The Beaver King, Cautionary Tales of Medieval Dysfunction

The greatest love story never spoken of began when Little Lords Baylor the Bound (as he was known before The Turning) and Brentin the Beneficiary sought distance, not glory, not conquest, but escape. Escape from Beaverton, from the suffocating presence of King Robert, from a kingdom that pressed too tightly upon its sons.

They traveled south, far beyond familiar holdings, until the air itself softened. Until the sun warmed without demand. They came to Solmere—a land of open taverns, salt air, honeyed mead, and mornings that felt forgiving. There, time moved differently.

They broke fast often at a coastal tavern owned by Whinyth’s mother, a woman with weathered hands and a sharp eye who understood the rhythm of travelers. It was there that Brentin met Whinyth. She was not courtly. She was not guarded. Most importantly, she did not know Beaverton. And because of that, she was everything. The sun shone upon her and would make the room glow for Lord Brentin.

Their love came quickly and without resistance. There were no games, no tests of power, no misunderstandings dressed as tradition. They spoke easily. They touched easily. Their affection ignited naturally—physically, emotionally, completely.

They drank sweet citrus Meade in the afternoons and walked the shoreline in the evenings, bare feet in warm sand, the ocean steady beside them. No disagreements were had. No debts were kept. It was magical because it was unexamined. It was out of the eyes of the duplicitous Beaver King.

It could not last.

One morning, the summons came. Not an invitation, a command. Wrapped in courtesy and veiled threat. The Little Lords were ordered home. Lord Brentin pleaded with the southern beauty that stole his heart from his chest to make the long journey thru Solipsia back to the Beavers Keep.

Whinyth hesitated. Solmere was her life. Her family. The sun. And yet Brentin was her soulmate. King Robert made the choice unbearable. He pressed quietly, persistently, reminding her that refusal would not be forgotten. She hated the Beaver King. She feared him, but more importantly she saw through him. But most importantly she knew she loved Lord Brentin.

And so Whinyth the Forever Wanted left the sun behind. They returned to the Log Cabin Castle. Upon arrival, Baylor the Bound took a holding elsewhere in the Beaver realm. At that time, he was known not yet known as the Brave, but as Baylor the Bound—still under his father’s spell, obedience mistaken for virtue.

Whinyth and Brentin remained in the Log Cabin Castle, and the games began. King Robert turned the household against her with practiced ease. He whispered, redirected, rewarded cruelty. Baylor the Bound became an instrument, his approval bought with compliance. The worst came when Whinyth, cornered and shaking, pleaded for mercy.

“Can’t you find at least a small part of your heart to care for me,” she begged, “since I love your brother so?”

Baylor answered: “No. We all hate you, bitch.”

King Robert laughed.

Yet even through this, their love persisted.

They became betrothed, not in the castle, but beyond it. Brentin led her past the torchlight, to where the forest thinned and the sunset veiled sky remained visible. He brought no ring forged by Beaverton hands. Instead, they poured Solmere sand into the earth together and swore vows no King could claim. They chose each other.

Later, knowing Beaverton would never grant them peace, they made a daring, untraditional choice, they chose to make a child.

During the pregnancy, King Robert sharpened his cruelty. He swung between excitement for an heir and calculated terror meant to keep Whinyth unstable. He told her she was lucky. Then replaceable. He praised her one hour and dismantled her the next. A courtier once overheard him say that if the child were not his first heir—if it were a girl—he would have Baylor the Bound take her and dispatch her. The courtier later claimed he believed it was a joke. He was never certain.

Baylor The Bound was rewarded by the Beaver King each time he made her cry. Praised for telling her the baby would be born deformed. Approved for breaking her spirit. Lord Brentin watched. And then he understood. Beaverton demanded a choice, under the unspoken laws of the Beaverton Betrayal.

The night the miscarriage began would later be known as The Night the Sun Went Out. The Parish Physicker was called. Nursemaids worked through the night. All measures were taken. It did not matter. Whinyth’s family was thousands of miles away. It was just her, the attendants, and Little Lord Brentin.

The child could not be saved.

It was a boy. They named him Carloh. Whinyth cradled the babe in her arms, and in that moment something in Brentin broke permanently. That was the night his story turned—not toward strength, but toward something colder.

The fighting began while she was still healing. Voices echoed. Objects shattered. Grief spilled everywhere. Whinyth knew she had to leave. She told Brentin she was returning to Solmere. He told the Beaver King. On his father’s counsel, Brentin locked her out of the gates of the Log Cabin Castle and threw out only what he could reach.

It was a choice.

Even then, she begged him to come with her. Anywhere. Any land. She wanted only him. He chose his family. The Beaver King was delighted. Another woman removed. Another future redirected. Another one bites the dust. No one cared about Brentin’s grief.

Lord Baylor should have, but he was still bound. The two other brothers, Lords Bucker and Brystyn the I, were too young to understand. The Queen remained distant. The Dowager Queen, taking cues from her son, spoke filth about the departed betrothed.

Brentin carried the simple golden band he had given Whinyth deep in his pocket for years afterward. Even during his marriage to Lady Faylee. Perhaps he still does.

There was only one moment that resembled closure. Weeks later, at a Beaverton Tavern, Brentin told Baylor how excited he had been to be a father. How much he loved Whinyth. How he believed what he did was a sacrifice, that she could live if she left. They poured ale onto the tavern floor and whispered:

“To the lost.”

Years passed. Temporary relationships came and went—constantly. Lord Brentin tried to one-night-stand his love for her away. It never worked.

Letters passed between him and Whinyth, even during his marriage. Many were intercepted by the Beaver King and kept concealed, folded into yet another game. Some say Brentin still receives word from her. They both moved on: children, lovers, lives, but they knew the truth. They were each other’s one and only.

Even now, when Brentin lies with his intended, he sees Whinyth’s face. He remembers her scent. When he lies beside Drucelia at night, he dreams of Carloh, whole and alive in his soulmate’s arms. This feelings are the last piece of humanity he has left.

Brentin keeps two secrets from Drucelia. One of those secrets, that he still provides Lady Faylee a quiet allowance, has already been discovered. The second must remain bound to him forever: That Whinyth the Forever Wanted was his true love. And no matter how cruel he became, no matter how thoroughly Beaverton claimed him—

every monster he turned into was built on the bones of the man who loved her first.