Disclaimer: Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

Title: Peccata Mundi

Summary: The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

Assignment 1: The Nightingale

Summary: With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

Author's Note: Wow, I am so honored by the reviews so far. Time to answer some questions, then, I guess. The shimmering crimson is Erik's "medicine." I cannot tell you any more than that. It shall be revealed in time. As for Erik being a vampire or not, I cannot say. I apologize, but again Erik's past and present state will become known eventually. Thanks for all of the reviews, again. Please stay tuned as this tale finally unfurls.

Section 11

- A Gilded Cage

Each step taken was slow and careful. The passage was so immensely dark he couldn't tell which direction he was headed in. He kept one hand guiding against the wall. The stone was cool and rough. The silence was dense and claustrophobic. The musty scent was thick enough to cause one to choke. Descending underground was not as simple as it seemed. A strange pressure appeared to weigh heavily on his chest the farther down he believed he went. He started to feel as if he couldn't breathe or even think. However, he never panicked. His relief at finding the hidden trap door was still fresh in his system.

Hell was definitely not an accurate description for the first part of his journey. It grew colder with a phantom wind. The surroundings were damp, and it was dark beyond all senses. Yet, very gradually his vision began to come back to him. It became easier to see the outlines of the steps then broader detail in everything. This slow transition was due to a dim glow that was steadily looming ahead. It grew brighter and brighter with every forward motion. He couldn't help feeling a rush of satisfaction and energy. Was he nearing the end? What would he come across? He hoped there would be nothing to the negative effect.

The light also meant warmth. The coolness gave way to an ever-rising comfortable temperature. This relaxed his muscles and soothed his nerves, but he couldn't give in to any contented emotion. Because for him, this case was just getting started. This was always the best and worst part of each and every assignment he took. It was the conclusion, but also the end of all things. He would discover what had become of the subject. However, it also meant that he had less involvement in whether or not that subject came out of this unaffected or not. He prayed that she would be unaltered.

Suddenly the darkness seemed to break in front of him, and the passage opened way for a small wooden door. He stood in front of it, watching the flickering light that rolled out from beneath the door. There was no sound—no sound other than his own heavy breathing that encompassed him. He reached a hand toward the metal handle. He was surprised at how his appendage shook. He could barely feel it doing so, but there it tremored in front of his eyes. There was no more waiting—his body knew it more than his own mind. He grasped the door handle tightly and pushed. The wooden slab gave way easily without much of a sound.

Erik tread cautiously into the room, looking about in interest and repulsion. The chamber was smaller than expected, but still of a good size. Being rectangular, a large metal pot occupied one corner. The contents within seemed to be boiling from the steam emanating out of the top, a small fire below the cauldron causing the bubbling. A short, but long wooden table was more centered. Two sets of ropes hung off of both ends. The light came from numerous candelabras set about the room and numerous torches set about the walls. Against one of those walls, behind the table, was another surface topped with various tools and materials and appliances. Other casual items littered extra space around the room.

None of this held any importance to what was in the opposite corner, though. There was the key to the entirety of the last few days' work. There was no doubt about the large, rusted cage or the lump of rags lying within its bars.

Erik's breath caught in his throat. He wouldn't have been surprised if his heart had stopped beating entirely the very second he first laid eyes upon the cell. He couldn't move, he couldn't think. The stationary state could have lasted anywhere from a second to an hour. He lost all track of urgency and time. Nonetheless, he was able to eventually overcome the shocked immobility, and began the long walk forward.

Each footfall weighed a ton. Each second lasted a lifetime. All the while, Erik never turned his gaze from the bundle at the back of the cage. It never moved, it never gave any sound. Was it alive? Was it dead? Was he too late? Could he still offer protection? These questions and much more burned deep holes in his head. Anticipation tugged at every inch of him. Instead of causing him to move quicker, it caused him to move even slower. He didn't want to reach the end of the trek. He didn't want to discover his worst fears. He'd almost prefer never knowing to that possibility.

He ended in front of the cage, stopping a couple feet from it, acting like there was some sort of plague oozing over every bar. Up close, the cell was noticeably weathered. The fake gold had been chipped away from the black metal that lay directly underneath. It could have been spectacular at one point in its creation, but it had turned ugly and grotesque with age and misuse. A small half of a curtain hung over one edge, ragged and casting a distorted shadow over the already darkened corner.

He opened his mouth to inquire of the rag heap's condition, but his throat had turned so dry that his voice became entangled. He closed his mouth and licked his lips. He swallowed some saliva and tried again. "Christine," he whispered knowingly.

At first there was no response, and his expression drooped. But after a moment, there was a shudder, and the bundle drew itself upward and turned toward him. It was difficult to decipher any features because of all the shadows, but he was soon put out of his expectancy.

"You're not him…" the soft, feminine voice trailed. "Have you…Have you come to…?"

"I've come to help you," Erik finished as quietly as before.

The rag doll slowly edged into the light to reveal a young woman beneath the scraps of clothing. Her father's description did her no justice. Her hair, though wild from days of no management, appeared soft and normally easy enough to run one's fingers through. It was of a rich chocolate color, probably darker than normal due to the conditions. Her pale skin appeared to be smooth and warm beneath the dirt and scrapes that had come to cover it. She appeared thin enough from lack of proper nutrition, but would definitely fill out nicely after a couple days of good meals. And then there were her facial features, which were heavenly apart from the wear and stress put upon them. Her lips, a pale pink, were full and slightly chapped, but obviously a smooth luscious cherry otherwise. Her nose was small and thin and cute. Then there were her eyes. Those emerald pools seemed to display every emotion imaginable, while maintaining a deepness that portrayed secrecy and desire. Those defiant eyes are what captured and called to him the most.

"Are you hurt?" Erik continued, catching himself after a brief interlude of mere staring.

She shook her head, tossing her curls. A small smile jumped to his lips for a blink before leaving just as suddenly. He was caught in silence, while her eyes insisted on searching his own in the next moment. He was slightly taken aback, too, to find that she didn't respond to his mask. There was no hesitation; there was no fear; there was no loathing or detestation. He felt his heart pound faster in his chest, and could have sworn that a blush threatened to creep to his cheek. Her eyes were so penetrating and forceful. He couldn't escape, so just waited for her to finish.

"I believe I can trust you," she concluded finally, her voice rising slightly.

It was good to hear that her voice, at least, hadn't suffered like her exterior. It made him wonder, but he kept that to himself. He believed he knew the answer to everything now. However, he was sure that Christine did not necessarily understand exactly why she had been kidnapped and what Monsieur Richeleau planned to do. Then again, he could tell that this girl was sharp. She was different from the other women in the society that he associated with. Perhaps she had figured it out on her own. He didn't want to bring it up, though, just in case.

"You're father sent me," Erik replied. "He's very worried."

He knew that that was a very obvious, stupid thing to say, but it seemed to make her feel better. She smiled, nodded, and placed a hand over her mouth like she might cry. She didn't shed a tear, though. There was a time and a place for such things and now was definitely not that time or place. There was a seriousness and urgency in which neither of them could ignore. They both recognized that and endured.

"I'm going to get you out of here," he assured.

Then he set about figuring out the lock. The cage was not going to budge or just fall open, that was more than obvious. He tugged at the door a couple times to make sure of its stability. The metal clanged loudly, triggering a sort of adrenaline inside of him. Creating this much noise simply meant that he would have to work faster. Someone would hear it, and he knew who that someone would be.

"Do you know where the key is, Christine?" he asked quickly.

"Try his tool bench. I know he keeps many things over there," was all the help she could offer.

Erik flew to the table along one of the walls. There were no drawers, so he sifted through what lay on top for a key or anything else that might be able to cut through the bars. Despite the many different tools, nothing struck him as capable.

"I'm not seeing a key or anything useful," he called to her.

She began to give him alternate directions, but her speech was interrupted by her own audible gasp. That wasn't good. Erik whipped around to confirm the notion that already terrified him. He had run out of time. He had been so close, but had fallen short. Why couldn't he have just had a little more time?

"Looking for this?" Monsieur Richeleau asked from the doorway, holding up a key hanging around his neck.