Garcia closed the door to his quarters and set the candle he carried on the top of the chest of drawers. The light danced in the gentle breeze that drifted through the open window behind him. He closed his eyes, his heart heavy with weariness, and sadness. A week had passed since the rains had begun, a week of mud and floods and other troubles, with a few moments of victory on the side. But pueblo held strong and things were slowly beginning to return to normal. At least for all but the two who knew the truth about what had happened in Snake Canyon on that fateful night.

A week since the river had swallowed the fox whole.

Garcia opened his eyes with a small huff of breath, and reached inside the top drawer. His heart gave a twinge of pain as his calloused fingers closed around the scrap of fabric, hidden beneath a stack of clean shirts. He'd half expected it to be missing. He'd hoped that it would be missing. But it wasn't. He sunk down onto the bed, the mask clutched in his fist. There had been no sign of Zorro, and with each day that passed he found it more difficult to hold onto the hope that the fox would return. He'd seen the man cheat death so often he'd begun to believe that the fox was immortal.

He smoothed the fabric over his knee. What if Zorro truly had perished that night? Garcia was a soldier, and in reality he was not foolish enough to believe the fox was truly immortal, no matter how much he wished it. But Zorro was much more than just a man. He was a symbol. He was hope to those who had little to hope for, justice for those too weak to fight for themselves, a man who treated all with dignity and respect, regardless of class or status.

He thought of the little girl Zorro had given his life for. What would happen to the people if their hero was truly gone?

His heart was heavy at the thought. The Commandante was a good man, true, but in Garcia's experience Los Angeles seemed unable to hold its leaders for long, and even with a good leader there was still trouble enough. Who would protect them if Zorro was gone? Garcia grasped the sides of the mask in his hands and raised it toward his face, only to pause halfway and lower it with a shake of his head. He slumped his shoulders, cradling his head in one hand. He was a soldier, not a hero…and besides, even if he could wear the mask, he was far from unrecognizable.

His eyes slipped closed beneath the weight of the duty that loomed before him. It was time to tell the Commandante the rest of the story. He would take full responsibility for the omission. After all, he'd ordered Reyes not to tell anyone about the finding of Zorro's mask, reasoning that if the fox returned, there was no need to cause a panic. They gone back to search at daybreak on the following morning, carefully avoiding the caves, but they'd found nothing and their duties had prevented them from returning again. He sighed again and squared his shoulders. It was time.

A muffled sneeze sounded behind him.

"Bless you." He murmured absently.

"Gracias."

His eyes widened comically, and he charged to his feet. The candle flickered wildly as he bumped into the dresser as he spun to face the intruder, his hand fumbling for his absent sword. The hand rose to clutch his chest, and his face drained of blood, at the sight of the figure leaning against the window frame.

"Buenos Tardes, Sergeant."

His jaw snapped shut, and then opened, his mouth moving but his voice failing. He swallowed heavily and tried again. "Are you a ghost?" he squeaked.

A chuckle was his answer, deeper in timber than normal.

"I assure you that I am quite real." Zorro grinned and gave a small bow, an affect that was promptly ruined by another sneeze.

The wide smile that had encompassed Garcia's face slipped at the sneeze as he studied the man with concern. "Are you well, Zorro? Where have you been? We were afraid you were dead. I mean, I didn't think such a thing, but Corporal Reyes and the others…"

The deep chuckle returned. "I am quite well, Sergeant." He waved a gloved hand in dismissal. "Apart from the minor inconvenience of a cold."

Garcia's head swam with overwhelming relief, and he sank down onto the bed his knees grew weak. "We searched for you." The words began hesitantly. "Up and down the canyon, but we didn't find you." His face grew red. "But of course you knew this. If we had found you, you would have known, but we didn't. I mean we found your mask by the water, but then there was a ghost." His face grew very sad. "I am sorry, Zorro. We should not have run away."

He dared a glance at the man, and was surprised to see guilt Zorro's eyes before it was shuttered away behind a warm smile.

"I do not blame you, my friend." Zorro replied. "Please do not blame yourself."

Garcia felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders at the words. He smiled.

"I am glad you did not drown."

Zorro laughed. "I also. That would have been most unfortunate." He straightened, moving nearer to the window. "And now, if you would be so kind as to return what is mine, I must be on my way."

Garcia did so.

"And, Sergeant," Zorro remarked, tucking the mask inside a pocket. "I think the mask would have looked very becoming on you."

He grinned, and with a small salute, slipped through the window and vanished into the night.

Garcia thought about it, and he laughed.

It felt good to laugh.

A/N: I believe this is where the screen cuts to Zorro riding off into the night while the theme sings 'Zorro! Zorro! Zorro!' Thank you very much for reading and for the excellent and very useful feedback. I had fun writing it, hoping you found it fun to read. Now off to catch up on my reading. Until next time Zorro fans! - Red