With Further Ado

1942. The Sergeant was now ridden with sadness, as he looked upon the decorated sheath and sword hanging upon the wall. His gloomy uniform was hanging in the closet. The sword and uniform, with the guild hat, were now worn away by fame and servitude. Oh how he missed the hilly terrains strained with trenches and the artillery sirens!

Even though he was a veteran now and was supposed to be recapturing the fables of the battlefields like the old coots, he fell within the woman's eyes and body and her small but smiling lips. As he was in the silent room, sitting on his couch, he was having the letter which he received from her just now, providing the sadness aforementioned. He reread the letter, more importantly the paragraph which shattered him totally.

I must say with the deepest regret that I choose to decline your offer in marriage. I believe in speaking straight to the point, and quite honestly, that is the only way you can make your point much clearly. The reason I have done so is the great difference between our ages. There is no doubt, that I like you very, very much, but it is also visible that our marriage will not be a happy one. I still feel sad to refer to this, but I do hope that a man of such stature and position will understand this predicament, and that you will honor me for giving the true reason for this.

The Sergeant sighed, and rested his head upon his left palm, looking out of the window into the grey neighborhood. Yes, there was a gargantuan difference between their ages. But he was fit, powerful and stone, he had stature in society and wealth beyond measure. Can't he make her forget the age issue by his love and warm care? Although he was quite sure that she loved him.

The Sergeant was a man of stringent action. He was often praised by his seniors for his readiness and decision making skills. He would meet her and ask her in person. Age! Why is it being made such a big wall between two people who love each other?

In an hour and a half, he was ready. His walking still had traces of the marching order, for his greatest war of all time. He boarded the train to the Northern Tinkwell Town where she lived.

Margaret Richardson was sitting on the steps of the old, beautifully constructed, ornate mansion, enjoying the winter evening, when the Sergeant walked up to her by the driveway. She greeted him with a smile, free of shame. As the Sergeant stood on the step below her, the age difference wasn't much great visibly. He was tall, gaunt, straight, clear-eyed and tanned. She was in the crest of womanhood.

"You weren't expected," she said. "You got my letter?"

"I did get that letter," said the Sergeant, "It being the reason I came here. Why don't you change your decision now, Maggie?"

Margaret smiled. He has counted and went through his years well. She really revered his strength, his looks, his masculinity... if...

"No," she said, shaking her head, "No. My age and your age is... please don't make me repeat myself again and again... I told you everything in my letter."

The Sergeant was getting flushed under the red now. He was silent for some time, gazing out onto the reddish sky of the evening. Behind the woods, he remember the queers making out their time. How long ago it was! Time just floated out very fast in front of his eyes. Just a few iota between him and eternity.

Margaret's hand came down and nestled itself in the clasp of his tanned one. She was considering the fact that such sentiments are superposed onto the feeling called love.

"Don't cloak it as that much hard, please," she said in a gentle, appeasing tone, "I'm pretty sure that you'll be glad one day that we aren't married. It would be so nice and great, for a while - but what after that? In a few years, we might have very different tastes in every thing possible in this world. One of us would want to spend the evening, at the window reading Jane Eyre, nursing cholesterol or rheumatism, while the other longs for dance, pools and a nice dinner at the Langley's. No, my man. It is like apples and oranges."

"I'll do whatever you order me to do Maggie. If you wanted me to---"

"No. It's impossible. Please don't ask me anymore."

He was a dead chicken by then. He has lost the war he was longing to win and plant the flag at the apex. Nonetheless, he was a very brave and stylish warrior, when he rose to bid his final adieu, his lips were tightly set, his shoulders squared.

He took the train for the South that night. He was back in his room the next evening, where the sheath and the sword were hanging on the wall. He was dressing for supper, when he delved into a solemn monologue.

"Some things are supposed to be left untouched, unaltered. It is a painstaking job to do. By keeping the gods as witness and my honour as the defendant, I do believe that Maggie was right. She is 30, at the most precarious calculation possible."

As you see, the Sergeant was 20, and his sword was never drawn from the sheath except in the Victory Parade at the War Memorial Station. He never held a gun, never set a foot in the battlefield, and that was as much closest he was to the Tomatina-Capitalism War of '42.