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Somewhere, there was singing. High and sweet, it was a siren song to his ears and strangely familiar. He paused for a moment, his leg aching. Her knife had been deft and true this time; he had not flinched. But still, the laurel plague moved slowly, occasionally leaving a drop of blood here and there as he wandered. But the wound was not bleeding heavily, just enough to be an annoyance, a pain. A spasm of pain traveled up from the cut and his mouth thinned, brows drawing tight over his eyes. He was aimless in his wandering, a simple stroll, he told himself. Maybe it was the memory of skilled hands and gauze, but he found his feet taking him to where he had met Claune.

He had avoided that spot since their first encounter; too shocked over Claune's hatred of the Doctor. He should have no use for fools, he told himself, but nevertheless he paused just outside their meeting place. It felt like a secret, something to tuck away and only take out, reexamine by the light of the moon. The sing hung in the afternoon sunlight like frozen bubbles. It was Claune. That high, sweet voice was like a delicate violin's humming. The words were... silly at best, and sung with a mocking edge. It ended, the afterimage lingering even after Claune closed his mouth.

"It seems the seventh son was always the weakest. A shame and how unlikely." Caduceus (for he had a name now, bright and shiny as a newly minted coin) said from just past the mouse hole. For better or worse, the excito was here now, with Claune. "Fit for a jester, I suppose. Do you often sit in mouse holes and sing so that the weary are charmed to you, like a siren in the treacherous sea?" He spoke with a deep chuckle hiding behind his words. Despite the jester's often inane blathering, Caduceus found the violin plague to be soothing, in a way. He raised one eyebrow as he limped into the hole, dust falling around him like a confetti heralding his appearance.

In the middle of the floor laid a small, partly shredded pile of gauze. He nudged it with one foot, shooting the cream-colored jester a questioning glance. But his mouth, remembered its duty, widened into a perfunctory smile. "Hello, fool. I did not think to see you again."

Caduceus stared at the fabric scraps curiously, remembering Claune's hands as they had bandaged him before. A part of him, a large part of him wanted to ask for that same favor, but his pride stilled his tongue. Claune's voice was shrill and high, a piercing and oddly emotional tone. "I thought," he said, golden mouth speaking in dusty tones. "That with your love of smilies, would appreciate someone else throwing them around. Alas, you are in a bad mood. Have I offended you more than normal?"

Ah, but he was unusually glib around the other Plague! While Caduceus may still not have possession of a truly gilt tongue, he found himself more loquacious around him regardless. His booted foot tapped out a lazy rhythm. "To answer you question: I now have a name. The Doctor still says I have no need of one." Caduceus sighed softly; he knew that, name or not, she would never call him more than Plague. It was a little saddening, but she said she would make great things of him. Why would he not believe her? "Although, if you will not speak it sweetly, is it any better than Windbag? Hmm... though the 'lord' portion has always been satisfactory."

He leaned closer to Claune, wanting to force a reaction, when he realized something. His mouth pursed. No... but perhaps. Caduceus was more than an ordinary plague, after all. "Were you waiting for me, Claune?" It was said almost mockingly, but with a faint tint of surprise. Maybe the jester would be his and, oh, how he wanted him. Claune was the first thing that Caduceus wanted to collect. He rocked forward on his toes as he spoke, golden fingers hovering near the other's face. A stab of pain lanced up his leg and it crumpled, sending Caduceus toppling into Claune, robes flying around them.

For a brief moment, Caduceus felt the warmth of Claune's chest, then thin, dusty air. He fell heavily and swiftly; the jester having nimbly leapt away. One golden-tinged hand braced his fall and slowly, painfully, he moved, tucking his unharmed leg under him. The injured one sat straight in front of the laurel, cut glistening wetly above his boot. Caduceus swallowed a curse, his mouth twisting into a grimace of distaste and pain. "You could've not let me fall," he muttered darkly, under his breath.

Shaking the dust from his sleeves, he looked pointedly at Claune. "That was not well done of you. But, since you did ask, my name is Caduceus." He waited a beat, wanting to hear his name in the violin's eerily high voice. "There are few fit for an emperor that are not already in use. I cannot share a name with another. I will be my own person." Idly, he picked up a stray thread of gauze and began to wind it around his fingers. The cut from before was less apparent now. His skin seemed to heal quickly; the cut left a deep aching line across his palm.

He looked up at Claune's words, golden eyes meeting wide, wide blue. "Ah, a golden egg, perhaps," he said, trying to be light. "How fortunate, then, that I seem to have acquired another cut. And I know of no one with your hands." A pained smile forced its way across his disagreeable face. It was true, though. Claune had fingers that were skilled and long. Caduceus rolled his shoulders. "I..." he paused, unsure. "I suppose I am glad you were here."

Caduceus pointedly ignored the quibble over his name's pronunciation, although if he had teeth, they would have ground together. "It is cunning: the name. Trade," he offered by way of explanation. "Oh? Are you going to sing a song about me, jester? You should publish your songs. Try, if you will, to rhyme orange." The more he thought, the more publishing seemed correct for a jester. It was a matter of remembrance, he mused. Caduceus nearly startled at Claune exposed his leg. This cut was more shallow, but annoying in it's placement. He wondered if there was an unannoying place to sink a a scalpel in.

"A dead Claune would be inconvenient, indeed, although quieter. You sang as expected for an instrument; which is to say, gracefully." The plague's hands were warm, and the bandages too, no doubt from their brief sojourn down the front of Claune's vest. He shifted a little, the movement making the chains across his own chest swing. A symbol of office he no longer held, he mused. If he could not lord over all, he would do it through Jannisari. And she had said she would. She was never... happy with Caduceus, but a general did not need to be happy. His eyes wandered, unseeing as Claune worked.

"Hmm?" he said absently, staring at the cracks in the wood above his head. The students walking above blocked the light in passes, an odd dance of shadow and sun. Claune's methodical work was relaxing. "I'll always find a use for you." His golden eyes swung down. The violin's expression was ridiculous, all squinted eyes and pursed mouth. He was pleased, immensely pleased that Claune bandaged his leg with Caduceus having to explicitly ask. This surging feeling was odd, to say the least. It was possessive and more than a bit controlling. He wanted to be a king to rule over all, but for now, specifically, Claune. But at Claune's final question, his mouth tightened, a frown growing as he spoke. Caduceus' voice turned stern, disdainful; the lights in his eyes glowed like unearthly fire. "And my Grimm is merely taking samples. Painful, yes, but she says it is necessary. As far as wounds, I am quite whole, though bruised by a certain fall." He paused, thinking. "Why do you hate the Doctor so?"

"Was the bow necessary?" A bemused chuckle faded as the other excito talked on. Caduceus leveled a hot golden stare at Claune, eyes full of rising ire and disbelief. For a jester, he sure had a lot of opinions and he was clearly unafraid of being exceedingly vocal. This was not the first time Caduceus had thought of some method of reducing his noise. He huffed. "Do you wish to be of no use to anyone then? What would your point be, jester? Amusement of a moment? Songs can be written and preserved in this manner long after the singer had gone to dust. In this way, you would live forever." He shifted irritably, the chains on his robes tinkling merrily. A flare of light slipped down into their mousey den, turning his laurels into a crown of fire. His eyes glowed.

The violin's words were confusingly pointless. Why did it matter if he did not wish to be of use? Why did Caduceus care? "And do you worry that? Do you wonder if I'll try to use and use and use you until you are nothing but a hollowed out shell of a violin?" He paused: a breath, a beat. "But, ah, a violin plays beautiful music and it is hollow. Has someone gotten to you first, then?" The last word lingered in the air between them, drawn out on an exhaled breath. It was calculated to hurt, as jab at Claune's infuriating insinuation the Caduceus was not worthy of the violin. He searched Claune's face. Abruptly, Caduceus jerked his leg back and rose, dust and dirt drifting off his robes like sparkling fairy lights. He was unable to stay still, and so he paced, circling the other plague.

"You have met my Grimm and do not see her efficiency, her vision? Come, I will show you what she has done. She is hard, and... stern, but.. I know. I know her way is the only way." His voice softened and drifted away, borne on tides of unease, but his head snapped back up, pinning Claune with an icy regality he did not know he possessed. "Please," he said, uncharacteristically. "Follow me, Claune. I can show you." He haltingly held out one gold-tipped hand to the plague, anger fading from his body.

His hand hung there, outstretched, for just a moment. A long moment; it hovered and sighed in the distance between them. Claune did not move and finally, Caduceus dropped his hand, flexing golden fingers. It felt strangely empty. His mouth twisted a little and he looked away. "Of course you may flee." Fleeing was not for emperors, but for cowards, for losers, and, apparently, for Claune. But... the word was said without heat, and he gestured instead to three open hallway. "She has lectures until evening, and will not be there." Caduceus turned, and without another word, began to walk, hoping that Claune would still follow.

Except for the constant jingle of Claune's bells, they walked in silence. The distance was short, in any event, and Caduceus was lost in thought. He thought of Claune's face, contorted in shock and hurt and something twisted in his own chest. He wanted to hit something. Breathing deeply, he instead filed away those insults: a series of painful ammunition for some distant future. Caduceus blinked and they were there. He motioned the jester forward and they slipped through the ajar door.

"Here," he said, raising his arm to point at. Tables and cages, "Here is where she researches. The Doctor is ruthless but efficient." He walked over to a cage. Inside, a small rabbit nosed the bars and he reached and patted its nose. They were used to the smell of death. "These rabbits are cast-offs, one that would've been killed. But instead, she uses them in her research." Scraps of fabric littered the cages. An empty cage held scraps stained with Caduceus' blood. "This is the beginnings of something that can't be forgotten. I just want to use and be useful; the Doctor wants this too. She says I can become great because I am hers. "

Caduceus turned to look at the other plague. The padded shoulders usually made Claune look larger than he was, grandiose, ostentatious. Now, they and his flopping hat just served to hide his face from Caduceus. But Claune's body was turned towards the empty cage. It was funny, or odd, Caduceus thought. That cage had been full yesterday; how swift, how easily can one act end. Silently, on feet as slow as lead, he moved to stand near Claune, finally catching a glimpse of his face. The violin's normally cavalier expression had grown shuttered, inscrutable, like ink running off a damp page. His words had been similarly strange. A rabbit was a rabbit, after all. And no one made promises to animals.

"You cannot speak promises to things," he said finally, flatly, voice dry as sand. "This had done its part. It was necessary." His hand tapped along his thigh, golden fingers drumming the beat of his thoughts. Caduceus felt his ire rise little by little. He was a ball of pent up energy this afternoon, a force with no outlet. "But do you see? She has plans, the Doctor. I am a part of that, however much it may... hurt." And it did hurt. The cuts she inflicted on him burned and bled, squeezed until she had got enough of him. His fingers curled., feeling the raised line on his palm. If he pressed it, it ached.

"My Grimm does what she must in order to succeed. I must be good superior for her to do so." He swallowed thickly. One day, he knew he would come to fear the press of cold metal against his skin. But Caduceus clung to his convictions., He could be good enough for her, he would be. He was made to be good enough. "Is yours any different? Is your Grimm a good man, Claune?" His hand, unclenched, hovered for just a second near the violin's hat, a breath away from a bell. He dropped it.