"What are you doing?" he whispers. "You're just gonna... lie down and quit? You're the one who made me believe in this..." The worst thing he could have said. Her worst hubris, out loud, piercing her heart. She is ashamed; she turns back the tide. "You shouldn't have listened to me. When the Cylons first attacked, you should've held your ground and kept fighting. Because I was wrong. I was wrong about everything." She watches the pages burn; in her mind she sees them burning. "And all those people who listened... And they trusted me, and they followed me, all those people..." She nods to herself, agreeing with a litany that's been repeating itself in her heart since Earthfall: "They're dead." He reaches for her, terrified, and she pushes him away.

"Don't. Stop. Stop." Even weeping, she can't look at him; she will fall apart. "Don't touch me." She begs him to leave, voice cracking, and his heart breaks. She keeps lighting pages as he stands to go, unable to help, unable to see his way past this, to help her to the next thing, too caught up in his love and her pain to do anything but what she says.

She turns the pages, back from the end to the beginning. From the Temple to the Altar she turns them, burning them one by one. Weeping, watching dreams die one by one, like the stars going out. "Burn," she sobs, tears lit by fire, on the floor of their quarters where she fell, when she couldn't walk anymore. "Burn."

Kara is black against a darkening blue sky, a shadow on a wall, carrying a tarp for a winding sheet, to wrap the body of a girl. She lifts it against the faltering horizon, fluttering; she bears huge timbers across the landscape to build a pyre. When it is done, she places the body on top. That burned and burning girl. She sits at the fireside, and breathes it in like morning light, like a fresh breeze. The only possible response to that girl she hated once so much, whose destiny led her to the place between life and death; the only possible response to her own beloved, holy, wise strong self: a fire. A funeral.

Down the corridor they come, after their date, giddy and excited, remembering their love, their time together; drunk on ambrosia and shared history. Anastasia begs him to tell her again, and he demurs only a bit before she demands it: "I want to remember every word." This is therapy, but it's also what she wants. What she wants for him and for herself intersect here, for the last time and probably the first, and she's heard it now enough times to know parts of it by heart, laughing, on fire with his rhetoric, with the revolution in him she's finally set alight. It's a song about the next thing, after the unthinkable thing. It's a song about being brave and strong and alive enough to find out what happens next. Where do you go when you can't get out? Turn into something else. If you can bear it. If you can do the impossible at the end of line, and step across the enjambment to the next line, step through the door the angel beckons towards, you turn into something else. This is the man she's made of him: