Whumptober 2025; Prompt no.04
Prompts used: Iron Rod Fandom: Castlevania: Nocturne Word count: 533 CW: Internalized homophobia; religious trauma
Upon the hilltop stood the chapel, a slender silhouette now, against the sky painted in twilight’s reds and golds. The sun cast a warm glow from behind the building, illuminating just its edges and contours. The sight reminded Mizrak of how some artists depicted the Virgin Mary or Christ Himself: with a gilded halo resting just behind their heads. A symbol of holiness. Purity.
His footsteps fell one after the other against the road of pebbles and cobblestone, keeping his sights set forward. Avoiding any eye contact with the few remaining people in the market square.
And then, at last, solitude.
His typical routine would have had him gathering his rosary and kneeling before the hanged sculpture of Christ in prayer. Today, to his dismay, was not one of typical routine.
The shame and guilt of sin weighed heavily upon his shoulders. He had fallen into bed with a vampire—a male vampire—and felt nothing but a burning desire to return. Throughout his life, so often he would pray for forgiveness whenever his eyes and heart lusted after another man. He had confessed to having these unnatural thoughts of impurity. Knelt for hours before Christ in prayer and meditation, praying his heart would change. It never did.
He had come to unpleasant terms that perhaps it never will. The man so devoted to his faith could only hope that, on the day he was judged for his sins, God would show him mercy. He would, Mizrak thought, as God is full of grace. Yet there was darkness—a doubt that lingered, festered and boiled. A doubt that Mizrak could not shake nor would he ever admit to.
The lantern’s candles flickered along the hallway walls as he found his way into the courtyard. Training dummies were left set up from the monks’ morning practice. Good; one less thing he needed to do.
He drew his sword from the sheathe at his hip, the metal ringing out softly, and held it steady with two hands. Attention focused on the middle dummy. Soft patters of his approaching footsteps upon grass. Lips pressed firmly into a thin line.
The muscles in his arms twitched as he built up anticipation to strike.
Another step. A pivot—and a single precise swing.
The blade cleaved a deep, clean cut across the imperfect wood. Mizrak readjusted his position and lunged again for a swipe across its back. His footwork was sloppy, he noticed, and the realization only further frustrated him. He was distracted, he knew and loathed, and no matter how frustrated he was with himself, he couldn’t bring his full attention to the situation right in front of him.
His eyes kept glancing toward a familiar shaded wall.
A sudden flare of warmth in his gut, his face, and he shouted as he struck the dummy across the neck—
—Only to hit the solid iron rod at its core. The reverberation of metal on metal caused his hands to seize, arms wobbling slightly. He stepped back. Breathed, panted. Shook his hand to be rid of the weird, tingling sensation the impact had caused.
“Damn you,” cursed the monk. And he himself was uncertain to whom he referred.
