Gaius strokes Caprica's face, looking into her eyes, and they pick up their bags, heading across a meadow. He points at the hills. "Over there, between those two peaks. I saw some terrain that looked good for cultivation." That wonderful old song, again, soaring into something majestic, and sad, and honorable, and lovely. "Cultivation?" she asks. "Yes," he says, and slows. They stop walking. He looks down, suddenly still. "You know, I know about farming," he says, and it breaks him open. He can't look at her. Another wall falls down: the first lie. We're all, deep inside of us, every age we've ever been. That boy deserves love. More, and more, and more love. She touches his face.
And somewhere long ago, Gaius looks across the table and sees the man for the first time. "I know who you are, Felix. I know who you are." He looks so young.
"Hey," she says, as he wipes at his tears. "I know." All of this, sinner and saint and President and tinfoil king and more. Julius's son; son of Aerilon. Dirty hands, sharp wit, broken heart, a thousand endings. All of these at once, that's the man she loves. Someone to be proud of. She kisses him, and his back gets straighter. "I know you do."
He nods, and they set off, with their arms around each other. Into the world.
"I laid out the cabin today. It's going to have an easterly view. You should see the light that we get here. When the sun comes from behind those mountains... It's almost heavenly."
This is her grave, marked with sticks, a cairn of stones. Not in fire, or water, or air: only earth, the solid ground. Something to stand on, someone to be proud of. Only earth, because she was his, and he was hers. I want you to know what I like.
"It reminds me of you."
Hera walks down the hill, with her father's walking stick. She looks up at the sky, and the wind rushes over her, across the grasses and the sands, the oceans and islands and forests, and the rises on New York City. It's 150,000 years after Earthfall.
"At a scientific conference this week at the Smithsonian institution in Washington, the startling announcement was made that archeologists believe they have found fossilized remains of a young woman who may actually be Mitochondrial Eve. Mitochondrial Eve is the name scientists have given to the most recent common ancestor for all human beings now living on Earth." It's Angel Six, reading over Ron Moore's shoulder; both angels are delighted by this, although it's not quite as meaningful as it seems: it means not that she is the mother of us all, but only that we carry her mitochondrial DNA, which passes down only from a mother to her children. I'm proud, then, to have a little Athena in me, but more excited by the spark of Cylon we all got to have. "She lived in what is now Tanzania, over 150,000 years ago..."