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: Sorry for the delay. I had three tests to study for and two papers to write, so I couldn't find any spare time in which to finish this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait, though. Thanks for the reviews!

Section 4

- Song of Sorrow

Erik had heard the unfortunate dish shatter against the floor. It caused a moment's hesitation in his work, but he picked it up again right away. He told himself that nothing could distract him. He had to solve this case quickly for the father's sake, as well as the daughter's. For some reason, he felt strangely attached to this specific case. Perhaps it was because he, too, knew the loss of someone close. He knew it all too well. But so did everyone. With the father being indisposed, though, he felt more of a duty to rescue his daughter…before it was too late for either of them.

An assortment of papers lay strewn about the dark wooden surface of the desk. A few sheets were complete with scribbles. He had jotted down everything he had learned that day, including his rather strange encounter with Monsieur Richeleau. The other sheets of loose leaf were either half started or had large cross marks drawn through them. It was sometimes easier for him to come to conclusions by writing his hypotheses out on paper and with the all the information out in front of him. There was no doubt he already had his suspicions, but he still needed to draw it all together.

The sun had set hours ago, and the only light in the room was artificial and came from a small desk lamp. The darkness seemed to encompass him in a field of timelessness. He could sit at the desk staring at the riddle lain out before him for hours on end without even realizing it. That's usually how he worked. He found he was able to concentrate and think better at night. Everything else became lost in the void outside. However, he seemed to be having a slight mental road block. His head just couldn't clear. It felt like it was about to burst.

Sighing, Erik pushed himself away from the desk and leaned back in the chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes gently, trying anything to help. He just needed a break, a small break. After all, he had shut himself away in this office since he had returned from Richeleau's shop. Erik stood up, slid his hands into his pockets, and strolled casually out from behind the desk. In the far corner of the room was a small instrument stand with a violin resting carefully on it. He had to give a mocking smirk at how many violins coincidentally ended up in this assignment.

Erik lifted up the delicate instrument and weighed it in his hands. He had had that particular piece since he was a boy. It was his oldest companion, and he cherished it deeply. He set it on his shoulder and balanced his chin onto the chin rest. He found the bow held it masterfully between his other fingers. Closing his eyes, he slowly brought it up to the strings and rested it atop them. Then he began to play.

The sound started soft, but soon rose to a higher pitch. The song he had chosen to play was nostalgic, calming. The unhurried fashion he played it in gave even more to the emotion of the musical piece. Each note was precise and on point. It was as if he had played this song over and over again—and he had. It was his favorite tune: perfect for clearing his head and draining him of everything bottled up. He was able to find release in the ancient music. It was the first song he had ever learned to play. It was the song of sorrow.

-----

It was close to three in the morning when Erik finally made it into his bedroom. He undressed sloppily, leaving the articles of clothing strewn about the floor. It wasn't that he was so exhausted he couldn't properly dispose of them. He was still just so caught up in racking his brain for anything he could be missing on the case. He didn't even care about the cleanliness or appearance of his quarters at the precise moment.

He climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his bare body. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, for a while. Even though he knew he had to get up in a few hours time, anyway, and that he should be getting as much sleep as he could because of this, he continued to search the plain white expanse above him for some sort of answer. There was no solution above, though, he decided after who knew how long. He had to let it go for however much was left of the night.

Erik rolled over onto his side. His eyes drooped dangerously with sleep. He continued to resist, afraid of what the unconscious might bring. There had been nightmares every night for…for…ever. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been plagued. That contributed to his sleepless nights. He didn't want to go back into that painful world. He didn't want to see the worst of his past. It was over. There was no changing it. Why couldn't his subconscious just forget about it?

There was no more defying the inevitable. His eyes drew to a gentle close. His mind continued to wander on the edge of oblivion. He continuously told himself that that night was going to be different. It wouldn't happen that night. He softly drifted over the edge. Oh God, he hoped he could escape for that night.

-----

Madame Giry set a plate, consisting of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and sausage, down in front of Erik. For a moment, he didn't know how to react. He stared dumbly at the food, as if he had never seen such a concoction before. After a minute, he folded the open newspaper in his hands and held it almost like a shield.

"What is this?" he inquired.

"This is your breakfast, Monsieur," Madame Giry informed without a pinch of nerves.

"Madame Giry," he replied slowly, looking into her eyes, "I didn't order any breakfast."

"I know that, sir, but you must eat something." He raised an eyebrow at her persistence. "It's been days since your last meal. It's not healthy. You are going to make yourself sick, or worse…"

At this point, Erik cleared his throat to interrupt her. Even if he didn't intend on saying anything in return, he had to stop her. She was going into dangerous territory.

"Madame Giry," he whispered.

She leaned forward, defiantly, on the table. Her face was close enough to his where she could whisper and they could both hear clearly. It was protection for the conversation against the nonexistent on-listeners in the room.

"You know as well as I do what happens when you become undernourished and weary—when you push yourself too fast. You'll have another episode, Monsieur. You remember what happened last time-" she uttered.

"Yes, we both remember well, I'm sure," he interjected quickly, loudly, harshly. He was annoyed. She was to never bring up that side of him. However, his voice softened slightly and quieted. "I know how much my own body can take, Madame. Now, if you'd please, my tea."

Madame Giry backed up. There was no response she could give. She wanted to lash out at him. She was only trying to protect him, after all. But she curtsied, and obediently went into the kitchen. Erik stared at the table top for a few silent moments, trying to recollect his composure. Then he split open the newspaper once again and continued with his morning read.

Meg came into the dining room minutes later. A large smile beamed on her face, making her appear even more radiant than usual. She stepped lively to the table and plopped down across from him. Her posture was much more proper than other days, and her hands rested nicely in the lap of her black dress. Erik could tell, without even glancing up from the paper, the mood she was in because of the change in the room's energy. It even made him feel lighter, and the tension seemed to just drift off of his shoulders.

"Good morning, Meg," he greeted distractedly.

"Good morning," she replied enthusiastically.

Madame Giry walked into the dining room and stopped abruptly. A small teacup and saucer was in her hands. She surveyed the two occupants for just a moment then continued toward the master of the house. She set the china in front of him and backed up.

"May I tell him, mama?" Meg asked quietly.

Madame Giry, unable to suppress a smiled, grinned and nodded. She folded her hands behind her back and waited in anticipation for the reaction.

"Monsieur," Meg started slowly, "I have delightful news to inform you of, and I only hope that you will be just as elated to know of it as I was…am." The silence that ensued informed her to continue. "Yesterday, after ballet, the instructor kept me late to inform me of good practicing." She glanced impatiently at her mother, who nodded at her. "And to congratulate me on obtaining the lead role in the next performance!"

Erik froze, like he was still processing the news of her debut. Then he folded up his newspaper and set it down on the tabletop. At first it seemed as if the information hadn't affected him. But then a small smile formed on his lips. It was obvious he was proud of her achievement.

"Meg, that is fantastic. I am very pleased," he praised.

"Oh, I knew you would be!" Meg exclaimed. She turned to her mother. "Didn't I say he would be?" She giggled.

"Yes," Madame Giry said simply.

The doorbell rang, echoing throughout the entire empty house. Madame Giry excused herself, wanting to quickly return to enjoy the pleasant atmosphere that had broken out in the dining room. Meanwhile, Erik slid the breakfast plate toward Meg.

"Here, eat it and enjoy. You deserve a good breakfast, but then it's back to work. We must make sure that your performance is spectacular. Everyone must remember your debut."

Meg nodded and began to eat the food before her. Erik sipped his tea and picked up his paper to resume where he had left off, but Madame Giry entered again and had to interrupt him.

"Excuse me, Monsieur. This telegram has just arrived for you."

She presented a simple envelope with an almost unreadable name scrawled in front. Erik took it, ripped it open, and read the few sentences contained inside. He then tucked the little piece of paper into the interior chest pocket of his black suit, and stood up.

"Madame Giry, my hat and cape, if you'd please."

She nodded and removed herself from the room once more. Erik turned to Meg. He bowed slightly and smiled pleasantly. Then he whisked out of the room. In the front hall, Madame Giry adorned him in his top hat and cloak.

"My congratulations on your fine daughter's achievements," Erik said, while fastening the top button of his outerwear. "She is highly talented."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Madame Giry replied quietly.

He was about to exit, but stopped with the door ajar and turned back to her.

"Oh, and one more thing, Madame Giry."

"Yes?"

The volume dropped a few notches lower. "I know it is your duty to keep after my house, but just my house. You have no need to concern yourself over me. I believe I give you enough tasks already. So please, do not put another thought into our previous conversation."

She nodded once, her eyes lowered to the ground. Her face felt hot, and she wouldn't be surprised if she was red in embarrassment.

"Thank you," Erik muttered, and slipped out the door in one brisk movement.