You are the harbinger of death, Kara Thrace. You will lead them all to their end.
Helo and Sharon stare, at the furthest end of the tracking shot: A wasteland. Crumpled steel and broken spires. Sand and stones and rubble and snow, radiating death and sadness, a lost people, a dead civilization. The Apocalypse.
They might as well have fucking stayed on Caprica and died of cancer. Or Geminon, or Scorpion, or New Caprica after the bombing was done. But this is the end of the line: they couldn't make it back through the Passage now, not with Cavil and the 145s on the loose, not with a thousand ships or twice the civilians. The only allies the Colonies could use are now dying just as fast as we are.
You fight for something, like Jacob for Rachel; you work to earn it, you flay yourself, open up your veins and your skin and your selfishness and your cruelty and the greatest shames inside you, to earn a sense of worthiness. You work to earn your just reward. And when you get it, it is broken. They burned off the things that kept them blind and they walked one painful, bloody step from the Altar of the Colonies, on which they were sacrificed, to the Temple of Aurora, and when they got there it was broken.
I don't know how to communicate how sad that thought makes me. I don't know how to communicate how ... embarrassing it is. All that deceit and cruelty and hardening and Razors and pain and fear and suffering, and they might as well have stayed in the Colonies. To which, now, they really can't ever return.
They will join the Promised Land, gathered on the wings of an angel.
But I can tell you this. We move into the chairs that our parents vacate, but that's not the secret. The secret is our parents were never there. It was all an illusion: parents aren't Gods and never were. A story is not a house, and a story is not Home. When faced with untenable alternatives you consider your imperative: it's all around you. Laura knows, knows Galactica is her Home; that she found it, that she planted a tree and loved somebody and earned herself a Home. She knows the old joke, that even Cylons could conceive of chairness, when the ones they love best, the ones best for sitting, are right there in front of them. To think your life is a story being written by anybody but you.
And I can say this too. Imagine a black stone, and a white. Look at the space between them. Don't take your eyes from it: focus. Don't let anything deter you. It's absolutely essential that you block out everything except these two stones before you, and the space between them. And now, quick as a wink, I remove them both. I whisk them away as if they were never there.