Quotes About Legacy

Os guerreiros defendem o lar, defendem as crianças, defendem as mulheres, defendem a colheita e matam os inimigos que vêm roubar essas coisas. Sem guerreiros a terra seria um lugar devastado, desolado e repleto de lamentos. No entanto, a verdadeira recompensa de um guerreiro não é a prata e o ouro que ele pode ganhar nos braços, e sim a reputação, e é por isso que existem poetas.

I have a path to follow, I said, and it goes north. North back to Bebbanburg.

E fiquei olhando para aquela costa, sabendo que o destino iria me trazer de volta, e toquei o punho de Bafo de Serpente, porque a espada também tinha um destino e eu sabia que ela voltaria a este local. Este era um local para minha espada cantar.

You're the son of a king,' I told him, 'and one day you might be a king yourself. Life and death will be your gifts, so learn how to give them, boy.

He needed to know it, see it, smell it, and survive it. I was training the boy not just to be a warrior, but to be a king.

It was an unsettling thought, that somehow we were sliding back into the smoky dark and that never again would man make something so perfect as this small building.

I look at those parchments, which are deeds saying that Uhtred, son of Uhtred, is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea, and I dream of those lands, wavebeaten and wild beneath the winddriven sky. I dream, and know that one day I will take back the land from those who stole it from me.

Um país é a sua história, bispo; a soma de todas as suas histórias. Somos o que nossos pais fizeram de nós, suas vitórias nos deram o que temos .

My name is Uhtred. I am the son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred and his father was also called Uhtred.

O orgulho faz o homem, impulsiona-o, é a parede de escudos ao redor de sua reputação, e os dinamarqueses entendiam isso. Os homens morrem, diziam eles, mas a reputação não.

I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred, and his father was also called Uhtred, and they were all lords of Bebbanburg. I am that too, though these days folk call me the Lord of the North. My lands stretch from the wind-beaten North Sea to the shores facing Ireland and, though I am old, my task is to stop the Scots coming south into the land we have learned to call Englaland

And at the end of life, what does it all matter? We grow old and the young look at us and can never see that once we made a kingdom ring for love.

We might know how it ends, but like all good stories it bears repetition. So here it is again, the story of a battle.

He's a boy who must learn to be a warrior and a king,' I said, 'and death is his destiny. He must learn to give it.' I patted Æthelstan's shoulder. 'Make it quick, boy,' I told him. 'He deserves a slow death, but this is your first killing. Make it easy for yourself.

And Eoferwic, I thought, was where my story had all begun. Where my father had died. Where I had become the Lord of Bebbanburg. Where I had met Ragnar and learned of the ancient gods.

Due re saliranno alla Rocca di Cadarn - profetizzò - ma a regnare sarà un uomo che non è re. I morti si sposeranno, quel che è perso ritornerà alla luce. e una lama verrà portata alla gola di una bambina.

We don't build,' I said to my son, 'we just destroy.

It was the year 878, I was twenty-one years old and believed my swords could win me the whole world. I was Uhtred of Bebbanburg, the man who had killed Ubba Lothbrokson beside the sea and who had spilled Svein of the White Horse from his saddle at Ethandun. I was the man who had given Alfred his kingdom back and I hated him. So I would leave him. My path was the sword-path, and it would take me home. I would go north.

Till time ended, Baird suspected, there would be uses for a man and his sword. He

With Stiorra too," I said, and felt a pang of guilt. I have been a careless father. My eldest son was an outlaw to me because of his damned religion, Uhtred had turned out well, but none of that was my doing, while Stiorra was a mystery to me.

Mostre-me um guerreiro humilde, e eu verei um cadáver

Reputation! It is the one thing that outlives us. Men die, women die, all die, but reputation lives on like the echo of a song, and men crave reputation, as they crave the heavy arm rings that mark a warrior's victories.

There is no sense. The past is a ship's wake etched on a gray sea, but the future has no mark.

But what have either of them ever done except learn Latin? Have they ever planted a field of wheat? Set up a factory? Dug a canal? They were born, Sharpe, that's all that ever happened to them, they were born.