why we have to figure this out, isn't it? So we can keep our promises.