Hope

It was the best sandwich he'd ever had. The bread was stale and the bacon turned out to be mostly fat, but a last meal was a last meal. The only reason Moist had got one at all was because he knew how people worked, and there was something oddly hopeful about it. They shouldn't hang a man with strings of bacon fat in his teeth, it just wouldn't be fair.

Fate

It had never fully occurred to him that he might die here. They honestly did plan to hang him today, and they were so damn friendly about it, too. Well sure, it wasn't the end of the world for them, after all. It was just another day at work for the executioner. But where was the fairness in that? Moist had figured something must come through. Everyone always said million-to-one chances simply had to work, right? It was fact, for gods' sake!

Regret

Did he actually regret any of it? Not really, although Moist wasn't sure. He regretted getting caught, of course. and he regretted that he'd fallen for the prospect of freedom Vetinari built into the prison because apparently the Patrician was some kind of sadist. There did seem to be, however, a prick of regret in the back of his mind; it had something to do with the money safely hidden, and just a twinge of...well, disappointment. No one would know who was truly hanged here. In time, even the sickeningly honest prison guards would forget Moist...err...Albert Spangler ever existed at all.

Angels

Maybe you didn't only get one angel. Pesky little things hovering over your shoulder. Moist figured you probably got as many angels as you could bear. He didn't trust them; they sounded too much like gods. Of course Moist would never actually call himself an atheist because he wanted to live. He wasn't exactly afraid to die anymore, but he was wary of any afterlife that may involve more angels.

Irony

The last meal he had as Albert Spangler had been excellent. Now, Moist von Lipwig was sitting at a cafe leafing through a magazine about pins, and the bacon sandwich in front of him seemed all too ordinary. He was ordinary, too, in fact. Just a mere postmaster with a peculiar set of people skills, that's all.

Karma

Moist fancied himself a generally decent person who happened to do bad things. Vetinari was right about everyone having a choice, but the world tended to even out in the end, didn't it? His choices were quite clear: death or the post office. So that was it, a strange sort of penance offered by a most unlikely angel. What the hell had Moist ever done to deserve any choice, even the prospect of freedom?

Victimless

Moist turned over on a massive pile of ancient letters that night, the golem's words running around in circles inside his skull. "When Banks Fail, It Is Seldom Bankers Who Starve." Moist had always believed his crimes were victimless. "You Did Not Know Them. You Did Not See Them Bleed. But You Stole Bread From Their Mouths And Tore Clothes From Their Backs."

Yes, all right, so he swindled and tricked people into giving him their money because, at first, he needed to. Otherwise he would have starved! Then, well, Moist practiced the arts of his trade until frankly it would have been impractical to take up a more honest one. They thought him the fool. That was humanity, or dwarfity or trollity and...what? Ye gods, why can't I sleep?

A million small ways...hastened the death of many...never drawn a sword...

Hell, his entire livelihood depended on the power of words versus violence. Moist never directly harmed anyone, but of course his actions did have consequences for someone. How many people had the average man unknowingly helped to kill? If you looked out only for yourself, it was inevitable. And if you gave everything you had to others, the life you took was your own. No, Mr. Pump was just plain wrong. What did a golem know about people?

You couldn't murder a fraction of a person, could you? Or was that worse, then?

Choices

"Do you think I'm a bad person, Mr. Pump?"

"No, Mr. Lipvig," the golem rumbled. "There Are No Good People And Bad People, Only Choices."

Now the bloody thing is starting to sound like Vetinari. Well, at least not literally this time."So what do you think of me, then?" Moist wasn't sure why he cared.

"You Have Made Bad Choices, Mr. Lipvig, But You Have A Chance To Put Things Right."

"I don't have much of a choice now, do I?" Moist frowned. "I have to resurrect the damn post office before it kills me, or drives me mad."

"True, You Cannot Run From Your Punishment." Mr. Pump agreed. "But You Are Alive And Free. And You Do Have A Choice."

"Right," the postmaster smiled cheerfully. "I could always hang."

Honest

"Be yourself." sounded to Moist like the worst advice anyone could give, especially to a conman. It was the one thing he seemed to be absolutely terrible at. Lies were all he knew. Moist could never become an honest man, but he had to try to be better for Adora. It was just like attempting the impossible: easy as fooling an honest man.

Engagement

As soon as he could, Moist bought a proper ring for Adora. When he presented it to her, she narrowed her eyes.

"It's not glass, is it?"

"Of course not." Moist said. "I swear on my honor as...the postmaster, this is real diamond." After a while Adora's expression sunk in, and his smile faltered. "You don't like it."

"Moist, I don't need diamonds to love you. I agreed to marry you without even a ring. You are one of the most infuriating men I have ever known, yet I still accepted your proposal in the end. I love you despite seeing you in that ridiculous golden suit. So what could you hope to achieve here?"

Moist didn't know. "It's...traditional." he said lamely.

Adora laughed. She was not a traditional woman.

Oh well. Moist supposed he'd learn from such expensive mistakes once they were married.