Diego's Question

Diego slept fitfully that night, woken by Dr Hernandez as he examined his old wounds and fussed over him. He watched through drooping eyelids as Dr Hernandez positioned himself in the chair to watch over him, and realised the doctor was staying the night.

Victoria was there, her hand on his chest. He realised vaguely she wanted to feel his heartbeat, and ensure he was alive. She dozed in the chair next to him, and Diego wanted her to go to bed. He just didn't have the strength to stay awake long enough to demand it of her, or anyone else.

Later in the day, Diego felt the strong and large hand replace the small one on his chest. His eyes fluttered open and he turned his head to look at his father.

"Father," he murmured. Diego reached for his hand, and Alejandro took it. "I'm going to be alright, Father. I promise you. Trust me."

"I trust you, Diego. Go back to sleep. To heal from the concussion you need rest," Alejandro said softly. "Victoria is asleep. I don't want to wake her by talking. So go to sleep, my son. I trust you."

Diego sighed a little and rolled onto his left. Alejandro smiled and repositioned his chair to watch his son as he fell asleep again almost immediately.

Hours later, Diego was aware of Felipe reading on the chair that Victoria had sat in. She was gone, and Diego hoped she was in her bed at last. His father entered the room, and Felipe was distracted, placing the medical textbook down on the chair.

"Felipe, you are studying medicine?" Alejandro asked softly. The boy shrugged and pointed to Diego.

"Yes, it's Diego's book, I know. Are you interested in medicine?" Alejandro asked again. "Do you want to be a doctor?"

Felipe looked uncomfortable. He pointed to his mouth and shook his head. "Words might come," Alejandro said gently. "You spoke Felipe, I heard you. You really spoke. You can hear, you are smart," Alejandro tried to encourage the teenager. "You may be able to assist Hernandez one day."

Felipe shook his head vigorously and signed something hastily. Felipe was angry.

"He is saying he doesn't want to be an assistant…he wants to be a doctor…" Diego murmured. A frown swept over Diego's face slowly. "Felipe, you should have told me…"

Felipe shrugged and left the room. "Go after him…" Diego protested.

"No, he's angry. Let him cool down," Alejandro said softly. "He reminds me of you at 17, Diego. He is more your son than you realise. He has a de la Vega spirit in his breast and it makes him anger easily and hold on tight to stubbornness."

Diego watched his father carefully. "Go back to sleep, Diego."

"Can I ask you something first?"

Alejandro shrugged and nodded.

"Would you have killed Brownlow?"

Alejandro paused before he answered.

"I don't know. I don't have Zorro's compassion for the sanctity of every human life. It is unrealistic to expect that level of compassion from any retired soldier," Alejandro said softly. "I am glad that I took the fight out of Zorro's hands, and yours too. You don't know what the first kill does to your soul, Diego. The first, real, deliberate taking of another's life. I'm not talking of people dying as a result of a fight, or an accidental falling on a knife," he said and glanced at his son. Alejandro knew that Diego was already remembering the death of the Falcon.

"I am talking about what Zorro was talking about. The deliberate killing of another man, wishing to see his blood staining your sword," Alejandro added. "Shooting down an enemy with a pistol, aiming at him while he is distracted elsewhere." He had been aware of Zorro's pistol in the dark. Alejandro knew his son's intentions had not been good.

"How bad can it be?" Diego was still not convinced.

"I still have nightmares about the first man I killed." Diego stiffened at the change in his father's voice and posture. "We were only just a few years older than Felipe. Our troop had been attacked by bandits on the way to the battlefield. My friend had died next to me, and I had to defend myself and the men we had left. That meant a deliberate killing of at least one other man."

"What happened?"

"A bayonet in my hand ended another young man's life." Alejandro wasn't prepared to talk about the details. "I still see that young man in my nightmares, screaming for mercy, even though he never wanted it in reality. It was either him or me in reality. Even though it was in self-defence my soul is darkened by his blood," he said, glancing down at his hands. "And he was the first of hundreds…"

"I'm sorry…" Diego wished he hadn't mentioned the issue.

"Don't be sorry. Get well. Have beautiful grandchildren. Be happy, Diego." Alejandro stood and walked over to the window. "Soon…"

"Father," Diego said softly. "Are you alright?" He had seen something in his father's posture that wasn't right, but he didn't know what it was that upset him. He had heard something in his father's voice that he didn't want to hear again. Despair, despondency, resignation…?

Alejandro pretended he didn't hear him, and concentrated on the brilliant sky outside the window.