“Am I to be Branwen again?” And she couldn’t help the sigh in her voice. “Be who you like,” he said, ever the generous lord. “You choose.” “Owein,” she said. “His sword was blue and gleaming, his spurs all of gold—” “No, I am Owein. I am always Owein.” “Then I will be Gwvrling the Giant: He drank transparent wine, with a battle-taunting purpose; the reapers sang of war, of war with shining wing, the minstrels sang of war—”
