Less so: the Howling of the Queen. Victoria and Isobel, both in black, the widows of Torchwood, walk about the grounds. Victoria asks the weeping Isobel what she'll do with the grounds, and Isobel says she can't fucking handle it. Her heart is breaking; you destroy your world and cut off all possible connection when you think no connection is possible. "Although we may not speak of these events in public, they'll not be forgotten," says Victoria -- dare I say sneakily? "I promise you that. Your husband's sacrifice, the ingenuity of his father...They will live on." How? "I saw last night, that Great Britain has enemies beyond imagination, and we must defend our borders on all sides. I propose an institute to investigate these strange happenings" -- Weapons of Strange Destruction, the knowledge that your veil can always be pierced from Hell and beyond -- "...And to fight them. I would call it Torchwood. The Torchwood Institute. And if this Doctor should return, he should beware. Because Torchwood will be waiting."
The Hand of God v. the Fist of Man. (You had to know that would come back. Don't say "God" on this show unless you want me to freak.) "Our little systems have their day; they have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they."
Queen Victoria spent Christmas 1901 at Osborne House, which Albert designed, on the Isle of Wight. She died there from a cerebral hemorrhage, in the birth of the new century, aged eighty-one. She reigned for sixty-three years, seven months, and two days. In her time, she knew love, and she knew hate: she took everything that ever scared her -- from your body and mine, in real life, to Doctors and Wolves, in this world we know now -- and marshaled her considerable power to throw it into the sun, like an immune reaction. "I will be good," she said at eleven, and she tried her best, as we do. But it wasn't the sun that she burned with, and it wasn't love that moved her. She walked between worlds of grief and shadow, and had a mantle on her of a heaviness none of us will ever know. There is no room there to be moved by love. What moved her was this: the horrifying fact that behind every face, there lurks a world we can never know, and that might be taken away at any time at all. And she girded herself around with as much fear and anger as she could, to protect her heart from this essential truth. She had that Wolf that is Fear in her heart, a bit of the Wolf inside, and rather than accepting the inevitability -- of death, of time, of pain -- she made what barricades she could. As we do.