There were many good years. Good decades, good centuries. We believed we were living in paradise. Perhaps that was our downfall. We wanted our lives to be perfect, so we ignored imperfections. Problems were magnified through inattention and war might have become inevitable if the Bore hadn't ever made.

May you shelter in the palm of the Creator's hand, and may the last embrace of the mother welcome you home.

The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.

If you wish, you may call me Rand Sedai.

Perrin, my father says a general can take care of the living or weep for the dead, but he cannot do both.

You break your neck, and I’ll see it mended just so I can break it again.

The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.