Every Day is a Gift

My name is Trystan Uriel, and I saved the world.
 
I called myself Sir Trystan Uriel, and a Knight of Realm. This was true, for I am indeed a knight, and I serve a mighty realm. It is a realm governed by an alliance of lords, a coalition of mighty cities.
 
The cities are nine. The realm is Hell.
 
I called myself the Hero of Faerun, and this too turned out to be true. I defeated Primathanatos, Herald of Tiamat, come from Avernus to usher in her armies into the prime material. I cut them down with my sword. I sent them back to hell.
 
And, in my moment of triumph, I was dragged down into hell myself.
 
Hell, where the sky is fire and ash. Hell, where the ground is jagged teeth of stone and iron. Hell, where war rages eternal.
 
I fell into Avernus, into the middle of a battle that made the streets of Helm’s Hold look like a children’s playground. Avernus, the first layer, the front line of the multiverse’s largest and most ruthless war. Avernus, where the legions of the devils eternally fight the hordes of the Abyss, with all of creation as their prize.
 
Now, however, a third faction has joined the everlasting fray: the abominable progeny of the Dragon Queen Tiamat.
 
Had I not seen it for myself, I would never have understood the power, the cruelty, the cunning of the armies of hell. I thought I knew. I thought I understood the scale of the powers I serve. I was wrong. They can scarcely be put in mortal terms.
 
And yet, at least as it pertains to the first layer, as impossible as it might sound, Hell is losing. Tiamat has nearly wrestled control of Avernus for herself. Compared to that, conquering Faerun would have been a cakewalk for her forces.
 
The forces I stopped from reaching the surface.
 
Prevented from heading back up myself, I instead retreated further down. Through… allied lines. Calling devils “friendly” is but a tasteless joke, yet they treat me no worse than one of their own.
 
I traveled ever downwards, to the second layer, to stand, as I do now, upon a path paved with broken skulls.
 
I follow this winding macabre white brick road towards a black city of iron upon the horizon, gleaming with the red light of infernal fire. I follow the path to my lord and master, for he calls me to visit his holdings.
 
As I walk the road through steep spike-filled mountains, I push away the pitiful specters of the wailing damned. They seek the comfort of the living, yet their touch brings nothing but death. They would have me join them, should I allow their lethal embrace.
 
Even as I fend off the weeping ones, though, I believe that I understand them.
 
I am not like them. For me, Hell is my nation, not my prison. But I know what they long for. I know how they crave what those above have.
 
I know, like the damned know, that every day on Abeir-Toril is a gift.
 
Every day that they have the sun above their heads...
 
Every day that they hear the chirping of birds, that they smell the scent of wet grass…
 
Every day that they feel safe and alive and happy…
 
Every day between the day Tiamat attempted to unleash hell onto the world and the day my lord and I shall succeed in doing so…
 
Every such day is a gift from me to them.
 
And they better be grateful for it!