The Secret Garden | Various! Hetalia x Reader

Chapter 1 | Relocated

(Y/N)'s blank (E/C) irises stare out of the tiny, circular window of the ship, watching the waves crash harmlessly against the bottom of the steel transportation vehicle as it pulls up beside the docks. A loud horn can be heard blaring, signalling that the ship has finally come to a stop after its few weeks long journey.

A man in a navy security uniform blows a whistle, an arm outstretched to the right as the other moves in circular motions, motioning to continue forwards. The young lady barely makes a sound, despite being huddled in the middle of a large crowd of strangers who are eager to get off the rumbling boat and onto shore. (Y/N) sends a quick glare to the woman who had rudely shoved into her, not even glancing in her direction as she continues to rush to wherever she was going.

"Number 41, Raivis Galante," the bored man with a few greying hairs speaks into a microphone, scrunching his nose up as to somehow push it further up the bridge of his nose as he looks up from the list placed on the desk he sings behind.
From within the middle of the crowd of children and teenagers, a young boy with blonde hair and a mix of violet and dark blue eyes, between the age of 12-15 stuttered out quiet apologies as he squeezes himself out of the crowd, weaving in and out of the crowd as he now stands at the front, shuffling his feet shyly.

"Raivis!" An oddly accented voice calls out. Pushing his way from behind the rowdy line of people, a male with brown hair cut to just above his shoulders with light green eyes smiles brightly, putting his weight onto onto one leg as he waves wildly with one arm to the young boy, "Over here!"

"Toris!" Raivis shouts, a large, excited smile on his face, replacing his timid one as he races towards the man with open arms— the two embracing each other.

The old man behind the desk forces a smile and nods his head before looking down at the papers in front of him, writing something down before continuing once more, "Number 42, Emil Steilsson."
A young man just around (Y/N)'s age steps out, a blank look on his face, although his eyes portray nervousness. He has almost platinum blonde to white hair and dark violet eyes, clutching the single, medium sized bag in his hands tightly.

"Emil! Over here!" An obnoxious voice yells before suddenly being cut of, two men stand out, one incredibly tall with practically gravity defying blonde hair whilst the other is about three quarters his height, blonde as well with a mix of light blue to violet eyes, much like 'Emil'.

"Shut it, Dane," his voice is monotone as he glares at the tall male, grabbing his tie threateningly before releasing the piece of clothing. He makes eyes contact with Emil, his voice now soft with emotion— happiness, "...Emil...."

The said male steps forwards, hesitantly looking around for a moment, before taking in a deep breath as he charges towards the unknown man. He clenches his eyes shut as he makes contact with the male, dropping his bag as he embraces him, "Lukas!"

"It's good to see you, little brother," Lukas murmurs, humming contently as a hint of a smile can be seen on his lips.

"Number 43, (Y/N) (L/N)," the old man's voice breaks (Y/N) out of her thoughts, her features becoming blank and stern as her slightly reluctantly steps forwards. Some children behind her stifle giggles as no one steps forwards to collect the girl, causing her to inwardly sigh.

"They say she didn't even cry when her parents died!"

"I head she was the cause of it—"

"Don't let her hear you!"
The children murmur and laugh behind (Y/N)'s back, causing her to grimace slightly at their words despite her containing her composure as best as she can. Still, no one steps forwards.

"Miss, please stand over there for the time being," the old man says, gesturing to a lonely bench positioned again a cold stone wall on the left of her. The woman doesn't say a word, her eyes barely flickering as she carries a small, brown carry bag filled with her remaining belonging along with the small brown satchel that hangs, slung across her shoulder and waist.