The first time Felipe meets Zorro face to face, he's replacing votive candles in the sanctuary long after the rest of the mission has gone to sleep. Some nights his mind simply won't let him rest, and there's always work to be done, however small it may be, so he busies his hands until his thoughts still.
This night he doesn't feel particularly tired, but clearly his mind is on other things because between one moment and the next a figure all in black appears on the edges of his vision. Felipe doesn't startle, and he doesn't pause. He also doesn't look up from his work. "The chapel is closed, señor," he says, but gently.
"And yet you are awake," a low voice replies.
"The doors are locked," Felipe points out, reaching back into his basket for another handful of smooth beeswax columns.
The silence sounds chastened. "I'll come back another time," the figure says at last, but when he moves, it's not to turn and stride away. No, the first thing he does is push himself off of the wall he'd been leaning against. It's such a small thing, such a small motion, and still only glimpsed from the corner of his eye, but it makes Felipe truly look at him.
And there he is – Zorro himself, hat in hand, standing in Felipe's chapel. He's shorter than he expected, probably not much taller than Felipe himself, and for all his distinctive dress he doesn't look much like a legend. He looks like a man. A tired, heavy-hearted man. "Wait," Felipe says, as Zorro finally begins to turn away. Zorro pauses and looks back at him. "Why did you come here?"
"I—" Zorro clears his throat. "Would you believe me if I said I came to confess?" he asks.
"Would it be true?" Zorro looks at him blankly – though how he can tell, with the mask covering most of his face, he couldn't say. "If you said it," Felipe explains patiently, "would it be true?"
"Yes," Zorro says.
"Then I believe you." Felipe places the last candle from his handful in an empty spot and brushes the feel of wax from his fingers. "Come on," he says, and beckons Zorro to follow as he heads to the confessional.
There's a long pause, then muffled footfalls behind him, accented by the faint jingling of spurs. Felipe opens the door to the little room and slips inside without looking back. It feels a little redundant, since Zorro is already disguised, but the screen and the separation are more for the confessing than the confessor. Felipe settles into the seat and waits through another long pause before the bench outside creaks, and then one more before Zorro speaks.
"Forgive me, Father," he whispers at last, "for I have failed to save a life. And in doing so I made myself a liar and a thief as well, for I promised hope and then took it away."
Felipe lets out a long breath. Yes, that is a heavy heart indeed. There are many things he could say, rote lines he could repeat, reprimands and reassurances both. He doesn't say them. "Did you try?" he asks instead.
"What?"
"Did you try to save their life?"
"Yes," Zorro breathes, pained. "Yes, of course I tried, but it wasn't— I couldn't, not in time. Yes," he says again, like a wound re-opening. "I tried. Please, believe me."
"Then you haven't sinned," Felipe tells him. "God knows your heart. God knows you did your best."
The bench creaks again as Zorro leans forward sharply, closer to the screen. "What does that matter?" he hisses. "My best? So what? If my best is not enough, what does it matter that I tried? It matters that I failed."
"Do you always argue at confession?" Felipe asks mildly.
"Do you?" Zorro shoots back. "Someone is dead because of me, and you tell me I haven't sinned?"
"Someone is dead in spite of you," Felipe corrects. "I don't imagine for a moment you've never killed anyone, but this person, whoever they are, you didn't kill them. You didn't kill them, you didn't lie, and you didn't steal. Sure, maybe you didn't do enough, maybe you made a mistake, maybe you were too slow. Are those sins?"
"You tell me, priest."
"What do you want me to say?" Felipe asks, finally frustrated. "You want me to curse you for a murderer, to tell you you're going to Hell? How do you think confession works, huh? You think you get to decide whether or not God forgives you? You think you get to decide whether or not you deserve it?"
"I don't want forgiveness," Zorro snaps, "I want a penance." Then he sags, visible even as a black shape through the screen, and drops his head onto the rail. "Give me a penance, Father," he whispers. "Give me something I can do. Give me something to make this— this hate go away."
Felipe sighs. Now he's tired. He leans back against the confessional wall. "Fine," he says. "Come back tomorrow night, and I'll have a penance for you."
"No, I need it now."
"Then the first part of your penance is to wait," Felipe says. "To exercise patience and humility. And not to punish yourself in the meantime," he adds, on a hunch. "You hate yourself, fine, but let vengeance be God's."
"So, my penance is to do nothing. A life is lost and that is your answer."
"Oh, is it too hard?" Felipe asks, a little sarcastically. Maybe more than a little. "You wanted a few mindless prayers to say? You really think that would be enough?"
After a very long few moments, Zorro says, softly, "No."
"No," Felipe agrees. "So go home, wherever it is you go, and whenever you feel that rage, that helplessness, that hate, remember that you asked for penance and that's not it. Patience. Humility. Waiting. That's your penance."
"Just until tomorrow?"
"At least until tomorrow."
Zorro mutters something under his breath. "I'm not sure you're a very good priest," he says then, louder.
Felipe shrugs, unseen. "So find another one."
"I think they're all asleep," Zorro says snidely.
"So it was fate that brought us together," Felipe declares grandly. "The infallible hand of God. The—"
Zorro stands up. "Good night, padre," he says, and walks away.
Felipe smiles. "Good night, Zorro." He counts to ten before opening the confessional door. When he does, Zorro is gone like he was never there at all.
The next night, Zorro appears at the same time as before, missing his weapons and hat. Even though Felipe was waiting for him, it's still a surprise to turn and find him standing there. But not, he thinks, as much of a surprise as his decision is to Zorro. Again, he beckons for Zorro to follow him, but this time he heads not to the confessional, but through the chapel and into the living quarters attached to it. They encounter no one, as Felipe had expected, and arrive at his cell with no challenges. By the time Felipe opens his door, Zorro has gone from wariness to curiosity and back to wariness, all without saying a word. Felipe gestures him in impatiently, and eventually Zorro goes. Felipe follows him in, closes the door behind him, and pours a cup of water from the pitcher on the desk.
"Sit," he says, indicating the chair, then pushes the cup into Zorro's unresisting hand and sits on the bed – the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Presumably just to be contrary, Zorro sits on the floor. He doesn't drink, but he doesn't put the cup down, either.
"What is this?" he asks warily.
"Your penance," Felipe answers. "And water. Trust me, you'll want it."
"And why is that?"
"Because you're going to do a lot of talking," Felipe tells him. "And I'm going to do a lot of listening."
Zorro gives him another of those blank looks.
Felipe sighs. He seems to be doing that a lot, lately. "Penance isn't punishment," he begins. "It's not an indulgence, something you do to tip the scales back in your favor. It's meant to offer a chance for reflection, a time to examine your actions and rededicate yourself to walking the path of righteousness. It's meant to show willingness to try again, and to try to be better. So. For your penance, which you asked for, I want you to tell me about whatever happened yesterday to bring you here. I don't need names," he goes on, seeing imminent argument, "or any details that would threaten anyone's life or dignity. But I want you to tell me what went wrong, and what you plan to do to stop it from happening again."
"I..." Zorro stops. Felipe watches him. It's not wariness, he thinks now, as much as confusion. Perhaps a dose of distrust as well.
"You said you wanted something to do," Felipe reminds him gently. "Something that would make it easier to bear. You said you didn't want forgiveness – you wanted a plan. So make one. Convince me that you did everything you could, and that you'll do everything you can not to make the same mistakes again, and maybe you'll believe it for yourself."
Zorro shifts. Almost imperceptibly, he slumps back against the wall. "I don't talk about this," he says quietly. "With anyone. I can't."
"I know," Felipe says. He does. "But everyone needs someone to talk to."
Zorro stares at him. Felipe lets himself be stared at. Then Zorro closes his eyes, takes a long drink of the water, and begins to talk.
It's stilted at first, the words searching and uncertain, but the more he says the more he seems to want to say. And it is like bleeding, like a wound being opened, or like stagnant water finally flowing freely, and cleaner for its current. Sometimes Felipe prods, asking questions or encouraging a trailed-off thought, but mostly he just listens.
By the time the words are all used up, it's hours later and Zorro is almost asleep. He looks exhausted in the steady lamplight, tucked into a corner of the room with his cape wrapped around him. Of course Felipe's tired too, but not, he thinks, as much as Zorro is. Lighter his heart may be, but the toll of a heavy burden drags beyond the moment the weight is set aside.
With effort, Felipe stirs himself to speak. "Zorro," he says. Zorro hums. "Do you need to go?"
"Probably," Zorro mutters, but makes no move to get up.
"We have maybe an hour before anyone else is awake."
"Is that meant to motivate me?"
"I said maybe an hour. It might be less. And it would be awkward for me to explain what you're doing here."
At that, Zorro cracks an eye open. The other follows soon after, and then he sighs and sits forward with a soft noise of complaint. He gets to his feet stiffly; more than one joint cracks or clicks audibly. Perhaps he's not as young as Felipe thought, either.
Once he's up, Felipe stands as well. "I'll show you another way out," he says.
They don't speak again until they're standing at the opening of the cellar vaults, looking out into the small gully it abuts. "The land levels off about a quarter mile upstream," Felipe says. "That'll put you east of town. Of course, it's not too steep to climb out anywhere before then."
Zorro nods. Ahead of them, the darkness is starting to lighten to dusky blues and greys. In another hour or so, the gully will be awash with the sunrise. It's a beautiful thing to see, but neither of them will see it today. "Thank you, padre," Zorro says, and Felipe knows it's not just for the directions.
"Any time," he says, and means it.
Zorro half-smiles. "Perhaps."
Felipe shrugs and turns to head back into the vaults. "See you around," he says, not expecting an answer. He doesn't get one. Humming to himself, he goes back upstairs and sets about his day.
He doesn't entirely expect it to happen again, but he's not very surprised when it does.
The next visit is several months later; the one after that a bit sooner. For all Zorro's cunning and confidence in his battles, he strikes Felipe more than anything as a feral cat in the days or hours afterward: creeping towards sanctuary with uncertain steps, ready to run at the first sign of rejection, claws and teeth always half-bared in defense.
Slowly, though, the skittishness falls away. He still argues, still pushes back, still seems torn between wanting reassurance and rejecting it out of hand, but that seems to simply be who he is. A prickly little contrarian holding spikes over a soft center.
Sometimes he comes to confess, sometimes simply to talk. On those nights, Felipe takes to preparing coffee. A couple of times he shows up injured, fresh from a fight, and sometimes he comes looking for another one. Those are the hardest nights, but also the most necessary. The nights when Zorro comes storming in, spitting mad about something another mission has done, another rancho, another group of settlers.
"They're rounded up and kept like animals," he spits one night, hand on the hilt of his sword as he strides around in the cellar kicking at the dirt and stone chips on the floor. "Forced to work the land that was stolen from them and hunted with dogs if they try to leave. And the Church calls this mercy? The government calls it civilizing? Even after desestablecimiento their way of life is being destroyed and everyone looks the other way."
Felipe sits on a low stone wall and watches him pace. "Where was this?" he asks.
"Where isn't it?" Zorro snaps, turning to pin him with a glare. "San Diego, Solano, and everywhere in between, native Californians are treated like filth. A murder here, an epidemic there, a riot, a rebellion, a kidnapping, a rape... We knew the Spaniards didn't care, but the Mexicans are just as bad, and now the Americans coming through from Tejas in search of gold—"
"No, I know. I mean, where were you just now?" Zorro has been absent almost a month; Felipe had been so relieved to see him alive that he'd hugged him in spite of his obvious anger and brought him down to the cellars so he could yell.
"Capistrano."
Felipe feels his eyebrows shoot up. "Really? Why?" He's known that Zorro fights for Alta California, but he'd never heard of him going so far south.
Oddly, Zorro reaches up to touch the silver medallion he wears. "Someone asked me to keep an eye on it," he says, suddenly sounding exhausted rather than furious. This, too, is becoming familiar. His anger burns hot, but quickly. Of course, it can also flare up again just as fast. "A friend. He cared about it very deeply."
Felipe decides not to dig any deeper than that. "How often do you leave San Mateo?"
"I go where I'm needed," Zorro says. "When I am called."
"Just like that, huh?"
Zorro lets go of the medallion to point an accusing finger. "Ey, don't talk to me about jumping at snapped fingers. You wear the habit of men who crossed an ocean at the whims of a conquistador."
This is not a new argument. In the course of their conversations over the past year, Zorro has let slip that he was orphaned young and raised on the mission of San Fernando, but beyond that Felipe knows nothing about his family. Whether he's Spanish or Mexican or true Californio. As tense as he is about these things, Felipe wouldn't be surprised if it's all three. "What do you want me to say?" he asks, for perhaps the thousandth time since their meeting. "We can't change the past, you know that. All we can do is try to do better in the future."
"Yes," Zorro sneers. "Try. It is always trying with you."
"Better than not trying."
"But not good enough!"
"And it's always perfection with you. Get a grip," Felipe tells him, unsympathetic. "You're just a man. You can't do everything."
"I wouldn't have to do everything si la Iglesia se preocupó alguna vez por la gente que dice querer a salvar!"
There's nothing to say to that. Felipe may be devoted to God, but he knows the past three hundred years have been bloody and violent. He doesn't believe that God ever truly wanted that – it's always people who want power and control, not Him who already has it – but that doesn't really matter. What is done in God's name, even falsely, is still done, and anger at injustice is always deserved.
Even so, Zorro can't be allowed to get on too high a horse. Felipe has come to see himself as a force for the penance he first advised: patience and humility, but mostly humility. "So what are you doing about it?" he asks. "What are you doing to right the wrongs of the past?"
"What are you?"
Felipe folds his hands in his lap and meets Zorro's masked gaze levelly. "I asked you first."
Felipe opens his cell door one night, finds an intruder, and punches him.
"What the hell?" Zorro hisses, touching his bloody lip.
"What are you doing in my room?" Felipe hisses back. They've both become adept at very quiet yelling matches.
"Where did you learn to hit people? You're a priest!"
"You think I was born a priest? I was a poor kid, of course I know how to fight!"
"You— Okay." Zorro seems to accept that extremely easily. "Now listen, I need your help."
And that's how Felipe helps Zorro break into a bank.
There's a really good reason for it.
There's a fire in the pueblo the summer after that, a terrible fire, and whoever rings the bell to wake the people up and call for help must not have counted the chimes. That, or Zorro heard they weren't for him and came anyway. Felipe sees him in snatches, in crowds and through smoke, the long ends of his fabric mask tied over his mouth and nose as he goes into the inferno again and again, returning with children, a dog, an heirloom, an aging grandparent. Felipe is helping to tend to the injured and the frightened, doling out water and cleaning soot from burns and wounds, lifting the weak into wagons that will take them away from the worst of the heat and haze.
When someone staggers into him, almost pulling him to the ground, he catches them without really looking. There are still people being evacuated, still people trying to save someone or something from the flames and stumbling out again grief-stricken and disoriented. "Woah," he says, and eases the person to the ground. "It's okay, I've got—" He breaks off, staring down in shock. It's Zorro. His grip on Felipe's arms is weak and his eyes are just open enough to show glassy and bloodshot. Felipe hastily pulls the fabric away from his nose and mouth so he can breathe easier. "Are you hurt?" he asks quietly.
"No," Zorro whispers. Wheezes. "Just—" A thin, reedy rasp of air. "Tired." He coughs harshly.
"You've been in the smoke too long. Wait here, I'll be back."
It's something of a miracle that no one else appears to notice them, and even more of a miracle that Felipe actually manages to get him back to the church and into his room. Zorro is almost completely unconscious, and whatever awareness he has left is put to use being as unhelpful as possible. By the time Felipe slings him onto his bed like a sack of very uncooperative potatoes, he feels like he's done just as much work tonight as Zorro has.
It's a very long night.
In the morning, Zorro insists he's well enough to go home. Felipe flatly refuses. Zorro tells him he has a family – a wife, a son. They will be worried about him. Felipe is so furious with him for that that he lets him go.
He has people who love him, who need him, and he risks his life all over California?
"Everyone has someone who loves them," Zorro rasps a week later. His voice is still painful to listen to, and he's clearly been very sick since the fire. "That's why I have to fight."
"Whatever," Felipe says, and goes back to tallying funds.
"What's that?" Zorro asks, nodding to the papers.
"We've been receiving a lot of donations to put towards rebuilding," Felipe tells him. "Mostly from the people of the pueblo, but some of the outlying landowners have given generously as well. Don Alejandro de la Vega gave a bank note for five-hundred American dollars." And Felipe only knows because he caught him at it.
He's been seeing more of de la Vega around since his son began attending the local school. He's a kind man, if a little vapid at times, and he doesn't wave his wealth around like so many of the other dons do. He's quiet about it, private. He seemed almost embarrassed when Felipe found him pushing a folded up piece of paper into the collection box. That alone had been enough to earn Felipe's fondness. "But don't spread it around," Felipe adds, looking up sternly. He's used to their confidences running the other way, but Zorro can damn well keep one of his secrets in return.
Zorro smiles tightly. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Felipe sees less of Zorro after that. Maybe he took Felipe's words to heart and is a little more discerning in the fights he picks for himself. Then again, maybe he's still just as flagrant with his disregard for his own life and limb and is simply avoiding Felipe for fear of being yelled at again.
He finds he misses it. He still has sleepless nights when he wanders the church, seeking work to do and hoping to find a black-clad figure lurking in the shadows, waiting for an invitation. But he never does.
Perhaps it's for the best. Perhaps this secret was one he didn't need, and now that it's faded away he can focus on the life he leads in the open. Perhaps somewhere Zorro is doing the same. Unlikely, he can admit, but possible. He gives himself his own penance, rededicates himself to the needs of the congregation, the pleas of the people. He does his best to live by the words of advice he has given, to keep to the plans he made in the dark to right the wrongs of his predecessors. He teaches, he advocates, he listens. He tries.
And then one evening, when the church is emptied but not yet locked up for the night, Alejandro de la Vega slips inside as Felipe's refilling the pilas of holy water at the entrance. De la Vega dips his fingers in the fuller one and crosses himself reflexively. "Padre," he says politely.
"Don Alejandro," Felipe returns. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping I could speak to you," de la Vega says. "But if it's too late..." He trails off.
"I'd be happy to speak with you," Felipe says. "Shall we sit?"
"Please."
Felipe leads him further into the sanctuary, up towards the altar, and picks a pew at random. He sits down; de la Vega pauses a moment, then sits next to him. "What did you want to talk about?" Felipe asks.
"I... I find I am not sure what to do," de la Vega admits. "I have had to keep certain secrets, to protect people I care about, but that means that at times I am obliged to lie. Today, I lied to my son." De la Vega stops. Felipe doesn't interrupt. This isn't what he expected to hear, but there is no judgement to be cast, not before he knows more. "I believe," de la Vega says slowly after a while, "very firmly, that it is a lie that will protect him. That I am lying to keep him safe. And yet it still pains me. It seems there are only so many people I can lie to before the weight of it becomes unbearable." He looks up at Felipe then and smiles, somewhat sadly. "So I'm not sure what to do. Should I keep lying, in the name of protecting those I love? Or should I tell the truth and risk the anger of the ones I've already deceived?"
Felipe looks back at him. There's something in his posture Felipe hasn't seen before, something uncertain, hesitant. Reaching out a hand and expecting it to be slapped away. It's oddly familiar, but he can't place it. "That does sound troublesome," he agrees cautiously. "Do you want advice, or just someone to talk about it with?"
"I don't want advice," de la Vega says deliberately, leaning in closer. His expression is strangely hopeful, his eyes intense. "I want a penance."
The pew drops out from under him. At least, that's what it feels like. Felipe gapes: he can't help it. Then he reaches out and cuffs the back of Zorro's head.
Alejandro yelps. "What was that for?"
"For trying to give me a heart attack in my own church, cabron! Oh, you are such a piece of work. We are gonna have a very long talk, you and me." He stands, yanking Alejandro up with him, and pushes him out of the pew. He marches his friend towards the door to the living quarters, though of course Alejandro – Zorro – knows the way perfectly well, and keeps up his muttering the whole time.
It serves to keep him from breaking into a big, stupid grin. It's not funny, exactly, and it's not that he isn't angry, it's just... This is trust like he's never known before. It's forgiveness for every argument, an admission of need in spite of every past denial, a request to continue trying, together, to be what the world needs them to be. It's not a penance; it's what comes after.
It's absolution.
. . .
Thank you for reading! As always, please feel free to leave any feedback you'd like to.