Rubicante has the same scars that the Bratling does. Long slits through the wrists, a stab scar to the side, and delicate holes through the feet. Of course, our psychotic little darling has more to his name, a multitude of pale scar tissue bleached of pigment that covers his skin at diffident intervals. Sometimes I wonder if he does it to be ironical, or if he's getting these ideas from somewhere else entirely.

You have to be close to see them, his albino skin almost translucent where it meets the scars, just like his eyelids. Sometimes I think his gold eyes can still see us through them.

Did you know that he was once called the second most beautiful in heaven? Everyone was so preoccupied with Lucifer, they never mention Rubicante's desecrated beauty. Rubicante is the only one of us who has not changed since the Rebellion. His glorious skin is covered with an enticing spider web telling of scars. The tailings of old wounds down his skin, his absentmindedly short cropped hair that he grows out before remembering it's presence. Nothing to him, he was such the suspicious character in Heaven.

Hard to imagine that the domain of the former angel who constantly looked as though he had just awoken from a thousand year nap is filled with shining knives and blood crusted blenders. On my bad nights I can hear them whirling, even though I live on the highest attic reaches of our twisted home and he chooses, nay, is forced in to the dark basements. I hear Farfarello with him sometimes, and once, Alchino's high toned laughter. And on the worst nights, his humming. That faint voice rasping over my ears like sandpaper over fine china, a consecrated sound that should have been enough to drive one mad yet somehow skirted shy of it.

But more than anything, it was the eyes. The impossible golden eyes that should have shown blood behind them; it makes me wonder what runs in his veins. Of course, I see him bleeding every time we meet, a sight now as common as his messy white hair and slashed skin. I will never get used to his eyes, the way they see through the hearts of devils as well as man. And sometimes, I think even through the Malebranche ourselves.

But none of these things is what scares me about the madman among us. It is a much simpler thing that that curdles the words of sanity that fall from my lips. It is something someone told me a very long time ago on the truth about the Malebranche, nay, the truth of demons everywhere.

No scar would stick to Rubicante's skin if he did not want it to.

If Rubicante, the one among us on whom God has the least say, is scarred with his guilt, his pathos and his God, than what can we think about our own independence? Are we still here in this cesspit, bound to God as we were when we were above? Does He laugh that we are merely wriggling in his hand, unable to ever escape from him?

Indeed, on my bad nights I can hear his laughter.