Disclaimer: this story, based on the "Zorro" (2024) series, is a non-profit project intent for entertainment purposes only. I do not own the copyrights to the characters in "Zorro". I only play with them for fun, showing my appreciation for this series.

— ZORRO —

The chosen's ointment

Chapter 1

He was screwed. Totally fucked up.

Just when he thought Nah-Lin would let him go, that treacherous, vengeful, crazy woman had stabbed him at the Ramírez hacienda, sinking the rusty blade of a tribal knife right in the middle of his abdomen, one inch above his navel, tearing muscles, guts, and God knew what else. And then, she had left him there to die. Without hope, and suffering in terrible agony.

There was no other way to put it: he was dying. That would be the end of the only non-indigenous Zorro in the history of Los Angeles, as well as the end of the De la Vega bloodline in California.

Surrounded by corpses, bleeding to death and too weak to move, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see a way to get out of there alive. But after a while, already on the verge of delirium, he remembered the ointment, the gift Kiyoché gave him to survive if he ever got injured in his fight for justice. That way, he would never die as Zorro, unlike his predecessor, Pomanh-Kwakurr, Nah-Lin's brother, and unlike so many other Zorros before him, who didn't survive their war wounds.

But perhaps he got it wrong. After all, he received instructions from a fox during a surreal encounter. Was he meant to carry that stinking ointment with him at all times, in a pocket, in case he ever needed it? Because now, that smelly paste was in his hacienda, forgotten somewhere, and totally out of his immediate reach. If only Bernardo knew where it was, since he couldn't remember where he left it.

Good old Bernardo… Thinking about him, he half-smiled, despite the pain. How he wished his staunch foreman could help him right then, with or without that magical balm.

To distract himself from the pain and the agony, his mind wandered then, recalling that extravagant scene in the forest, when after waking up one night, unable to go back to sleep, he had ended up following a strange, black and red fox to a shaman's shrine.

"I am Night Raven, the voice of the spirits," the mysterious Indian had told him. "If you are here, it's because they've chosen you to be the new defender of this land."

At the time, all that talk about Indian spirits had sounded like a children's story to him, and since the situation seemed somewhat absurd, he thought it was just a bad dream. However, as he found out the next day, when he saw a black horse at the stable, it had all been real.

After that brief introduction, ignoring his indifference and rather disdainful attitude, the imperturbable Indian continued with a motivational speech about his remarkable and unavoidable destiny: to become the mighty Zorro.

"No one can escape his destiny, Diego, and yours is to become the new Zorro. It wasn't me who chose you. It was him, Kiyoché."

Night Raven pointed then to the little fox that waited patiently by his side, watching their visitor with interest through his cunning little eyes, nodding as if approving of the shaman's words.

"My mission is to deliver his legacy to you."

The shaman had offered him Zorro's sword and clothes, and then introduced him to his striking black horse, Tornado.

"I have accomplished my mission, Diego. What you do with Zorro's legacy is up to you."

Right then, as Night Raven was already turning to make his way back to the cave, considering the strange encounter over, Kiyoché let out a kind of high-pitched squeal that sounded almost like a child's laughter.

"Wait. Kiyoché wants to give you something."

The fox approached Diego then, carrying a small clay pot in its mouth, which he left at his feet.

"What the hell is this? It stinks worse than a skunk," he had said after picking it up, rather disgusted with the gift.

"It's the ointment of the chosen one. Kiyoché doesn't give this ointment to anybody who is about to embody his spirit, but only to the worthiest. He gives this to those whose unwavering quest for justice will put them in greatest danger. Your predecessor, for example, did not have the privilege."

"What is it for?"

"To heal battle wounds."

"I haven't accepted the position yet, and what you're telling me, talking about wounds and death, certainly doesn't help."

"If you ever need it, just apply it to your wound, from the deepest part, working your way up to the surface, and then let it work its magic."

Those were the sparse instructions he had received about that allegedly, magical balm. And now, as much as he wished he could follow them, it would not be possible. He would be dead before he could use it.

Despite that gloomy thought, and even though he wasn't sure that crap could work the miracle of healing such a horrible stab wound, he had a glimmer of hope when Mei found him lying there.

ZZZ

When Nah-Lin and the Indians left the hacienda, Mei came out from her hiding place under the bed. Still very upset, she quietly inspected the house, finding dead bodies lying everywhere. When she entered the main room, she realized one of those fallen men on the floor was dressed in black.

"Zorro!"

She ran to kneel beside him, greatly relieved to find him alive. But that bleeding wound in the middle of his abdomen looked very bad.

"Mei?" he whispered while blinking as if he could not believe his own eyes, which stared anxiously at her through the mask's openings. She brought her index finger to her lips, urging him not to speak.

"Shhhh. Don't speak, reserve your strength," she told him then in his language.

"Yes. I know," he replied, probably not even knowing what she had told him.

Mei tried to check his wound, but when she touched him gently, he moaned, gasping with the pain.

"I'm dying," he announced in a breathy voice, in case it wasn't obvious. But Mei didn't accept that statement, grabbing a rag to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. Zorro complained even more as she pressed, gasping out of breath.

"You saved me. Now it's my turn," she told him with determination, again in his language. She didn't know how, but she had to do it. She had to save him. Somehow. There had to be a way.

She looked around, hesitant, wishing she could reassure that man with words, but it wasn't possible, because she didn't know how to express herself in Spanish, and he didn't understand Chinese.

Carefully, she tucked the rag under his vest, over the wound, and then grabbed him by the ankles to drag him toward the door, but he was too heavy for her, and had to give up before she got there.

"Wait here. I'll get help."

Mei hurried to the stables, grabbed a horse, and galloped away.

ZZZ

"Don't go. Don't leave me here," Zorro begged while gasping.

But Mei was already gone. The poor girl had tried to help him, but had only managed to drag him a short distance before giving up.

Once again, he was left on his own in that room. Well, not quite on his own. He was alone, yes, but in the company of a handful of corpses. And soon enough, he would be one of the bunch.

Lying there, unable to move, he wanted to scream with the frustration and helplessness he felt, but he didn't even have the strength for that. Then, he wondered if his father's death had happened in a similar way. If the shot he received had killed him immediately, or if the killer had left him lying on the ground, agonizing for a while before he passed, cursing his bad luck. And cursing the shooter, if, like him, he also knew who had betrayed him.

"I'm sorry, father," he whispered then, closing his eyes. If he died now, without clarifying the circumstances of his father's death, and without avenging him, no one else would. Although, on the other hand, if Mei didn't return with help, he could soon apologize in person, meeting Don Alejandro in the afterlife.

ZZZZZ