Author's Note: Day 2 prompt: Like fire, like ice.
As before, extensive explanations of archery jargon can be found on my Tumblr.
Elsa was nervous, despite her internal reassurances to the contrary; this was the world stage, and she was facing some of the world's best archers.
Currently, she was shaking the hand of the reigning world youth champion.
The girl grinned. "Merida Dunbroch. Pleased ter meet you."
"Elsa." They shook hands briefly; Elsa winced. She had forgotten she was still wearing her fingertab, making the clasp awkward. Merida just laughed.
"Elsa Brundtland. A pleasure ter finally meetcha in person."
"Likewise. That was quite the memorable victory over Everdeen in the World University Games."
"Och, ye're too kind. 'Twas a lucky shot an' ye ken it."
"Quite," said Elsa, the effort of deciphering the thick Scottish brogue becoming too difficult to sustain.
The intercom took pity on Elsa, crackling to life: "Attention archers. Three minutes until we will begin the sighting round. You will have three practice ends and then the first round will begin immediately after."
"Best o' luck."
"Same to you."
Merida turned away, bending to take up her bow from the bowstand and checking the sight. Unusually, she had only the barest of accessories: a single long stabilizer, what looked like a wood-composite riser, and wooden limbs.
Elsa glanced at her own top-of-the-line Hoyt setup; wood-foam composite limbs, sleek aluminium riser, and enough stabilizers to be called overkill. Usually the archers with the least conventional equipment were the ones to be feared, especially at this stage of the competition. Her hand stole to her arrows, counting them off; six of her best, plus two spares. Merida had eschewed plastic spin wing vanes in favour of what looked like traditional feather fletching, and – good heavens – were those wooden shafts?
The timer beeped twice. All other thoughts left Elsa's mind as she picked up her bow, tied the fingersling around her thumb, and stepped onto the shooting line. A little further ahead, she saw Anna's familiar auburn hair. Her sister, as though sensing Elsa's eyes on her, turned around and flashed her a thumbs-up.
Elsa smiled. The timer beeped once.
She slipped into habit. Selecting an arrow from her quiver, Elsa nocked it to her string and wrapped her fingers around the centre serving. Smoothly, she began the draw, hoisting the bow up and pulling, tensing her back muscles. Elsa took a breath, anchoring her right hand under her chin, sighting through the pin, continuing to expand –
The bow clicked. She released.
Glancing through the scope, she breathed a sigh of relief. Eight o'clock, blue. Not bad at all. She made the corresponding adjustments to her sight, taking the windsock fluttering behind the target into due consideration.
Her second shot was in the yellow. Line-cutter, possibly ten points. She furrowed her brow as she noted Merida's white fletches grouped in the centre of the target.
Elsa sent two more arrows into the yellow zone and then decided to call it a day for the sighting round. She had her sight; no point in expending her energy unnecessarily.
Besides, it seemed she was going to need it.
"And that marks the end of the last scoring round. Well done, archers. Don't forget to mark your arrow holes. Tabulate your scores and submit to the DOS stand to your left, and please bear with us while we come up with the rankings."
Elsa allowed herself a smile as she totted up her arrows. She was on form – thankfully, after the fiasco that was the previous day – with 695 points out of a maximum 720. Not her personal best, of course, but decent enough at world standards. Merida, for all her deadly accuracy, was a capricious archer as it turned out. She had some brilliant ends but did make a few mistakes; yet, her score of 693 was too close for comfort. Elsa privately hoped she would not be pitted against Merida in the individual matches.
Pabbie, the Norwegian team manager, came over. "How'd you do, Elsa?" She showed him her personal scorebook, and he smiled. "Excellent, as always."
"Elsaaaa!" Anna, her auburn braids bouncing, dashed up to her sister, followed by Kristoff at a more sedate pace. "I bet you shot 720, right?"
She laughed. "I wish. Here, what's your score?" Anna coloured, handing over her book.
"656? Anna, what happened?"
"I'm sorry!" she squeaked. "I had a bit of trouble with the wind, and then my lucky arrow lost a fletch!"
"I did tell you to up your poundage," said Elsa, running a finger over the table of arrow scores. "32 pounds is too light for you. With this wind, I think 36 would be quite comfortable."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Anna stuck her tongue out and grinned. Her sister rolled her eyes and tugged on one braid.
"How about you, Kristoff?"
"698," he said with some satisfaction, and Anna elbowed him. "I had a good day."
"I bet it was that lucky reindeer charm of yours," giggled the redhead, tugging on the plush reindeer toy that dangled from his chest guard. "Aren't you such a lucky duck, yes you are!"
"Hey, hey. Don't talk to Sven like that."
"Attention, archers," crackled the intercom. "The individual rankings have just been posted."
"Let's go!" said Anna eagerly, grabbing Elsa and Kristoff and dragging them over to the scoreboards. "Mixed team results should be out as well!"
"Whaaaaaaaat?" Anna ran her finger down the list of names again, accidentally elbowing a disgruntled-looking archer in the face. "Elsa and Hans Westergaard?"
"Who knew he'd hit a new personal best?" said Kristoff. "707, phew. I'd kill to break 700."
"I'd just kill," said Anna darkly. "That jerk."
Elsa had both hands up, and was making placating gestures – in spite of the apprehension she was feeling. "Calm down, you two. It's not like I'm marrying him or anything. It's just the mixed team knockout allocations."
Hans himself appeared. "Ah, Elsa. Congratulations on being the top female archer on our team, by the way." He held out a hand; Elsa noted he was wearing golf gloves. "Thank you," she said, shaking it reluctantly. "Congratulations to you as well."
Anna was staring daggers at him; Elsa couldn't tell if he was pretending not to notice or was genuinely unaware. She suspected the former.
"We've both worked hard for this. I look forward to shooting with you this afternoon."
Elsa knew the polite thing was to echo the words, but she couldn't bring herself to.
Hans was startled out of his thoughts by a lunch tray clattering unceremoniously in front of him. "Okay," said Elsa loudly, "let's go over the team order now and get it out of the way."
He arched an eyebrow and said nothing; the scrutiny made her blush. "What's the hurry?" he asked, twirling spaghetti around his fork leisurely. She gritted her teeth.
"The quicker we decide, the less time I have to spend in your company."
"There's no need to be so cold, Elsa; we are on the same team, after all." Hans took a bite of pasta and chewed. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other from now on."
She scowled. "That it may be, but it doesn't mean I need to be civil to you either."
"It would certainly be more pleasant, though." He pushed away his tray, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "But I digress. Team knockouts. I shoot quickly, so I can cover for you."
"Do you have to be so bloody condescending?" hissed Elsa; she noticed the people around her staring at them, and blushed. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."
"Excellent. I look forward to your… capability, then." He rose, and smiled thinly. "Our progress depends on it."
Elsa opened her mouth, mustering an indignant reply, but her hesitation had given him ample time to vanish into the crowd.
