Alejandro was shaking him awake, and Diego blinked and tried to focus on his father's worried face.
"Thank goodness, Diego. I thought you were dead when I first saw you lying there."
Diego sat up groggily, and the room swam. There were several images of his father, shifting as if they were all on a ship on the waves, and details were still fuzzy. A scarlet splash of red that could only be blood coated his father's nightshirt, and Diego's awareness rushed back.
"You're bleeding, Father," Diego said, grabbing at his father's arm to try to focus better. His father was hurt, and once again it was his fault. What kind of son was he?
"No," Alejandro said softly, looking down at his nightclothes. "That's your blood, Diego. Not mine."
Diego leant against the wall, as he insisted on standing up. Pushing aside support he was determined to move into a chair, and with great difficulty, he managed it without help. He closed his eyes against the headache building behind his eyes, and nausea that rose. Definite concussion, he decided. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but he wondered if that was wise at the present time.
"You need to be in bed," Alejandro was saying, as if far away.
Diego sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "I don't think I can manage to get there just yet. I need a few minutes."
"I wasn't suggesting you walk unaided," Alejandro said with an edge to his voice.
"Can we talk? Like we used to?" Diego said softly. "Like before I went to University?"
"It wasn't me who decided to stop talking," Alejandro said. Diego sighed and thought that his father was very possibly correct in his statement. Just who had started avoiding who, Diego could not remember, especially now when pieces of memory shifted and faded and reappeared in his mind. He wondered briefly if his skull had been fractured by the blow, and tried to think of something else. He couldn't be that unlucky.
"Place your arm around my shoulders, it's going to be awkward but together we will manage."
Diego reluctantly did as he was told, and bit his lip to prevent a groan escaping. His head hurt and blackness hovered at the edge of his consciousness. He focused on his father and the task ahead of them and managed to keep from passing out.
He felt embarrassed and ashamed to genuinely need his father's help, and that Alejandro was worried but not surprised. As if it was to be expected that Diego would easily be bested by a couple of low key burglars. It was his own fault.
By the time that they made it to Diego's bed, they were both exhausted. Alejandro insisted on Diego being under the covers and lying down, and Diego obeyed. The doctor had already been sent for, and he arrived within an hour. Diego and Alejandro waited in silence, stunned by the thought of what could have happened.
"Diego, that is a serious wound you have there. That blow could have killed you."
"I was trying to stop the bandits."
"We all know you mean well Diego, but you are no Zorro. What were you thinking?" Alejandro said. "They could have killed you. What would we do without you?"
"It's just a concussion," Diego mumbled.
"There is nothing insignificant about a concussion, Diego. I am sure you already know," Doctor Hernandez said sternly.
"You remember everything, don't you? No amnesia? No sleeping - he could end up in a coma, is that right, Hernandez?" Alejandro was pacing the room near the foot of the bed.
"Father," Diego began, already rising to irritation.
"Alejandro, I think I need to examine him alone," Herandez said gently. "The less strain on him the better."
Alejandro nodded, and with a brief glance at Diego, he left the room.
"Well, young man?"
"What?"
"Were you racing around as Zorro? Or were you just bumbling around in the dark?"
"I don't know what you mean?"
"I guessed who Zorro was after treating you after that fight with your brother. That shoulder wound on your right shoulder - that was several days old and it was caused by a lancer's gun, not a madman's sword. Besides, there are more scars on your torso than most people would get from reading books all day."
"My time at university was rough," Diego said. "Fencing lessons."
"Of course." The doctor decided it was wise to forget the issue for the moment.
"How bad is my head?"
"You aren't bleeding from anywhere else except your head - people tend to bleed from the nose or other areas of the face if there are serious complications. Is your vision slightly off? Your eyes seem a little too unfocused for my liking. I would not trust your balance for a couple of weeks."
"Are you serious? I have ranch chores to do, and...and other matters to attend to. I can't be bedridden for weeks."
"No riding for two weeks and I would recommend six weeks to be sure. Fencing of any kind is ill-advised."
"Any kind?" The doctor wasn't just talking about fixing the property's fenceline.
The doctor ignored him. "I can talk with your father and insist on complete bedrest for you. He won't argue with me."
No, Diego thought grimly. He would agree with the rest of the pueblo that his son was a well-meaning weakling with no practical skills whatsoever. He wanted his father to be proud of him. Gilberto was the ideal son for Alejandro, well, apart from the insane side of him. Gilberto was a magnificent swordsman, tactician and commander - taking after their father. What was the weakling scholar compared to that? The fact that Zorro was the same level of swordmaster never occurred to him at the moment. He couldn't forget the hurt pride and his own embarrassment with his failure.
Diego sighed, unwilling to listen or argue or whatever. He just wanted sleep. He wanted to forget he ever knew he had a brother, and that the perfect son had died and he had been left. Maybe it was the concussion clouding his thoughts but he wasn't sure whether the right son had died. Maybe Gilberto could have changed….? Maybe everything Diego did was doomed to fail from now on. Maybe being Zorro was something he had to stop before he killed himself, and doomed his father completely? Maybe there was no way to stop what he had started?
"I think you can sleep now. I'll get your father to wake you every couple of hours, just to be safe." The doctor had been talking for a while without much response, and Diego's opposition had faded. That worried the doctor far more than the examination had.
Diego smiled and nodded, closing his eyes. He was asleep within moments, his worried expression fading into peaceful repose.
No, Hernandez thought, no bedrest. Light exercise starting from tomorrow. To deny any de la Vega freedom was to invite rebellion. He had learnt that over the years, even as Diego had been a young child. It was best to give the appearance of freedom, and then they had nothing to argue about. Everyone was better off that way. A flicker of a doubt crossed his mind, and he hoped he was right.