Bloomington

She promised that she would bring Seven to Bloomington. That was ten years ago, a week of being prodded with both hand and word ago, a day ago, at last slipping from the city and into farm country. The sun warm on her shoulders, its rays drawing out the red in her hair and the gold in Seven's; fields stretching to the unbroken horizon, the sweet-smelling wheat and heavier scent of loam; and, with the weight of command finally gone, the command mask gone too. Kissing her, wanting to apologize for the years of waiting, but knowing that they were not years wasted, because watching Annika unfurl from the fortress of Seven makes this sweeter. And there against her ear, gently sardonic, "I think I am going to like Bloomington, Kathryn."