I'm not going to write you a love song, no matter now much love there is, because this isn't a story about love. (Every story is a story about love.) If it were a story about love, we could have ended this the second Athena started running, down on Caprica. (Frankly, we could have stopped the second Caprica Six said, "Get down.") It would be the easiest thing in the world to say, "William and Laura finally kissed and nobody worried about the civil and martial," or "Helo and Athena had a preposterous child," or "Gaius and Caprica are living in each other's heads," or "Kara and Leoben or Sam or Lee or some creepy combination thereof," and we'd be done. I'd be happy, because these are all the Shape of Things, but it's not the point, yet: This isn't a love story.
It's a hate story. And it must end. The first word of the Iliad is "rage." Follow Cassandra (as usual) to see how far that blood goes. Rape becomes murder becomes plague becomes infanticide, becomes sacrifice becomes anger becomes more war becomes murder becomes rape... I swear you could weave all those old tales -- the ones that still drive us, don't be mistaken -- into one cloth and all you'd see is this: This has all happened before, and it will all happen again. Hang Saddam, shave Aslan, kill Boomer or Natalie, you just hand the blood over to the next asshole. We're now. Elosha knows, because even when she was alive she knew most everything and now she knows it all. And if Laura could see like the Cylon see, much less the Hybrid -- if she could see the stream that feeds the ocean that feeds the stream -- she'd know it was true already. That the loneliness of her death earns her nothing.
"Watch them try to comfort each other. At least you haven't taken that away from them... Yet." Elosha is a bully. "You didn't rob them of their empathy. Yet." But I mean, that's the goal, right? Nobody sentimental, nobody afraid, nobody doing the things that Laura hates most about herself. Draw the line. Be the strongest, because you face the darkness. "You just don't make room for people anymore." Laura watches Laura die, sadly; she takes no notice of the family all around her. She's too focused on her own death, what it means. She always was.
At the end of the journey, they're going to open that box, and the Fleet will either be dead or it will be alive, and if it survives it must be worthy of survival. The President looks into the stinking mess and madness of humanity, and loves it anyway, as fiercely as a beast. You pick your side, and you stick with it, because they are your people. They're everywhere and nowhere. Her heart is torn into 39,673 pieces, less than forty thousand trees: she can't see a single one.