Dust hung over the clouds of Antananarivo, creating a great red sun to illuminate the sky like a bloody rag, painting every western wall of the city a deep hue of crimson. Despite the divine weather, the Sunday went on as it always did in the bustling city; the cobblestone streets surrounding Lake Anosy were scuttling with life, as tourists and locals alike went to view the great bloody sun bounce off of the copper statue of Miss Marie-Laure that stood in the middle of the lake, holding her sword in one hand and a book in the other, indicating that war could be done both in the physical and the abstract.

Philosopher King Damien Ngolo no longer slept as his condition got worse. The copious amounts of herbs and pills and concoctions his physician had given him were not advancing his condition, all it did was make him detached and blurred; simply a shadow of his old self. He had realized this only weeks ago, and had begun refusing any and all types of medicine that would stop his constant aching pain. He was the King, and he still had a job to do, even if it was simply staying conscious while his two personal sentries made sure he stayed alive at least one more day.

He sat silently, as he had week after week; eyes closed, brow furrowed, mouth unopened; even if his body was failing him, his mind kept him afloat, encouraging him to go on with no exception. Only seldom was he interrupted in his grand battle of mind versus body, but seldom had finally arrived as his great-nephew had come through the open door, the High Canton following closely behind him; both with restricted looks on their faces. The two men made themselves comfortable on the wicker sofa to the west of the windowed throne room, next to Ngolo, who sat mutely, as he often did in times of late.

Mahery stared at his dadota for a long while, looking up and down at the shining silver spokes of his over-cushioned white wicker wheelchair, which he had adopted after losing the ability to walk with just his cane. His hands, his feet, his face, all had become even more wrinkled and tired as if his great-uncle had aged another thirty years in just a few months. The young Ngolo leaned forward in his seat and began speaking to the old Ngolo, wondering if his dadota would even care to listen.

“Dadota, it is me, Mahery. My father and I have been talking, and we think it is best for you to seek treatment in Tanzania. They can give much better care than your doctor, they have told us.”

Deafening silence came from the old man, so Mahery continued,

“...We are readying your things as we speak. Things are going to get better, Dadota.”

After several moments of silence, the King creaked to life; raising his head as high as he could and revealing his ancient, tired eyes — something not even the High Canton could admit to seeing for the past several months — after a few labored breaths, the Philosopher King responded in a raspy voice,

“I stay here… With my people.”

The King made a small, desperate hand gesture that one could interpret as a point to the ground. The nephew sighed and shook his head, replying to the ailing man,

“No, Dadota. You are going to get better on the mainland.”

Damien shook his head slightly, and responded once more after letting out a long series of coughs,

“Our ancestors were birthed here… Before the flooding… Before the wars… Many died here… All died here… I will die here…

I will not fall asleep, and you will not cart me away like I am some madman…”

Mahery sighed once more, and stood up, positioning himself to be behind the wheelchair. Ngolo heaved a long sigh as well, and told his grand-nephew one last thing before they arrived in Dodoma two weeks later,

“Our ancestors weep.”

[The Antananarivo Filozofia is installed as the acting regency on behalf of the King. High Canton Rano Rabetsimandranto is the acting figurehead of the nation until further notice.]