Hetalia one-shots

France x Siren!Reader Loreley

Merrily we sailed along
Though the waves were plenty strong
Down the twisting river Rhine
Following a song...

The ocean bared adrift, to what Sir Francis suggest: a perfect set forth.
Maybe to many: he was the main lover of seas. To others: maybe an idiot.
But he pushes that aside to set ahead.

"Captain, a ztorm iz predicted to be at one o'clock." Saluting as the commander stood by his side.
"Oui, anyz'ing elze?" Not bothered to look.
"Our navigator zaid to be an island up cloze."
"Zail z'e flagz to z'e island." He pointed a diagonal angle for his crew.
"Aye, Captain." Getting back to work.

Truth be told, Sir Francis never search for fights, money or endurance.
But rather, for adventure, but more, a meaning: a purpose for all his life worth.

To find 'The One'.

They crossed dangerously: much likely; heavy rain and killer lightning.
Though that didn't stop him from reaching his destination.

At the end, the ship was merely wrecked. His crew workers all alive and working again.
The island might still be in the radius.

Soon, a humongous green island came into view.
That must be the island.

But to what people been socializing about it seeks very differently: fog? Sharp pointed rocks by the side? Very fierce-looking waves?
Perhaps it was a different island.
But it was what the map proclaimed.
This is the right island.

"Zet Vorth!" Commanded Francis.
Unexpectedly passing through the misty fog.
Nothing came into sight. Only sound was the strongest of all.
The mist whispered in an elegant whistle.
Crashes of sea waves punching the border of the ship.
A sudden sound was unforeseen, perhaps just someone talking or perhaps just a figment of one's imagination but sounded too fiction to not be real.

"Legend's faded storyline
Tried to warn us all
Oh, they called her 'Loreley'
Careful or you'll fall..."

The voice shook an echo.
This mystery boomed with a sound of sweetness yet quite aggravating.
The rumbling of someone's throat heard to be right; it caught to be quite feminine.
And to Francis felt feminine as well.

Maybe the one could be found on this very island.
If only he could find out who this rhythmic, exquisite voice belonged to.

The boat slowly rocked ashore.
"Land 'olt!" Yelled the commander.
"Ve'll ztop 'ere vellow vorkers." Francis declared.
Crewmembers had exclaim their joyful gasp.
"But z'ere iz one z'ing ve need to do." Stopping the moment.
"Und v'at vould z'at be Zir?" The commander inquired.
"To vind w'oever 'as z'at belle voice ov le rivage."
"Aye." All saluting.
"Good, now place down z'e anchor."

In a split-second, the action was already completed.
Lowering the deck stairs to the golden, sandy beach.
Francis' boots broke the sand's vibration as some particles sneakily fell down into his shoes.

Each mile of sand sparked in phenomenal shapes and colours of seashells that rest ashore.
Francis selected one small but quite intriguing type of seashell located by the side of his right, cinnamon brown boots.
The object look rather like an extinct entity, it had swirls but covered quite in rusted grains of sand as the colour was a dull grayish-brown.
He chose that item as his souvenir as he first landed on this special island.

There was no one here right now, maybe they must be in the center of the island, maybe the crew should search for anyone here.
Hunting towards the middle all that was captured in sight was nonother than trees or leaves.

Oh, the stories we were told
Quite a vision to behold
Mysteries of the seas in her eyes of gold...
Laying on the silver stone, such a lonely sight
Barnacles become a throne, my poor Loreley...

Soon after a few minutes, they felt like they were all lost.
Then the weight someone unexpectedly stomped on a twig and snapped, next, setting off a bunch of nets that captured the crew in a tight bonding.
"V'at juzt happend?"
"Ve are ztuck in netz." Some crewmen started to argue.
"Everybody zhut up!" Francis roared out that made a few birds fly out of the trees.

Promptly, groups of mammals in disguised masks had surrounded the nets with sharp, pointy spears.
One gave the longest stare as Sir Francis could feel a cold sweat pouring down on his forehead.