Summary: Shinon; every day is just like the one before.
All the Same
Another day, another battle. Each battle is longer than the last, each plan is slightly different from yesterday's, whom you fight by shifts according to weather and what weapons the enemy soldiers are using. But nothing else changes.
Your grip on the bow is still firm (like it would ever be anything less), your eyes are still sure (you're not that old yet), your aim is still steady (your hands are callused but they don't shake without your express approval), your resolve has not lessened (if anything it's burning brighter, telling you to live on). Your leader is still an arrogant young puppy (he's older by a bit, and more muscled, and maybe just maybe he knows what he's doing now, but you're not going to tell him that, he might think you approve or something), your preferred partner is still a girl-chasing idiot (but he's like the younger brother you never wanted, and at least he still has some of his happy-go-lucky personality intact), your student still looks at you with hero-worship in his eyes (and, Goddess, you want to shake that out of him, I'm not perfect you want to scream, but he never listens!), your comrades are still some of the quirkiest humans you've ever met (but they're family, and you don't want them to change).
It's not the life of luxury that you keep on claiming that you want, but it's not the worst life you could live. Hell, you could be one of those no-names that you kill battle after battle, second after second, like they're nothing. And they are nothing. Just shock-troops, cannon fodder, thrown in your way in a pathetic attempt to slow you down.
Not like they really matter; they're just bodies, waiting to be killed, and you're just the executioner, come to do your job.