Here's my first fanfic. I've spent a lot of time on this, but I have to give a HUGE shout-out to R. Jeannettte for being my beta. Thank you for being so patient and waiting for me to finally getting this on here. Without further ado, here's Frozen Blades!
Disclaimer: I do not own Frozen (which belongs to Disney) or Assassin's Creed (which belongs to Ubisoft). If I did, I would've probably turned this story into an actual game.
Thump, thump, thump! Three loud thuds on the cabin door pulled Patrick O'Hare out of his deep slumber.
"Sir, are you awake?" asked the disturber of his sleep from beyond the door.
"I am now," Patrick replied curtly whilst his temper began rising, "Why?" Are pirates attacking us? Judging by the lack of paranoia from the deck, he assumed that wasn't the case. Why in God's name would I be awoken then?
"We've arrived sir," the sailor deadpanned. We've finally made it?
"Oh, great! I'm just writhing with joy," Patrick sarcastically chided. He didn't want to be sent to this place as his first solo assignment. Reestablishing the brotherhood anywhere else would be a challenge, but the assignment had the potential to be too damned easy. A backwater fishing "kingdom" in the middle-of-nowhere-Norway was not where Patrick expected himself to be. When he heard he was being sent off into the world to spread the Assassin's influence, he couldn't contain his enthusiasm. However, the order all too quickly drained it all out of Patrick when he was told he'd be sent to Arendelle, of all places. Patrick had never heard of Arendelle in the first place. Even the courier who delivered the message had to admit that he had heard nothing about it until recently. But nonetheless, there was a newly crowned queen and the kingdom was growing in power, sparking the order's interest. Although he appreciated the order's faith in his abilities, Patrick was still offended when he had been asked to try to persuade some impressionable queen of the Assassin's "goodness." Maybe I should just convince the people to revolt and set up a democracy similar to my homeland. Unfortunately, that would go against the very purpose of his order. Asking the citizens to follow his beliefs and orders would make Patrick akin to the very people he had chosen to fight against.
"Are you still awake sir," asked the sailor in the same monotonous voice. Patrick never cared much for the sailors and they had always returned the sentiment.
"Yes," Patrick moaned trying to pull himself out of sleep.
"Be ready soon. We'll be docking shortly," the sailor warned. With that last warning, Patrick heard the sailor trod off to some duty of docking the ship. It had been a long trip that had tested his patience time and time again.
Getting out of his cot, Patrick dragged his feet to the chest containing his clothes. First, he donned his white shirt. Patrick had read that summers were always warm and fresh in Arendelle, so he opted out of any accessories provided for him. He was never much for looking well dressed anyway. Next came his dark brown trousers and a pair of knee high boots of a light, leather material. Even amongst the trees of the wilderness, these boots were very optimal for climbing. After lacing and buckling his light boots, Patrick threw on his Assassin coat: a navy blue long coat, adorned with red and white trim. Patrick opted not to don the signature hood over his head so he could be more easily recognizable by his contact and not be so noticeable by any possible Templars in the area.
He then went on with his weapons. First were his Colt revolver pistols. He possessed two of these firearms that flanked his hips. He wore them in a fashion that enabled him to "quick draw" making him feel like a bandito from the Wild West. He added his guns fully loaded and ready to fire with the simple pull of the trigger.
Then came Patrick's trusty sword: a French sabre that he kept in pristine condition. He pulled the curved beauty from its sheath, the sound of the drawing metal sending shivers of delight down his spine. The weapon just felt right, like an extension of his hand; a long, deadly sharp extension. The blade glistened radiantly even in the darkness of his quarters. The basket hilt was bright silver with an intertwined design as a cage-like protection for his hand. He received the sword as a gift from a blacksmith local to the Assassin's headquarters in New England. Patrick returned his beloved to its sheath and fastened it to his belt.
After including the necessary weapons (throwing knives, rope darts, smoke bombs) and pouches of other tools of the Assassin trade, Patrick grabbed the only two things that he cherished more than his lovely sword: the hidden blades. The signature weapons of his order, the hidden blades were the perfect instruments to take out the unwary victim. They were simple, yet beautifully lethal for those who know how to use them. The Assassins had been using these weapons for thousands of years to fight the Templars. Some assassins wore only one on the left wrist, while others, like Patrick, wore two. As he attached the bladed bracers to his wrists underneath his coat sleeves, a grand sense of pride overwhelmed Patrick. He did not earn the right to wear the weapons easily and putting them on always reminded him of his journey to where he is now. From his humble beginnings of being saved from the life of a street rat to becoming a deadly killer, fighting an ancient war. He had been so thrilled at the prospect of participating in the Mexican War that had been declared back in April. Alas, he was sent to this fishing village called Arendelle instead.
Arendelle. He practically knew the accursed place like the back of his hand at this point. Patrick probably knew more about the kingdom's history than this blasted queen herself. The order made sure of that. It was also made sure Patrick knew the culture, the customs, the history, the myths and fantasies they told of trolls and magic. He studied the Norwegian language (not a simple task) enough in order to have a basic understanding of the language. He was almost a native of the kingdom at this point. All he needed was a place of residence.
"A year of studying and practicing and testing and for what – to spend my time in this quiet little fishing village to woo and please a damned monarch? It's 1846 for Christ's sake! Why the rest of the world hasn't jumped on the bandwagon of democracy is beyond me," he expressed with great bitterness. The outburst made his blood boil. How could the order, an organization that practically saved his life, betray him to do this horrendous task? It was all a waste of time in Patrick's opinion, an opinion that apparently didn't matter to the brotherhood. If his mentor, the great Connor Kenway, were still alive, he would probably still be home right now. It had been three years since his passing and Patrick was still coping with the loss. The man had been a father to Patrick, and if it weren't for Connor, he might be dead. Orders are orders though, and he hoped he could at least swallow his pride long enough to endure this assignment. This painful, dreadful, God awful…
"Mr. O'Hare?" a voice with a knock sounded, dragging Patrick from his tirade. He was surprised; the voice was different from the previous one. It was a light-hearted and Irish, the captain's if Patrick was not mistaken
"Yes?"
"We're approaching the docks and will be dropping anchor momentarily," the captain's voice replied kindly. Hearing a fellow Irishman voice always brought a small hint of delight to Patrick's heart. He didn't have an accent, but his grandfather's father was an immigrant when the first potato famine plagued the Emerald Isle and he is damned proud to be an Irishman as much as being American.
"I'll be out briefly," Patrick answered. So this is it. He gave one final look at himself in a full-length mirror before him. He looked up and noticed the heavy sags of fatigue underneath his pale blue eyes, his brown hair and beard a wild, overgrown mess. That'll have to be fixed soon, if I am to impress a queen, he thought, getting all the more upset at his duty now.
He approached the door of his cabin and, with a deep breath, walked out onto the deck. The sun shined bright in Patrick's eyes. He had to wait for them to adjust for a moment, but when they did, he let out a gasp, air escaping his lungs.
What do you think? Please review and, if you want to read more, fav and follow as well. As for updates, they will be fairly inconsistent due to a busy summer and being away from my laptop for most of it. I'll put out the second chapter some time later today and possibly the third and fourth tomorrow. Have a lovely day.
-rjcolo
