Author's Note –

Alright folks, here goes nothing…

What we have here is something I have been toying with for a while – an original start to my WHF Series, a half-AU endeavor. While originally the story was started right after the end of season 2 and built on to become its own entity, I've come to toy with a bit of originality with our favorite girls blending the world of them which we love and the world I came to built which some love. Lol. I decided to share what has come of it, if there are still any fans of the WHF series I think you might possibly enjoy this new chapter in my saga.

Hopefully there is a few of you out there still interested in a crazy Bo/Lo-WHF ride.

Thank you,

Pokie.


Prelude

(Lauren's POV)

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The semi rhythmic lightening adequately guides my way along the winding cobble stone toward disquiet. Two-hundred thousand square feet resting atop of a hundred and eight acres, precisely. Four stories containing two-hundred and three rooms, if you choose not to include the grand hall, foyer, and outdoor garden. Two-hundred and six areas, precisely. However, if you choose to include the cells deep beneath the west corner that only exist in whispers, then there are two-hundred and forty-two. Hundreds of walls hiding countless secrets, becoming the very embodiment of the sentiment of 'if these walls could talk'.

Glancing behind myself, the Mercedes awaits me. Rather, it awaits to assure I behave. However, where is there to run to that he could not find me? A question that lives in the darkest corners of my mind, pointless as the driver awaiting my course of action. My eyes shift from the car, out into the nothingness vailed by the darkness of the storm before eventually making their way back to where they began.

The headlights from the car shone upon the door, illuminating where my eyes would have gone to instinctively regardless. Where they always appear to go.

"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"

Austere warning deeply etched into the black block of marble arched above the entrance. Even with all of the years come to pass the original stood the test of time. Six-inch-thick black mahogany with undiluted silver woven into the edges, forming a crest of a family long ago forgotten. One that glistens with every flash of lightening illuminating the sky. While unable to tell at face value, a two-inch-thick sheet of undiluted silver runs through it as well. The reason, like what exists beneath the west corner only spoken of in whispers.

In observation, the entirety of the entrance an oddity, ununiformed from the rest of the building. A work of art crafted by hand by masonries in the late seventeen-hundreds. Hundreds of thousands of sand color bricks, hewn into a castle, plucked directly out of the highlands of England. However, the entrance was something-more. Reminiscent of the cathedrals of Europe. Grandeur an understatement if there ever was one.

My palms pressed firmly against the mahogany; deep breath drawn in through my nose as I pushed them open with more effort than I had ever remembered needing. The foyer as ostentatious as the entrance. Overarching ceiling just as guiding as the cobble stone was. A long, barren hall which led to nothing other than a peculiarly white wall, absent of any decor. A focal point I found myself pondering the few times I had the misfortune of making an appearance within this building.

Perhaps it was a Rorschach or Thematic Apperception test of a sort. Perhaps if it bothered you there was something incorrect about your cognitive process. Perhaps if it did bother you than that was the correct response. Perhaps it is only a wall where an overactive mind chooses to fixate, creating issues where none exist. Or perhaps it was the unmistakability of what this place is which aggravates a subconscious anxiousness causing the fixation of inconsequential details.

Asylums had become institutions and facilities which resembled hospitals and resorts even. There had become a certain uniformity that had brought about a measure of illusion in which they were something they were not. However, Saint Dymphna has always been unmistakably an asylum. It was what the photographs from books and films were crafted from. From the first step upon the white marble floor to the last, there are no questions of where you were.

Instinctively, each one of my steps as cautious as the last. At fifteen passed nine the building appeared deserted, apart from a mere two orderlies disappearing in the distance at the end of the hall as they took a turn to the right. All of the light hanging overhead, perfectly spaced apart dimmed, which coincidently allow traces of the lightening outside seep through the windows and dance across the floor.

As I come to the end of the hall, there is a brief hesitation, a breath caught in my chest as I feel his presence. There is no need to look, I know where he is. Without need to look to the right, I turn to the left finding him staring at a wall. My curiosity vanishing nearly as quickly as it peaked, as I come to find his focal point a two-way mirror rather than a wall.

My pace halts, coming to stand beside him, my head bowed, however, he does not look my way. In time my head comes to rise slightly, and I watch his reflection in the glass. His eyes narrow and although her does not speak, I know exactly what he is thinking. He is thinking that I had taken too long, I had made him wait on my arrival and that is entirely unacceptable. He is thinking if this is an infraction in which he should correct now or later.

However, his attention is preoccupied with whatever is in the room. Cautiously tearing my eyes away from his reflection, I follow his line of sight to the discarded lump on the floor. Bare footed and clothed only in white scrubs, disheveled a pale description for the object of our attention. Long, black hair loosely hanging down in front of her face messily. Blood-stained bandages wrapped around her wrists, as well as the bottoms of her feet. And when she shifts to the right, hair moving ever so slightly, there appears to be another bandage on her neck.

"She does not appear to be anything special."

"Appearances can deceive." His head tilts, enough so that his eyes are staring into mine through his reflection. "You are an example of that."

His words linger, as ambiguous as the reason I find myself here beside him. My own observation a lie, partially anyway. Everything will dissolve into semantics if you desire them to, and between Cunningham and myself, semantics were what kept me alive. That, and his deprived desire for inimitable forms of torture. To his standards she appeared nothing special enough to garner his attention. A battered and broken girl presumably abandoned if she found herself here in her current state with the only visitors concerned for her state being us. And in full disclosure, he did not know how to be concerned with someone else's well-being and I had begun to lose the ability myself.

However, even in her current state of dishevelment and wildness, she was quite beautiful. Young, but beautiful none the less. A youth radiates from her defined features, yet there is a softness. High cheekbones and a defined jawline presumably enough to allow her to pass for older than she is to the unobservant eye, however there was a certain gentleness around her swollen eyes that gave her away.

"It is her lineage which deserves interest." After a pause, which allows me time to reel in my wandering thoughts, his head angles enough to face me. "She herself is insignificant."