In the end, Thom's glad the rumors are wrong.
Whispers were heard among the guards that the Inquisition might step in, might use its influence to free him. Almost everyone expected the Herald to make an attempt to save her lover.
But they don't know his lady, not like he does.
She believes in justice. How many hours had they talked in quiet voices, shaping the perfect Thedas if only in their own minds? She must think him quite the hypocrite, how pleased he was when she netted out harsh judgements to those who deserved them, when he had escaped justice himself for so long.
Or maybe she doesn't think of him at all. She was so quick to leave the prison, barely even able to look at him. And her last words to him… I never loved you.
She never once spoke the words out loud, it's true. But as he told her once, It's what you do and how you do it that matters. And he always thought… with her actions… But perhaps it was just an old man's dream.
The rope is tight around his wrists and the guard prods his shoulder, instructing him to move. The door from the prison opens and Thom has to squint in the harsh sunlight, not having been outside for more than a week.
The crowd lines up on either side of the cobblestone road leading to the gallows, like they're waiting for a parade. Perhaps they are. The moment Thom's in sight, the jeers and boos begin. After the quiet of the prison, the sounds are maddeningly loud. If his hands weren't bound, he'd cover his ears.
He wears prison garb, a thin tunic and ragged pants, barely able to keep out the chill. Looking ahead, he sees the gallows, the hangman's noose waiting, ready to end his life. He never before thought of the gallows as a respite, but he is sofucking tired.
It's while he's looking ahead when he's first struck with crumpled paper. Next a ruined vegetable. The guards do nothing, say nothing, as they walk. Thom tries to ignore the people spitting at this feet and doesn't flinch when a rock hits him in the temple, hard enough to draw blood.
The people of Orlais always did like a good execution.
His footing doesn't waver as his guards push him up the stairs to the platform. Thom knows his life will be over in minutes and tries to reflect, tries to think of something he touched where he didn't fuck up, and as they put the noose around his neck, he draws a blank.
He sees her then, towards the back of the crowd, feet bare, wearing a simple dress instead of the Dalish armor she's known for. A hooded cloak might keep others from noticing her, but Thom would recognize his lady anywhere, the way her lips curved into a slight pout and the vallaslin decorating her throat. How many times had he traced those lines with the tip of his tongue over the past year?
He can think of no good reason why she is here, and perhaps it doesn't matter. That she is, is enough.
The guards help him step onto a stool, the crowd growing louder, but Thom's blocked it all out. The only thing in his world is her, how she brings a delicate hand to cover her mouth before wiping away the tears trickling down her cheeks.
The noose tightens and Thom knows he should close his eyes, whispering a prayer to Andraste, asking for salvation. Instead he stares at Her Herald, who is crying. Crying tears for him, tears he doesn't deserve, and he want her to be the last thing he sees in this world.
She stares right back at him and mouths a few words. The words change everything and he feels a sense of inevitability and peace spread through his body, through his marrow and bones and blood.
And as the guard kicks the stool from under him, Thom goes to the Fade for the last time with a rock hard certainty settling deep in his chest.
He is loved.