Won't you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead
He gives in, and puts his hand against the glass. It's like a tattoo, reflected. She reaches out, even as he's shaking, and asks for his permission. He can't find the words; he nods instead, and she touches him through the glass. Galen steps out onto the balcony; Sharon wraps her arms around him, with a bottle of wine. The cherry trees are blossoming; it's always springtime here, in this Utopia, this no place at all. In the brig he smiles and breathes, and gives him. He takes the wine into the kitchen and fetches glasses; on the wall there are height lines, following a daughter's growth. All those years he wasn't there, with only Sharon to breathe live into that little girl. He heads upstairs, at her embarrassed nod, and heads into their daughter's room.
Her name is Dionne. (One of the Titans was named Dione; one of Saturn's moons is named for her. It's the feminine of Zeus's name, Dios, and she was Aphrodite's mother, but more interestingly she was the goddess of the oracle of Dodona -- from which we get the name of the New Caprica oracle who told Three that Hera was alive, and that Three's God was not so different from the Colonies' Gods: Dodona Selloi.) In the plaster handprint on her door, however, she's written her name closer to "Dromire," a form of the verb "to sleep." It's just a dream. It's the dream that kept Boomer alive, until she found her new trajectory. This part's straight out of the Leoben playbook too, if you think about it.
And from a nasty angle, it makes a certain elegant, ugly sense: if humans and Cylons and God weren't so obsessed with children and parents, children becoming parents, if humans weren't so obsessed with their creator and authoritative status as parents, if Ellen didn't still think of them as her children, maybe none of this would have happened in the first place. If Gods didn't eventually wear out and asked to be replaced -- if we didn't insist on changing and evolving every generation, if our societies stayed static, needing the same Gods as the week before, and the week before that -- maybe people wouldn't have to die in their name so often. Observation lends existence. He laughs; they laugh together, weeping. Boomer falls in love with him again, and for a moment stops pretending.
Kara's kicked up beside him now, with her drink and her feet on the bench, working through the first movement of his opus. Nobody seems to notice, in the bar, but whatever. He's stuck again, lost, but assures her it's just the next hurdle. He had a trajectory, now it's gone: "The key is to, you know, not panic. Just trust yourself, something's gonna come. It's just part of the process." Existing. "Is part of the process also stealing from other composers? That piece that you're riffing off of, it's Nomion's Third Sonata, Second Movement." He stops, and she shrugs apologetically, but he admits it. "No, you're dead on the money. It's pronounced No-mayan..." But when he's stuck, he looks to the past, for his touchstone. For inspiration. "For somebody who hates music so much, you know an awful lot about it." She nods. It was never music she hated. "My Dad used to play." Slick treads carefully: was it the old story, he was a prodigy and forced her to learn, he was a perfectionist, she learned to hate it? He dares himself to hope it's wrong, and it is: that's not Dreilide's story, that's Socrata's.