Respect never was part of the deal. They both knew it from the start. If they wanted loyalty from each other, they'd have to get it by force. The boy would have to learn how to play this mysterious chess without rules. The man would have to learn how to move across the board without missing the player.
The perfect butler for the perfect master can only imply they should be equally great. They were indeed. A demon who can't deceive the one he wants to mislead the most serving a child as innocent as any heartless revenger can be. The two of them were just… Wrong. Too warm for a demon, too icy for a human, both were to remain forever locked outside, wandering to and fro searching for complete loneliness.
Of course, a hard path is that who guides us to what we most fear and what we most desire. If you walk on such way, don't lose sight of what you are. And above all, believe only yourself. Make your shadow so that it'll proudly stand by your side. Let only your reflection know your soul. Alas, like a polished silver mirror, King and Horse saw each other in tarnished images. And on this they could trust. On this lies the danger of this road.
What is it that impels them to dance to this deadly melody? Never slipping, never losing the rhythm, never tiring out. Should the misty watchful eyes of any of them fail to notice a subtle step, the direction would go astray altogether. Yet this never will happen and both see it behind the fog. They will faithfully reach the final turn in a perfect move. If the pawns and bishops and towers and queen all fall to the ground, the masquerade would go on. As long as the player didn't give up. As long as there's yet a powerful piece on the game. Whatever compels them makes the grand ball go on until only one figure remains.
And as respect blossom, they make it that a bond should never grow.
With a withering fate, the boy is sure he doesn't need someone to look after him. He doesn't. He'd be perfectly fine wearing clothes too thin or too thick or too formal or too childish. He'd also be fine without pies and sweet teas and even without a thoroughly planned dinner. It wouldn't matter if it just turned winter and where did he put his coat – forget it, he'd just go out. And if he got sick, it's not like anyone can do anything about it, right? No, he doesn't need to be taken care of, because he's not a child.
Likewise, with a withering honor, the demon knows he isn't attached to his lord. He's but a delicious soul. He's not concerned whether or not he'll have the time to polish the tableware before he puts the boy to sleep because he could easily use other than young master's favorite silverware. And of course he is not proud when the child does better than expected in being fatally cold. Furthermore, he only risks his life over this meal because it's really priceless – he's not slightly fierce because fear and hurting would only be an ornament to the dish, this is not something he should resent of only because for a moment the boy shivered and held on him. He isn't fond of this devilish creature because he's human. And humans are all weak.
So it's nothing but a play when they smile knowingly to each other as a new letter from the Queen arrives. And nothing but a game when they test each other's limits and skills. And just because they are having fun with this, they pretend to forget they are focusing in everything but revenge and decide to amuse themselves just another day. And another week. And yet another cold winter.
But they don't really stop. The child doesn't cry soundlessly in his sleep. The butler isn't willing to turn a human into a demon.
Despite the demon's wrath for men, when his young master claims he isn't afraid of the hell, he is quite happy to tell him what the underworld is really like. And he seems to like the abyss after some questions. To turn a pure soul into a demon would put a big shadow on God's splendor. Maybe that would be a fate more worth than plainly feeding. Could he make this soul so evil that this would be a matter of fact? Yes, if he only wanted it. But to raise a spirit both pure and strained was something he would enjoy more. If only that was his choice. But he was nothing but a butler.
And regardless of the rules of this game, whenever a nightmare haunts the master, he wakes up to find his servant by the bed with a cup of vanilla milk tea. He shrugs of the offer of comforting words – he's not a baby – but the butler's hands accidentally brushes his when both pull the blanket over him and he realizes killers might be soon again on his field. He asks the demon to stay there. Just in the case the gun under his pillow is out of bullets. Or he's too sleepy to fight properly. The tea must be effective and his last thought before drifting into sleep is that the latter is more likely.
And so both were dragged into dancing the Waltz of the Dead once more, following the path they see so clearly and never going astray. Because chess pieces don't do that. They keep going to the victory, leaving broken pawns behind and lost possibilities every move. But that's alright. Happiness never was part of the deal. And they both knew it from the start.