Makemakean
Mr Makemean
- Pronouns
- Logical, unlike those in German
Faces of Nordic Reunification
“With all due respect gentlemen…!” Prince Jørgen suddenly interjected, “Look, I-… It truly is gratifying and flattering that you all seem to think that I may be able to come with some useful advice or opinion worth giving on this matter and so invited me to this... thing, but, err-… Frankly, this all seems to be a bit beyond me, and I’ve kind of had some to drink already, and you fellows seem to know what you’re doing, so-…”
The room went silent. Everyone was staring at Prince Jørgen in various shades of alarm, fury, despair, and bewilderment. Herr Hedegaard looked like he was about to explode. Herr Cohen-Brandes put his hand over his forehead. Nicolas Andersen himself looked as if someone had just dropped a tray of fine imported china on the floor. The slightest of differences could be seen even on the stoic face of Admiralissimo Christmas, as he raised one eyebrow ever so little.
“…so I figured, err-…” Prince Jørgen continued “May I be excused to go back to the-… err-…”
“Your Royal Highness,” the Court Master of Ceremonies began, “This is an Extraordinary Council of State. Her Majesty and Her Majesty’s children are currently all abroad. In Sweden and in Norway. Which for four more weeks remain other nations.”
“Well, yes…?”
“As Her Majesty’s senior heir of the blood still in this country, by the Danish Constitution of 1835, you are Realm Protector, Your Royal Highness: the Rightful Monarch in all but name.”
“I see…?”
“The sole person in all of Denmark capable and legally sanctioned to exercise all the royal powers and prerogatives.”
“Meaning that-…?”
“Your Royal Highness, we stand on the precipice of war. Anything and everything that we might do explicitly requires your consent, or else all government is paralyzed. It is most essential that you stay, Your Royal Highness.”
The silence returned, and as Prince Jørgen's eyes wandered over the room, locking the gaze with every other individual therein, one at the time, each expression conferred to him that the Court Master of Ceremonies was entirely right in his enunciation of constitutional jurisprudence. The Hereditary Prince felt the weight of a kingdom and three duchies descend upon his shoulders.
There is a legend that somewhere there is a cave, deep beneath Zealand, and there lies Ogier the Dane, in deep sleep, waiting for the hour of Denmark's greatest need, when all seems lost, to awake and come to aid of his country. And there has has laid for over a thousand years. Occasionally, the end does seem near, and the canonballs fired at Copenhagen and Elsinore will indeed disturb his sleep. But hitherto, every time that has happened, Ogier has merely said, No, not yet, and returned to his millennial slumber. Again, the legendary Danish King had awakened, in his hall under the Mountains that Denmark most certainly does not have, and again he had replied, No, not yet.
Jørgen, Hereditary Prince of Denmark was going to have to do it this time.
“Oh, Helvede...” was all he could muster.
“With all due respect gentlemen…!” Prince Jørgen suddenly interjected, “Look, I-… It truly is gratifying and flattering that you all seem to think that I may be able to come with some useful advice or opinion worth giving on this matter and so invited me to this... thing, but, err-… Frankly, this all seems to be a bit beyond me, and I’ve kind of had some to drink already, and you fellows seem to know what you’re doing, so-…”
The room went silent. Everyone was staring at Prince Jørgen in various shades of alarm, fury, despair, and bewilderment. Herr Hedegaard looked like he was about to explode. Herr Cohen-Brandes put his hand over his forehead. Nicolas Andersen himself looked as if someone had just dropped a tray of fine imported china on the floor. The slightest of differences could be seen even on the stoic face of Admiralissimo Christmas, as he raised one eyebrow ever so little.
“…so I figured, err-…” Prince Jørgen continued “May I be excused to go back to the-… err-…”
“Your Royal Highness,” the Court Master of Ceremonies began, “This is an Extraordinary Council of State. Her Majesty and Her Majesty’s children are currently all abroad. In Sweden and in Norway. Which for four more weeks remain other nations.”
“Well, yes…?”
“As Her Majesty’s senior heir of the blood still in this country, by the Danish Constitution of 1835, you are Realm Protector, Your Royal Highness: the Rightful Monarch in all but name.”
“I see…?”
“The sole person in all of Denmark capable and legally sanctioned to exercise all the royal powers and prerogatives.”
“Meaning that-…?”
“Your Royal Highness, we stand on the precipice of war. Anything and everything that we might do explicitly requires your consent, or else all government is paralyzed. It is most essential that you stay, Your Royal Highness.”
The silence returned, and as Prince Jørgen's eyes wandered over the room, locking the gaze with every other individual therein, one at the time, each expression conferred to him that the Court Master of Ceremonies was entirely right in his enunciation of constitutional jurisprudence. The Hereditary Prince felt the weight of a kingdom and three duchies descend upon his shoulders.
There is a legend that somewhere there is a cave, deep beneath Zealand, and there lies Ogier the Dane, in deep sleep, waiting for the hour of Denmark's greatest need, when all seems lost, to awake and come to aid of his country. And there has has laid for over a thousand years. Occasionally, the end does seem near, and the canonballs fired at Copenhagen and Elsinore will indeed disturb his sleep. But hitherto, every time that has happened, Ogier has merely said, No, not yet, and returned to his millennial slumber. Again, the legendary Danish King had awakened, in his hall under the Mountains that Denmark most certainly does not have, and again he had replied, No, not yet.
Jørgen, Hereditary Prince of Denmark was going to have to do it this time.
“Oh, Helvede...” was all he could muster.
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