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: Jekyll and Hyde is the correct answer! A very good musical that deserves more respect and praise, Jekyll and Hyde contributes to the inspiration I have in some of these chapters. If you've never heard/seen this musical, I highly recommend it. Just don't watch the David Hasselhoff version…oh boy…

Section 10

- The Descent

That music. That beautiful music. Where was it coming? What was the source?

It was so dark. Nothing was distinguishable. He could only find his way by following the entrancing song. It was like the wonderful tune spun a world of fantasies around him. But he could not see anything. He continued moving forward, or at least what he thought to be forward. He had to reach that beautiful music.

Suddenly, ahead of him, a glow came to life. It seemed to be at the end of an infinite corridor. He was surrounding by bleak blackness on either side, but straight ahead…that's where he needed to go. He needed to reach the end of the passage no matter how long it took him, no matter how impossible it seemed.

He pumped his legs faster. He strove forward with more effort. He felt the breeze of his quick pace, and the increased rhythm of his heartbeat. Even though he experienced all of the effects of sprinting for time on end, it looked as if he had gotten no where. The white light was still far off. The darkness still sucked up every step he left behind. He couldn't give up. He was capable of overcoming any obstacle, including this.

Believe it or not, eventually he reached the glow. Or perhaps the glow reached him. He couldn't quite put his finger on what had happened or how he had reached his destination, but he was there, awash in the bright light of…well…something. He stood in front of it, panting, catching his breath. He gazed into the blinding brightness, straining to see what awaited him. But he couldn't remain patient any longer. He stepped forward into the glow.

He was blinded for a moment as the light intensity increased. It overtook the threatening shadows behind him. Then just as suddenly and startling as it had increased, it decreased back to its normal state. He had to rub his eyes and take just a moment to readjust before peering about him. He stood in an all white room. Nothing decorated or occupied it except a small podium in the middle of the room. And what else was perched on that podium, but the source of the beautiful music.

He was taken aback at first. How could such a small little bird produce an enormous, powerful sound? He quickly got over this when the bird gave a little twitter as if telling him to draw nearer. He obeyed, not really realizing what was going on. His feet moved him forward, while his eyes remained transfixed on the brown bird. With each step that brought him closer, the bird would peep and chirp and its song would grow steadily louder and louder and more and more enthralling.

At the closer proximity, he was finally able to identify the bird. It was a nightingale—a tiny brown bird of song. And oh what a song it could generate. He was thoroughly impressed and delighted. So much that he carefully reached his hand forward to gently stroke the magic melody maker. He wanted to hold it, protect it, keep it his forever. There was no longer a mere desire to be entertained by it. Now, a need had grown. He needed the nightingale more than anything in the world. He needed it or else he feared he would die.

Just a few inches from the target and a loud, maniacally laugh overshadowed the airy song. He stopped, looking about him so as to find the horrible intruding noise and stop it. But nothing was there. The laugh continued, agitating him and sending him back a step or two. Frantically, he looked back toward the bird.

Keep it safe. Keep it protected. Keep it alive.

Suddenly large spikes bolted upward from the ground, creating bars in between them. It happened on all sides of the pedestal, entrapping the nightingale in a strange sort of ugly cage. The laughing grew louder and louder, and then the ground became encompassed in blackness. It stretched to the walls like some invading virus until the entire room was awash in darkness.

Then the shadows seemed to stretch against one another, and the figure of an enormous man loomed over him. This man grinned with disgusting yellowed teeth. His eyes beat red and evil. The laugh echoed from his throat. The man was threatening, but all he could think of was retrieving the nightingale. However, his feet seemed to be stuck to the ground. Had the shadows turned into tar? It was a sticky, smelly, uncomfortable substance. He struggled and tossed and lifted his feet to get away, but to no avail.

The cage in front of him containing the bird slowly rose from the ground. He couldn't comprehend what was occurring at first, but then he noticed the man's large hand clamped on a sort of hook at the very top of the cage. This monster was easily separating them. It was a mocking gesture.

Adrenaline rushed toward his legs. All of his feelings dropped to the floor to fuel his muscles. He couldn't leave it at this. He had to retrieve the bird. That was the only thought in his head. So, in a sort of projectile style, he somehow separated himself from the entrapping ground and flew upwards. He reached toward the cage, trying to grab it and hold on for dear life so that he had a chance of freeing the nightingale. But to no avail.

The only thing he was able to do was catch a glimpse inside the cage. Something was wrong with the nightingale. It didn't move. It didn't fight. It had turned to solid bronze. It was no longer the beautiful wild creature that had caught his attention. It was a machine—a contraption of man. It was no longer the nightingale.

He began to fall—fall backwards into the blackest oblivion he had ever known. He didn't fight. He didn't struggle. He allowed weightlessness to take over his body. There was nothing he could do. The nightingale was gone. He had failed. He had only wanted to protect, to save, to hold, to keep…

…the nightingale…

Erik awoke with a great start. He was dripping a cold sweat and breathing raggedly. That nightmare was a new one. The sights and sounds had seemed so real, he wasn't the least surprised to find his eardrums still ringing. He couldn't seem to pinpoint what exactly had occurred, though, within the dream. For some reason the vision was vague. The memory had left when he reentered the waking world. The only thing he was sure of was the epiphany that had now taken a hold of him.

"That's it," he whispered frantically. Then realizing the lowered volume in his voice, he spoke again, but louder. "That's it!"

Then in a torrent of fabric and cloth and other material, he was out of bed, dressed, and flying out of the room. He acted as if he had not just undergone a brush with incapacity. He moved with great agility and swiftness it would have seemed like the house was on fire. There was no preoccupying thought in his brain to hold him back. Madame Giry would enter the room only minutes later to find it a mess and its tenant missing. Though she wouldn't be too surprised, she would find herself distressing over his well-being and ability to properly close the case.

Erik sprinted down the darkened street. Judging by the lack of people outside and the lit lanterns and the position of the moon, he figured that it was at least midnight. He was grateful for the emptiness. It allowed him to move as quickly as he needed, and that was quick indeed. Even though he raced down the barren streets, he felt as if it wasn't fast enough. He wanted just wanted to reach the shop, but it seemed to be taking such a long time. He pumped faster and faster. There was no time to lose.

Finally, coming upon the shop, he slid to a halt. His heart pounded in his chest and his breath released in gasps, yet he paid no attention to it. He stared intently through the glass at the old instrument store. The interior was completely dark and still and silent. Relief surged through him as he found that Monsieur Richeleau was not around. But it was only temporary, and the relief was soon drowned with anxiousness as he made his way around to the back—through the alley he now knew so well.

The window he had found luck in before was unlatched again. Erik was through the pane and had his feet on the floor of the workshop in a single motion. He didn't move while his eyes adjusted to the advanced darkness in the room. Standing still, he felt the heavy silence starting to suffocate him. His heart pulsated in his temples. His breathing clouded around him.

Vision adjusted, Erik went to the desk. He no longer attempted to remain inconspicuous. It was too late in the game for that. He threw open the last drawer, revealed the secret compartment, and grabbed the little key. He pivoted toward the workbench, crouched at the bottom cabinet already. He removed the metal box that he had discovered before. He stuck the key into the lock. It slipped inside easily and turned perfectly. There was a light click and the top popped open. He lifted it carefully and gazed inside.

There were several receipts, a ribbon, a small checklist in neat feminine writing, and several other trinkets and then another key. Erik shook his head. These were all connected to Christine, he knew it. Her ribbon. The checklist for the preparation of her father's violin. The receipts from that transaction. But this key…what was it to? He took it gently between his fingers and lifted it to his face to further study it. It had a more ancient exterior, and was bigger than the first. This was it. This would lead him straight to the girl.

Hastily, he began to replace the box and get to his feet, and he accidentally dropped the old key in the process. It slid across the floor and underneath the rug in the middle of the room. Erik muttered a curse under his breath and went to retrieve it. He lifted up the edge of the rug, digging deeply inside. His pace slowed then stopped altogether. He felt something foreign beneath the rug. It wasn't the key. Oh no, this was too big to be any mere key. This was something else.

Erik flung over the rug and let it fall off to the side carelessly. His eyes went wide with fear and excitement. A trapdoor was etched into the wooden floor with a metal keyhole. The ancient key lay next to the lid. How much would he bet that the two were connected to each other?

He bent onto his haunches and stretched his hand to the key. He eased it into the lock, his heart racing. It fit perfectly. He turned it, his breath catching in his throat. Would it work? A click. Everything was falling so nicely into place. He lifted up the trapdoor. It moaned sadly. A musty smell wafted to his nostrils. He slowly erected, but continued to stare into the depths of this hidden area. This was where Monsieur Richeleau had escaped to the last night. This was where he hid and did his dirty business.

The void below was even darker than that within the room, but he could make out the outline of stone steps. There was nothing else. It was like a staircase descending into Hell with nowhere else to turn. And with that as his last thought, he took a deep breath and moved onto the stairs. Cautiously, Erik made his descent into the pit of blackness and sin.