Excalibur Sword Quotes

...and then the threw the sword as far into the water as he might; and there came an arm and a hand above the water and met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water.

King Arthur: I am your king. Peasant Woman: Well, I didn't vote for you. King Arthur: You don't vote for kings. Peasant Woman: Well, how'd you become king, then? [Angelic music plays... ] King Arthur: The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. That is why I am your king. Dennis the Peasant: Listen. Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony. Arthur: Be quiet! Dennis the Peasant: You can't expect to wield supreme power just 'cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!

Cortana," he said. "Made by Wayland the Smith, the legendary forger of Excalibur and Durendal. Said to choose its bearer. When Ogier raised it to slay the son of Charlemagne on the field, an angel came and broke the sword and said to him, 'Mercy is better than Revenge.

What did I want? I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword,. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get u feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a like wench for my droit du seigneur--I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles. I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prestor John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be--instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

So endeth the story of the winning of Excalibur, and may God give unto you in your life, that you may have His truth to aid you, like a shining sword, for to overcome your enemies; and may He give you Faith (for Faith containeth Truth as a scabbard containeth its sword), and may that Faith heal all your wounds of sorrow as the sheath of Excalibur healed all the wounds of him who wore that excellent weapon. For with Truth and Faith girded upon you, you shall be as well able to fight all your battles as did that noble hero of old, whom men called King Arthur.

So now I shall write the tale’s ending with my sword beside me and I shall hope that I am given time to finish this tale of Arthur, my Lord, who was betrayed, reviled and, after his departure, missed like no other man was ever missed in all of Britain’s history.

In the beginning there was a war. Before there were men or green fields or the untamed sea. Before there was anything at all, before Time existed, there was a terrible war. A war that these beings you saw today lost. The Archangel Michael, with the Sword mortal men would name Excalibur, cast them down for their transgression against the throne of heaven.

who once before abandoned the path to pull excalibur from the stone what you seek has always been there triumphs happened to whom who journeys — to the sword lodged in an anvil placed on a stone

You wielded Excalibur.” Bridget looked guiltily down at the sword in her hand. “Not on purpose. Just had to—borrow it.” “You know, that’s the number-one reason people pull swords out of stones,” Gwen said, laughing through her tears.

What did I want? I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist, and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a likely wench for my droit du seigneur - I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles. I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and to eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be the way they had promised me it was going to be, instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is. I had had one chance - for ten minutes yesterday afternoon. Helen of Troy, whatever your true name may be - and I had known it and I had let it slip away. Maybe one chance is all you ever get.

Someone really should write the rest of the story. You know, the cycles that came after the first Arthur? All the way to the end, with your magical sword sticking Nin’s lake into a billion icy bits? Seems like a pretty huge omission if you ask me.” “Actually a pair of twenty-first-century authors came rather close!” Merlin said, skimming through the books and pulling out one with an electric pink, glowing Excalibur on the cover. “They got a few things lopsided, of course. I am a good dancer.

He studied, fretted, complained. He never should have taken the job; it was impossible. The next day he would be flying: he never should have taken the job; it was too simple to be worth his labors. Joy to despair, joy to despair, day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes Inigo would wake to find him weeping: “What is it, Father?” “It is that I cannot do it. I cannot make the sword. I cannot make my hands obey me. I would kill myself except what would you do then?” “Go to sleep, Father.” “No, I don’t need sleep. Failures don’t need sleep. Anyway, I slept yesterday.” “Please, Father, a little nap.” “All right; a few minutes; to keep you from nagging.” Some nights Inigo would awake to see him dancing. “What is it, Father?” “It is that I have found my mistakes, corrected my misjudgments.” “Then it will be done soon, Father?” “It will be done tomorrow and it will be a miracle.” “You are wonderful, Father.” “I’m more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.” But the next night, more tears. “What is it now, Father?” “The sword, the sword, I cannot make the sword.” “But last night, Father, you said you had found your mistakes.” “I was mistaken; tonight I found new ones, worse ones. I am the most wretched of creatures. Say you wouldn’t mind it if I killed myself so I could end this existence.” “But I would mind, Father. I love you and I would die if you stopped breathing.” “You don’t really love me; you’re only speaking pity.” “Who could pity the greatest sword maker in the history of the world?” “Thank you, Inigo.” “You’re welcome, Father.” “I love you back, Inigo.” “Sleep, Father.” “Yes. Sleep.” A whole year of that. A year of the handle being right, but the balance being wrong, of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull, of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again, of the balance returning, but now the point was fat, of the point regaining sharpness, only now the entire blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. Again. Again. Domingo’s health began to leave him. He was fevered always now, but he forced his frail shell on, because this had to be the finest since Excalibur. Domingo was battling legend, and it was destroying him. Such a year.

What did I want? I wanted a Roc’s egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist, and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a likely wench for my droit du seigneur – I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles. I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, “The game’s afoot!” I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and to eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be the way they had promised me it was going to be, instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

There is the sword for one thing. Sometimes slung over his back, sometimes laid across his lap, this sword was destined to become more famed throughout the Islamic world than King Arthur’s sword Excalibur ever would be in Christendom. Like Excalibur, it came with supernatural qualities, and it too had a name: Dhu’l Fikar, the “Split One,” which is why it is shown with a forked point, like a snake’s tongue. In fact it wasn’t the sword that was split but the flesh it came in contact with, so that the name more vividly translates as the Cleaver or the Splitter.

Clarent and Excalibur. Together. Yesterday, he had held them in his hands and watched as the two swords had fused together to create a single stone sword. Even from across the room, Dee could feel the power radiating from the object in long slow waves.

A flicker of someone else’s memory came to Simon and he picked up Excalibur from where he had dropped it. Carefully, he laid Excalibur on Arthur’s chest. A smile crossed the king’s pasty face as he closed his grazed hands around the sword’s hilt. The touch of something so familiar seemed to give Arthur cause to close his eyes and after a final, relieved breath left his lips, he died.

The sword was called Caledfwlch, which means ‘hard lightning’ though Igraine prefers to call it Excalibur

I have a tendency toward seeking out big, shiny, magical challenges - to find the solution in a quest for the Excalibur sword and pull it from the stone myself, releasing my life force once again. When, in actual fact, what I needed to do was go back to the basics. I'd let the little things slide, the simple, controllable parts of my unpredictable life: good sleep, eating well, drinking more water, daily gratitude, mindfulness meditation, body movement and being immersed in water.

Grudgingly, she wrapped both hands around the hilt. She thought she would need all her strength when she pulled. However, as soon as she had hands on the hilt, she gave it a gentle tug, just to test how much grit she would need to put into this. To her surprise, the sword slid easily from the stone.

He wondered whether Arthur hid his affection for Bedivere at Camelot behind a false indifference, or whether it was their closeness now that was false. Was this the illusion, and Camelot the reality, or the other way round? Bedivere let his thoughts wander back the way they came, to poor old King Bran. If God truly wouldn’t let him die, then even a blow from Excalibur might not have killed him. He might be living on as a severed head. Like—who was it? Odysseus? Orpheus?

Richard carried a sword that was purported to be Excalibur, King Arthur’s legendary blade.

Excalibur in the stone …” “Something like it. Excalibur is another metaphor for the Sword.” “You say that with a capital S.” “Yeah. And Durendal. And the Black Metal Sword. Sauvagine. Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi. Dyrnwyn. Stormbringer. I could go on.

Recently, the authors of From Scythia to Camelot have revealed through their prodigious research that history also supports the migration of Holy Grail wisdom from ancient Persia. Authors Littleton and Malcor reveal that the legends of King Arthur and the Holy Grail arrived in Europe via Scythian tribes known as Sarmatians and Alans, whose equestrian knights rode out of the Caucasus Mountains and parts of northern Iran during the first five centuries after Christ and became assimilated into the Roman provinces of Europe. These Central Asian tribes brought with them legends of swords, chalices, and knights, which collectively could have provided the raw material for the Holy Grail legends of Europe. This appears probable since the Arthurian-Grail legends did not surface in Europe until well after the neo-Scythian tribes had become established on the continent. Perhaps the most convincing evidence of a Holy Grail migration from Scythia are the Nart Sagas, the “Knight Sagas,” which are chivalrous legends which were passed down among the Scythian tribes of Persia and Central Asia. Littleton and Malcor suggest that Baltraz, one of the principal figures in the Nart Sagas, could have evolved into the character of King Arthur via the migration of the Sarmatians into Great Britain during the Roman Empire. They cite many similarities between the two figures, including the fact that both commanded a stable of knights, which for Arthur were his Knights of the Round Table and for Baltraz were his “Narts.” Both figures also possess almost the exact legend regarding their last moments on Earth. While dying on the battlefield both Arthur and Batraz asked their assistants to toss their swords into specific bodies of water, and in both cases their couriers returned without completing the mission but lied and claimed that they had. Both Arthur and Batraz detected the deception of their messengers, and when their swords were later truly plunged into water as asked extraordinary results occurred just as they had expected. When Baltraz’s sword reached the sea the water boiled and turned blood red, and when Arthur’s sword of Excalibur returned to the body of water it originated from it was caught by the The Eastern Origins of the Holy Grail Mysteries upraised arm of the Lady of the Lake, who carried it to the bottom of the lake. The Nart Sagas also reflect the European Holy Grail legends on one very crucial point. They refer to a magical chalice, a Holy Grail, that can only be touched and owned by a “knight without flaw.” The Scythian Holy Grail is the Nartmongue, the “Revealer of the Narts,” which continually refills itself with drink at the banquets of Scythian knights, just as the European Holy Grail is reputed to do at the table of the Arthurian knights. And just as the Arthurian Grail will only appear to the most righteous of knights, the Nartmongue elevates itself only to the lips of those knights who are “without flaw.” The Nartmongue also parallels the European Holy Grail in that it was passed down within lineages of special kings while eternally protected by an order of knights. The influence of the Scythian Alans may