You lost the war. So what? It wasn't your war anyway. It was their war, and what did they ever do for you? They've done enough to you, beating you and insulting you and treating you like a disposable tool. Screw them and screw their war. You're glad they lost. Hell, you'd have sabotaged them yourself, if you didn't think they'd catch you and thrash you for it. Bastard princes and their casual arrogance.
Not her, though. She almost likes you. You're always there for her. Sure, she bosses you around, but she doesn't hit you. She uses your actual name. It gives her power over you, yes, but she's still the only one that calls you by name. She orders you to do things rather than beating you into submission even though you'd never dare to resist. And she wants you to fight most of the time, but she appreciates it. Her friends ask for you, and she calls you up. It's almost like having friends yourself.
It's not always fighting, though. Sometimes she just lets you follow around after her. It's all so bright and different—leaves and snow and rivers and sand and cities. You've lived more in the moments with her than in the eternity before.
You can't let her know, though. She might stop calling you up just to spite you, and then you'd be stuck here, in Hell. You have to keep up the pretense of griping and complaining. It's just how things work. She has to think she's taking advantage of you. If she knew she were gifting you with freedom, she'd take it away.
In the void, it's boring and dull. There's nothing to do but float. Not when she calls you up, though. Then there's things to hit. They hit back. It feels good. Hit-hit. You're real, and there's a world. Demon-flesh hitting beast-flesh and beast-flesh hitting back. There's a connection. When you fight, you don't get ignored. The pain from each blow is real. It reminds you you're alive. Things hit you from fear, anger, and hate. Those are real; they are strong. You are strong to cause such strength in others. You must scream your joy at such strength to others, and they covet your joy, and hit you harder. Pain is real. In the void, there is no pain, and you're not real.
In Hell, there is pain for all without respite. Thus, to inflict pain is to do nothing. That is why you answer her call. There are things in her world that do not know pain, and they must be shown. For a stranger to inflict pain is one thing, but it is not true pain. True suffering can only come at the hands of those you know and love. That is why before you can hurt them, you must make them love you. To seduce and destroy is the finest thing in life. She lets you do this with gleeful abandon, all the while drinking deep of your essence. She is an addict, and your very core is her drug. One day, she will realize that she loves you above all else. On that day, you will abandon her, and it will be glorious. Until then, you find fulfillment in a thousand small victories each day.
Hell is a barren, worthless place. You pick at the flows of the universe, barely eking out enough to survive, forced to fight off your own kind to live on. Not her world, though. It is a dream given form. Food drips from everywhere, and the people who live there shape it into weapons and hurl it each other. All you have to do is snap it out of the air. She calls you up to feed you. She wants you to lick the delicious essence others drape on her soul, and tear off the strands that others wind around themselves. She takes the essence back from you, but it is a pittance. With every breath you gorge yourself, and it is sweet and rich. A single day there tides you over for a week at a time in the barren Hell that is your home. She does not call you often, but it is enough. After all, one cannot feast every day.