Mist of invention

Part seven

His awkward, skeletal fingers wrapped around the cold iron bars of his cell. He leaned in closer. The air in the basement was so cold his breath condensed into fleeting clouds.
I knew to avoid those clouds. They were sometimes sparked with the ancient lightening of the forgotten.
"𝙼𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎?"
His voice grated in my skull like the worst migraine i had ever had.
"No."
He reclined, back against the stone wall. The chains clattered on the ground. 
"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐."
"I-" it was hard to think in here- "I need to talk to Lisa."
"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚜𝚜."
"There must be a way! Lord Faulkn-"
"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜," he interrupted me. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎."
I looked at him. The dishevelled hair and muddied robes. If anyone doesn't know what loss is - when to give up - it is him.
"Then who send me these?"
I held up the brown paper bag Faulkner brought me earlier. The stones fell to the ground, making tiny ripples in the space time around them. Some stopped halfway. Some kept rolling to infinity. I recalled them.
"𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍," was all he said. But i could tell by the look in his eye that even he did not know. I have always been good at reading people. The stones frightened him.