"Oh my Gods. How did you do that?" Tory looks at her, this woman who once seemed so eternal; Tory loads her eyes, her face and posture, with as much cold steel as she can muster. "I came back with D'Anna. To be with my people." Say it to Laura and it becomes real; before the Nebula Tory's "people" were Laura Roslin, and through her the Fleet. Even after the Nebula, after the world fell apart, the only human Tory could admit that she loved was Laura Roslin. Even after Laura pulled the final brick out of the wall, and called her a whore, and her love was worth frak, she loved.
Even after Laura bade her play the prostitute -- used her, I mean to say, to fight against lies that were not lies, to cause herself to doubt, to play her against her lover as though they were lies while admitting to Lee that they were the truth -- she still stood in that hangar, with the other three begging silently and in shouts for her to stay, she knew that Laura Roslin needed her medication. But Laura is no longer her people; Laura made sure of that. We are all orphans, in the Fleet.
Roslin gapes and Gaius gibbers. "Because you're one of the Five. You're one of the Final Five." The Six nods, telling Laura that Three saw her in her vision. Baltar babbles, hilariously. "I knew it. Maybe not on a conscious level, but subconsciously, I always knew there was something..." Laura swallows and remembers every unkind word.
"You had no idea. Did you?" Laura admits she didn't, pleads with her eyes for a moment more to think. She stares at the Six, and back to Tory. Tory turns her back. "Might be worth pondering what else you've been wrong about." But that's all she's been doing since Tory showed up. And now she's a woman with two goals, because she knows she loves Tory, and she knows she loves living.
"Tory, wait. You're right. I'm wrong. Okay." Good but not good enough. Why does Tory need your apology now? You're the Dying Leader of a dying nation; she is the saint and sister of a perfect race of superheroes. The Final Four theme softens, to sing her memory and her pride: When Mother was something to behold, at the head of a classroom or before the Quorum, holding onto strength she never knew she had, mythical Athena towering, grey eyes thundering. The memory of service, to her President and to their Fleet, together. To their nation. Mother says, "This is the shape of things to come," and so it is; she breathes it into the sky. Every mother is a Goddess, until she is outgrown.