Author's Note: Written for the Helsa Week celebrations on Tumblr. Day 1 prompt: falling for you.

Extensive explanations of all the archery jargon can be found on my Tumblr: yumi-michiyo

Elsa was careful not to let her nerves betray her as she walked towards the field, bow bag slung on her back. This was it. Elsa Brundtland, Norway's under-25 women's recurve champion and gold medal hopeful, winner of the Bergen qualifiers for the Archery World Cup, and now one of the hot favourites of the competition.

"Good luck, Elsa."

She turned a tight smile on the smirking young man at her left elbow. "The competition doesn't start until tomorrow," said Elsa coldly, ignoring his outstretched hand. "Save it for then."

Much to her annoyance, his smirk only widened.

"Harsh. As expected of the Snow Queen, I suppose."

Elsa's jaw tightened at the use of that nickname – bestowed on her by the international press for her detached, calm demeanour under pressure – but she didn't respond, quickening her pace. It was supposed to be a compliment to her skill, but in his mouth it sounded mocking.

Conceal, don't feel, she thought.

Two ends into official practice, and Elsa's mood was not much improved. Her grouping was all over the target – far from her standard cluster in the centre – and she was making mistake after mistake.

Elsa took a deep, calming breath. Drawing the string back to touch the tip of her nose, she took aim briefly and released. Even before she heard the thud of the arrow hitting the target board, she knew it had been a bad shot; the string had not left her fingers cleanly.

"You plucked that last one," said Anna unhelpfully. "Didn't you get rid of that habit already?"

Elsa ignored her sister, bending to look through the scope. Black – 4 points. She scowled. "I know I plucked it. I'm a bit off-form today, I just need to get back into my stride."

"And now you're shutting me out again. What is it with you and bad habits today?"

Involuntarily, Elsa's eyes flicked over to the far right of the field, where a head of auburn hair stood out from the other archers on the shooting line. Unfortunately for her, Anna didn't miss it.

Her sister snorted. "Hans Westergaard? You had a run-in with the Prince of the Southern Isles?"

"It was nothing. Just him being an ass."

"I'd say. He was hitting on me in the breakfast hall this morning."

"He what?" In her surprise, Elsa released the arrow without clicking; it flew wide, the clicker tearing off a fletch as it went. Both sisters winced as there was no answering thud from the targets.

"Anna."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." She backed away quickly. "Later then."

There was no sign of her arrow, and Elsa hoped fervently that it hadn't gotten buried in the ground. They were her brand-new competition X10s, and she had only just seasoned them; even if she had packed her trusty old set, she had already tuned her poundage and setup to the new arrows.

"Need a hand?"

She groaned internally. Of course it had to be him, out of all the archers on the field. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Two pairs of eyes are better than one," said Hans placidly, an arrow in his hand, the point skimming the grass in search of her missing arrow. He glanced at the quiver on her hip, and the royal blue nocks and fletches on the arrows there. "Nice colour combination, by the way."

Elsa shot him an incredulous look out of the corner of her eye when she was sure his attention was elsewhere. He was being a complete gentleman, and it unsettled her for some reason. But in response to his compliment, she nodded, and turned her attention back to the grass.

"Aha!" Hans was walking to her, an arrow in his hand. "Yours?"

She sighed; the arrow in his hand was muddied, a fletch missing, but it was her X10, complete with the snowflake design she had drawn on the shaft. "Thanks," she said, reaching for it.

He held it just out of her reach, capitalizing on the half a head of height he had on her. "The snowflake marking is pretty, but I'm not too sure it conforms to FITA standards," said Hans.

"Nothing about my equipment is out of order," Elsa said through gritted teeth. She lunged forward and managed to snatch it away, her braid flying with her movements. "Thank you for finding my arrow."

"There's no need to be cold."

"I'm not. You're just being an incorrigible ass."

"You're welcome," he called after her.

"Ooh, you found it," said Anna brightly as she walked into Elsa's hotel room. Her older sister sat cross-legged on the bed, busy cleaning the arrow and affixing a new fletch. "Any damage?"

"Luckily no, apart from the fletch." Elsa blew on the arrow, making it spin in her hand.

"It was nice of him to help you find it too."

The blonde nearly dropped the arrow. "Wait, what?"

Anna cackled. "I saw everything. You're the only one he's been nice to so far, apparently." She flopped on the bed, making Elsa and her equipment bounce. "Maybe he likes you."

"The only thing Westergaard likes is that shiny trophy on the winners' podium. That's what we're all here for, in fact."

"Uh-huh."

Elsa poked her sister in the leg with her arrow, eliciting a yelp.

After Anna had retired to her room, Elsa reached into her toolbox and pulled out the scrap of paper she'd found attached to her arrow.

Hans Westergaard – 113, it said. She studied it for a moment, before crumpling it up and throwing it away.