Amara Freyadottir, the heir to the throne of Vanaheim, has never been one for royal trivialities. She would much rather spend her days exploring the lands of Vanaheim and Asgard, finding places to read, and having fun with her best friend, Loki. How...
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"he is looking away from her, his eyes now holding an unreadable emotion."
BEFORE TAKING A SINGLE STEP to move out of the room, Amara rips out the page containing the prophecy of the stolen son from the binder and crams it into one of her dress pockets.
"We have to get out of here, now," Amara whispers to Loki. She takes his hand and leads him out of the room quickly, both of their steps light and cautious. Downstairs, she can hear her mother flitting about in the kitchen; she'll be heading upstairs in just a few short moments, most likely to have a harsh talk with Amara about their exchanged words on the battlefield.
Amara brings Loki into her room, closing the door behind her softly. "Okay, you have to hide, Mother will be up here any minute now. Here, get in the closet."
"Really, a closet? Of all the places to hide, you think-?"
Amara closes the door in his face abruptly. "Hush!"
Now that it is quiet, she can hear her mother's footsteps as she quickly ascends the stairs. When she reaches the landing, Amara can tell that her footsteps have turned to the left, in the direction of Amara's room, instead of to the right, which would take her to her own.
Amara scrambles to her bed, whipping back the covers and throwing herself beneath them. She settles herself in bed, turning away from the door and closing her eyes just as Freya quietly enters the room.
"Amara, I am afraid we must have a talk. You know..." She trails off as she notices her daughter's sleeping form. After a moment, she lets out a soft sigh.
Amara hears her step closer to the bed, standing over her in silence. "Amara?" The queen lays a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder, and the princess wills herself not to react in any sort of way.
Her performance must satisfy her mother, for she steps away after a moment, saying nothing more.
Once Amara is sure her mother has retreated to her room, she quickly gets up from her bed and tiptoes to her closet. She opens it in a fluid motion, beckoning a relieved Loki out of it and into her room.
"That was much too close," she says, voice low, "but as long as we're quiet, I doubt she'll come back in tonight. That means we have some time to try and decrypt who the son of Laufey may be from this prophecy - if you're up to it, of course."
Loki nods adamantly, Amara's questioning tone at the end of her words snapping him out of some sort of trance. "Yes, certainly I am," he says softly. He swallows then, looking away from Amara and pacing a few steps.
"Are you sure?" Amara questions, somewhat impatiently. She is bursting with nervous adrenaline, hardly unable to stand still herself.
Loki acts as if he doesn't hear Amara, continuing to pace slightly before eventually coming to a slow stop. He turns and looks at Amara halfway, wearing a somewhat peculiar expression.
