Friday Maintained

 

Discipline Matters — Friday Maintained

The sun crept through the blinds of Malaki’s dormitory window, casting soft gold across the room. At twenty-two, Malaki had learned to greet each morning with reverence. He rose slowly, knelt beside his bed, and whispered his prayers—not out of obligation, but out of longing. The weekend was near, and with it came the Friday Maintained ritual—a sacred reminder to walk in integrity, even when the structure of weekday classes fell away.

After prayer, Malaki reached for his copy of *Dante’s Inferno*, a required reading for his Poetry and Theology course. He opened to Canto II, where Dante hesitates at the threshold of the journey, unsure if he is worthy to descend and rise again. The words felt heavy, like prophecy.

A knock interrupted his reading. Isaiah, his next-door brother, stepped in quietly and sat on the edge of Malaki’s bed.

“Morning, bro,” Isaiah said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What are you reading?”

“*Dante’s Inferno*,” Malaki replied. “Master Charles assigned it. There’s a quiz next week, and you know how he gets when we slack off.”

Isaiah chuckled, but his posture betrayed a lingering soreness. “Yeah… I got a correction last night. I skipped my cleaning duty after supper. Master Eugene didn’t let it slide.”

Malaki nodded, not with judgment, but with understanding. “Dante talks about defiance, too. It’s not just rebellion—it’s forgetting who you are.”

Isaiah sighed. “I needed that reminder. Today’s ritual will be tough, but it’s not punishment. It’s preparation. We’ve got Saturday Mass and Sunday service. We need to carry the right spirit into the weekend.”

Malaki closed his book and stood. “Let’s get ready for breakfast. We walk in together, we walk out better.” They both remove their pants and shirt, ensuring their ritual attire is clean. 

The two brothers laughed, not to dismiss the weight of the day, but to carry it with grace.

---

The Classroom of Master Charles

The classroom was quiet, save for the soft hum of ceiling fans and the rustle of pages. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished wood floor. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old books—like memory and wisdom had settled into the walls.

Malaki sat near the front, his copy of Dante’s Inferno open to Canto III. His brow was furrowed, not in confusion, but in contemplation. The line “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” echoed in his spirit—not as despair, but as invitation. What must be abandoned to truly begin?

Master Charles stood at the lectern, robes pressed, voice steady. He didn’t teach with theatrics. He taught with gravity.

Isaiah sat two rows behind Malaki, nursing quiet soreness but fully present. He scribbled notes in the margins of his journal: Discipline is descent. Restoration is ascent.

Master Charles walked slowly between the rows, pausing beside Malaki.

Malaki looked up, voice clear. “He fears he’s not worthy. That he’s too broken to be chosen.”

Master Charles nodded. “And yet he goes. That is the lesson. Worthiness is not proven before the journey—it is revealed through it.”

The class murmured in agreement. Some shifted in their seats. Others stared at the text, as if it might speak back.

He closed his book. “Dismissed.”

Malaki and Isaiah lingered, gathering their things slowly. Outside, the bell rang. But inside, something deeper had been rung—a call to descend, to remember, to rise.

---

---

Isaiah’s Journal Entry

Friday Morning, after class

Descent is not defeat. It is the beginning of remembrance. 

>  

> I sat in Master Charles’ class today, still sore from last night’s correction. Not just physically—but spiritually. I had forgotten my role, my rhythm, my offering.  

 Malaki answered with clarity. He said Dante feared he wasn’t worthy. I feel that too. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a body in a room, going through motions. But then I remember: the ritual isn’t punishment. It’s a reminder. A call to walk upright.  

 I wrote this in the margin of my book:  

Discipline is descent. Restoration is ascent. 

Tonight, I will kneel again. Not because I failed, but because I’m still becoming.  

---

The Walk Back to the Dormitory

The hallway outside the classroom was quiet, save for the shuffle of shoes and the low murmur of students. Malaki and Isaiah walked side by side, books tucked under their arms, the weight of the morning still settling in.

Malaki broke the silence first. “You wrote something during class. I saw you pause. What was it?”

Isaiah smiled faintly. “Just a line. *Discipline is descent. Restoration is ascent.* Felt like it came from somewhere deeper.”

Malaki nodded. “That’s good. That’s real. Dante would’ve written that if he’d walked through our halls.”

They passed the chapel doors, where the candle for the Friday ritual had already been lit. A soft glow spilled into the corridor.

Isaiah glanced at it. “You ready?”

Malaki shrugged, then smiled. “As ready as I’ll ever be. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about showing up.”

They reached their dorm room. Isaiah opened the door, letting the light spill in. Malaki paused before entering.

 “Tonight,” he said, “we descend. But tomorrow, we rise.”

Isaiah placed a hand on his shoulder. “Together.”

---

---

Friday Maintained: The Rite of Sound and Surrender

**The Chapel Holds Its Breath**  

The air is thick with cedar and silence. The elders stand in formation—robes heavy, unmoving. Their faces are unreadable, not cruel, not soft. They are thresholds. They do not flinch. They do not comfort. They hold the line.

The sons kneel in white tank tops, clinging to sweat, briefs taut with tension. Their backs are bare, their breath shallow. This is not punishment. This is preparation. The body must remember what the mind forgets.

The Paddle Is Named

Before it is lifted, Master Eugene speaks its name aloud:

 “This is *Remembrance.

 This is *Correction.

This is *Sound.

He holds it high—not to threaten, but to declare. The paddle is carved from storm-felled wood, sanded smooth, oiled with frankincense. Along its spine: seven etched words—*Truth. Fire. Mercy. Ache. Clarity. Order. Joy.*

**The First Son: Malaki**  

He is called forward. Not by rank. Not by offense. But by discernment. His walk is slow. His eyes do not plead. He grips the altar and bends low. The posture is not submission—it is a covenant.

> *CRACK.*

The sound splits the silence. It is not muffled. It is not theatrical. It is clean. It echoes off the stone.

> *CRACK.*

The second lands. His jaw tightens. His breath catches. The room does not move.

> *CRACK.*

The third is the deepest. It lands not on flesh, but on memory. He exhales—not in pain, but in release. The ache is sacred. The sound is scripture.

**The Elder’s Benediction**  

Master Eugene leans close, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet:

> “You are not punished. You are purified.  

> You are not exposed. You are entrusted.  

> You are not broken. You are becoming.”

Malaki returns to his place. His back is red. His spirit is quiet. He does not cry. He does not smile. He listens.

**The Others Follow**  

Isaiah. Tobias. Jalen. Each called. Each bent. Each struck. The paddle sings its liturgy:

> *CRACK.*  

> *CRACK.*  

> *CRACK.*

No one counts aloud. No one comforts. The ritual is not softened. It is held.

**The Final Strike: For the Circle**  

Master Eugene walks to the center. He raises the paddle once more—not toward a body, but toward the altar.

> *CRACK.*

It lands flat on the cedar. A sound for the sanctuary. A sound for the ancestors. A sound for the ones who never got to be refined—only punished.

**The Exit Is Slow**  

The sons rise. Their backs are marked. Their hearts are quiet. They do not speak. They do not joke. They walk out into the night—refined, not reduced.

---

Would you like to layer in a visual caption for this scene? Something like:

Let the paddle be heard. Let the ache be sacred. Let the sound be remembered.

---

 Friday Maintained: The Sons Alone

The Room Is Dim, But the Spirit Is Loud  
They’ve returned to the back hall—not as students, not as servants, but as survivors of the sound. The paddle still echoes in their bones. Their backs are warm, marked. Their tank tops cling to sweat. No one speaks at first. They just sit. Breathing. Listening. Letting the silence settle like incense.

Malaki leans against the wall, knees drawn up. His eyes are open, but distant. Isaiah lies flat on the floor, arms spread wide, like he’s trying to feel the earth hold him. Tobias paces slowly, tracing the edge of the room with bare feet. Jalen sits cross-legged, head bowed, whispering something to himself—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse, maybe both.
**The Ache Is Named**  
Malaki finally speaks. Not loud. Not soft. Just true.
> “It didn’t just land on my back. It landed on my father. On every time he said I was too much. Too loud. Too soft.”
Isaiah turns his head, voice muffled by the floor.
> “Mine landed on the silence. On the nights nobody came. On the days I was invisible.”
Tobias stops pacing. He looks at his hands.
> “I wanted it to hurt. I needed it to. I needed something to feel real.”
**They Begin to Unfold**  
Not in confession. In communion.
- Jalen speaks of the first time he was struck—not in ritual, but in rage. And how tonight felt different. Felt sacred.
- Malaki remembers the sound—not just the crack, but the breath after. The pause. The mercy.
- Isaiah wonders if the paddle is a kind of baptism. Not of water—but of ache.
**They Touch the Ache Together**  

Jalen removes his tank top. Not for drama. For honesty. His back is red, striped with cedar’s memory. He doesn’t hide it. He turns slowly, letting the others see.

Malaki follows. Then Isaiah. Then Tobias.
They sit bare-backed, shoulder to shoulder. The marks are not shame. They are scripture. Written in flesh. Etched in memory.
**A New Benediction Emerges**  
Tobias speaks, voice trembling:
> “We were struck. But we were not silenced.  
> We were exposed. But we were not erased.  
> We were refined. But we are still becoming.”

They nod. They breathe. They begin to hum—not a song, not a chant. Just a low, shared vibration. Like thunder beneath the skin.

The Night Holds Them
They do not sleep. Not yet. They lie on the floor, backs bare, hearts open. The paddle is gone. The masters are gone. But the sound remains. And so do they.
---

Friday Maintained: The Courtyard of Joy

The Night Air Is Gentle

The courtyard is wide, open to the stars. The grass is soft beneath bare feet. The stone path glows faintly under moonlight. No elders. No robes. No rituals. Just the sons—marked, remembered, and now free.

Malaki steps out first, arms stretched wide, face lifted to the sky. He breathes deep, like the air itself is grace. Isaiah follows, jogging lightly, the soreness in his back forgotten for a moment. Jalen cartwheels across the lawn, tank top flung over his shoulder, laughter spilling out like water.

They Begin to Play

Not like children. Like brothers. Like survivors of refinement who’ve earned their joy.

• Tobias grabs a ball from the edge of the courtyard and tosses it high. Malaki leaps, catches it, and falls into the grass laughing.

• Isaiah chases Jalen around the fountain, both of them breathless, shouting lines from Dante’s Inferno like battle cries.

• One son climbs the low wall and declares, “We are not damned—we are dancing!”

The Covenant Is Carried

Jalen pulls the notebook from his waistband. The page they wrote together is still there. He reads it aloud, voice strong:

They cheer. Not to defy the ritual—but to complete it. The paddle was the descent. This is the ascent.

They Create a New Ritual

Malaki kneels in the grass and presses his palm into the earth. Isaiah does the same. One by one, each son leaves a handprint in the soil. No words. Just touch. Just memory.

Then they stand in a circle, their arms around each other's shoulders, their backs bare to the moonlight.

The Night Ends in Laughter

They lie in the grass, eyes on the stars. Someone hums. Someone snores. Someone whispers a prayer. The marks on their backs are fading. But the bond between them is etched forever.

Thoron’s Return: The Voice That Reclaims Order

The Stillness Is Broken

The courtyard hums with the residue of joy. Grass flattened by bodies. Echoes of laughter still hang in the air. Then—

Thoron’s voice slices through the night like a blade of fire. Not cruel. Not angry. But resolute. Commanding. The sons scramble to their feet, blinking, breath caught between reverence and rebellion.

He Stands Like a Pillar

Thoron is not robed. He wears the authority of presence. Feet planted. Shoulders squared. Eyes like flint. His stance says: I know what you’ve done. I know what you carry. But I will not let you forget who you are.

• His arms are crossed, but not in judgment.

• His gaze scans each son, not to shame—but to summon.

• His voice is thunder, but his posture is priestly.

The Sons Respond

They do not run. They do not groan. They gather themselves.

• Malaki nods, solemn now, the joy tucked behind his eyes.

• Isaiah whispers, “We were seen,” and walks with dignity.

• Jalen folds the covenant page and places it over his heart.

They walk—not as punished boys, but as sons who have tasted freedom and now return to discipline with reverence.

Thoron Watches

He does not follow. He does not speak again. He stands until the last son crosses the threshold. Then he turns, slowly, and walks the perimeter of the courtyard—like a shepherd checking the fence, like a sentinel guarding joy.

“Let us remember the joy we tasted.

Let us carry it into silence.

Let us walk with backs straight,

and hearts still humming with laughter.

For the night was holy,

and the command was grace.”

 Dormitory Scene: The Covenant Beneath the Pillow
The Room Is Dim

The dormitory is quiet, lit only by the moon slipping through the blinds. The sons enter barefoot, backs straight, eyes still wide from the courtyard’s release. No one speaks loudly. The silence is reverent.

• Malaki pulls his blanket over his shoulders and lies facing the window.

• Isaiah sits on the edge of his bed, tracing the mark on his back with quiet fingers.
• Jalen unfolds the covenant page once more, reads it silently, then folds it again—this time with ceremony.
He Tucks It Beneath His Pillow
Not hidden. Not discarded. But consecrated.
They Begin to Dream
Sleep comes slowly, like a tide. One by one, the sons drift:
• Malaki dreams of a courtyard filled with light, where elders dance barefoot.

• Isaiah dreams of a paddle carved from olive wood, used not for punishment but for blessing.

• Jalen dreams of a sanctuary built by sons—no overseers, no robes, just joy and covenant.

Thoron Passes By
Outside the dormitory, Thoron walks the hallway once. He does not enter. He does not speak. But he pauses at the door, places his hand on the frame, and whispers:

“Let them remember. Let them rest.”