That night, Baobhan Sith saw a side of Favia she had never witnessed before.
On the banks of the River Thames in the city known as London—
inside a shipyard.
Beside Favia lay an array of tools made for humans—layout rulers, ink lines, straight edges. He pressed a finger lightly against his lips, tilting his head in thought. Then, using both gestures and quiet instructions, he directed the workers nearby to mark and measure the wooden planks according to the sketches in his hand.
At times, he even changed into coarse work clothes and put on a straw hat, personally picking up the ink line and straight edge to draw precise cutting marks across the timber. Then, saw in hand, he would carefully cut along each line—steady, focused, and patient. His movements were fluid and strong, as though the tools themselves were an extension of his body.
In this sixteenth-century world, without the aid of modern design instruments, craftsmanship demanded extraordinary precision and experience.
Around him, the workers moved efficiently in rhythm—some sawing wood, others hammering nails, measuring, or drawing lines. The air was thick with the scent of timber and oil paint, mingled with the damp breath of the Thames. It was a place overflowing with energy and life.
The fairy girl didn't truly understand what she was seeing, yet she couldn't tear her gaze away.
"What… is he doing?"
Her murmured question naturally reached the ears of Makiri, who had brought her there.
"Shipbuilding," Makiri explained. "Though from what Favia once said, you could also call it… participating in production."
"Aren't we going up there?"
"...No," he shook his head. "You go. I've already spoken with them—no one will stop you. I'll take my leave here."
As Baobhan Sith turned to glance at Makiri's departing figure, she noticed something unusual.
Though his expression remained as stern as ever, his back seemed weighed down by a faint sense of loss.
"Makiri, do you know what the greatest difference is between us and them?"
That question had been posed several years earlier, when Makiri had come to visit Favia—
back then, at a textile mill.
At the time, Makiri had wondered why Favia spent so much of his energy on these trivial mundane matters instead of devoting himself to the study of magecraft. But before he could ask, Favia had turned the question back on him.
Seated before a spinning wheel, Favia's hands moved swiftly and precisely—twisting wool fibers into fine threads, fingers darting between the wheel and spindle with effortless rhythm. Even as he spoke, his movements never faltered, each step in the process completed with care and focus.
During this era, most woolen mills in London were built near rivers or at the city's edge, where water and raw materials were easy to access.
Collected wool was first soaked in large basins and stirred with poles to remove impurities. Then, in the combing area, workers used great wooden combs to draw the wool into neat bundles of even fiber—ready for spinning.
The production of wool cloth required seamless cooperation between countless hands. From washing, spinning, and weaving to dyeing and finishing, every stage depended on another. And beyond those on the production line, there were laborers carrying materials, cleaners, repairmen—so many invisible hands contributing to one creation.
"The greatest difference…"
Makiri had furrowed his brow, uncertain. After some hesitation, he finally offered a clumsy answer.
"They're… pitiful. That's why we should help them."
"Mm. And what else?"
Favia nodded, urging him on.
"But—if you don't compare family lineage, and only compare them with you as people… what difference remains?"
Makiri fell silent, unable to answer.
Makiri Zolgen—known in later centuries as Zouken Matou—was, at this time, a pure idealist.
A friend of both Paracelsus and Leonardo da Vinci, he still held grand dreams and an uncorrupted sense of purpose.
He had yet to become the man consumed by disgust at his decaying body and fading soul—
the man who, after losing faith in his ideals, buried them deep beneath the worms of his own creation.
As Paracelsus would later say of him:
"The Makiri I knew was a noble idealist. If I were to meet the one who walks this world five centuries later, I would never recognize him as the same man."
"Don't rush to answer, Makiri," Favia had continued gently.
"You've come here, and you don't act high and mighty. I can tell—you don't look down on them.
The poor and the weary… they're everywhere in London. No—wherever you go in this world, they are always the majority."
"They live on insufficient food, in unsanitary homes. They work from dawn to dusk, never daring to save a shred of strength for tomorrow.
Every day is a struggle for survival. How much freedom do you think they have?"
"They lack everything.
They can't afford to heal when they're ill.
They have no chance to paint, or to play music.
Even a full meal a day is a dream too distant to reach.
And yet—it's they who bear the weight of this world.
They are the truly remarkable ones."
His voice wasn't loud, often drowned out by the rhythmic hum of spinning wheels.
But Makiri listened carefully, word by word, without interrupting.
That night—Baobhan Sith saw a side of Favia she had never seen before.
In a shipyard along the Thames, within the city known as London—
Favia stood among the tools of mankind: chalk lines, compasses, measuring rods. His slender fingers pressed against his lips as he tilted his head in thought, occasionally comparing the sketches in his hand against the wooden boards, or calmly giving instructions to the workers beside him.
Sometimes, he would even change into coarse work clothes, don a straw hat, and personally take part in the labor—drawing precise cut lines on the planks with practiced skill before sawing carefully along them. Every motion was patient and deliberate, smooth and powerful, as though he were one with the tools themselves.
In this sixteenth-century age, before the advent of computers and precision instruments, such craftsmanship demanded both exceptional experience and accuracy.
Around him, the workers busied themselves with their tasks—some cutting, some hammering, some measuring, some marking. The air was thick with the smell of sawdust and paint, mingled with the mist from the nearby Thames. It was a world pulsing with energy and life.
The fairy girl didn't quite understand what she was seeing, yet she couldn't take her eyes off it.
"This is… what are they doing…?"
Her murmur reached the ears of the blue-haired man standing beside her—Makiri.
"Shipbuilding," he replied. "Though according to Favia's explanation, it's more than just that—it's participation in creation itself."
"We're… not going closer?"
"No. You can go ahead. I've already spoken to them; no one will stop you. As for me… I'll take my leave here."
Baobhan Sith turned toward him in surprise. Though Makiri's face was as stern as ever, his departing figure looked strangely lonely.
"Makiri, do you know the greatest difference between us and them?"
That was something Favia had once asked him years ago—back in the wool mill.
Makiri had been puzzled then, wondering why Favia spent time on such mundane work instead of devoting himself to magical research or study. But before he could ask, Favia had countered with that question.
At the time, Favia sat before a spinning wheel, deftly turning raw wool into fine yarn. His fingers moved swiftly between the wheel and the fiber, each motion precise and unhurried, as though his thoughts and actions belonged to the same rhythm.
In those days, London's wool mills were built near the edges of the city or by rivers, where water and materials were plentiful. Wool was soaked, washed, combed, spun, woven, dyed, and pressed—all by countless hands. From cleaners to spinners, dyers, and laborers—each person played an irreplaceable part in the chain of creation.
"The greatest difference…"
Makiri had frowned, hesitating before answering. "They're… pitiful. So, we must help them."
"Mm. And what else?"
Favia nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"But if we don't compare lineage—if we just compare them and you, as people—what's the difference?"
Makiri couldn't answer.
Back then, Makiri Zolgen—later known as Matou Zouken—was still a young idealist, a friend of Paracelsus and Leonardo da Vinci. He had not yet been corroded by time—had not yet come to despise his decaying flesh and stagnant soul, nor forgotten his ideals in the rot of immortality.
Perhaps, as Paracelsus once said, if he met that same Makiri centuries later, he would never recognize—or admit—that they were the same man.
"Don't rush to answer," Favia said gently. "You've never looked down on them, Makiri. I know that. You see the poor and the wretched all around London—no, all over the world. They are always the majority.
They live in filth and hunger, without freedom or rest, spending every ounce of strength just to survive another day. Malnutrition, disease, exhaustion—they cannot afford medicine, let alone art or music. Even a single warm meal is a luxury far beyond reach.
And yet—they are the ones who carry this world upon their backs. They are the truly great ones."
Favia's voice wasn't loud; at times it was drowned out by the hum of the spinning wheels. But Makiri listened in silence, without interrupting.
"Long ago," Favia continued, "humans lived like beasts. It took tens of thousands of years of struggle for civilization to reach this point—and still, not everyone can share in its reward."
"That's wrong," Makiri said at last. His usually composed face showed real emotion for the first time.
Favia smiled softly. "I knew you'd say that. You and Paracelsus both would. You'd say, 'It shouldn't be this way.'"
He paused, then went on.
"You're right—it shouldn't. If one is human, then everyone should be allowed to live as human. The world ought to be like that. Anyone with a sincere and kind heart would think so. But—unfortunately, the world is not yet that way."
Back in the present, Makiri's gaze dimmed as he turned away from the shipyard.
Even now, he still didn't fully understand Favia's words that day. Yet, sometimes, in the midst of his magical research, he would find himself staring blankly at the everyday goods crafted by ordinary people—and wonder why Favia said that it was the poor who truly bore the world upon their shoulders.
"No matter what," he murmured, "a person must live like a person. And any act of evil… will one day be stopped by the good."
With that, Makiri allowed himself one last glance toward Favia—and, for the first time in years, smiled faintly before walking away.
"Hand me the axe," Favia said suddenly, extending a hand without looking up.
Startled, Baobhan Sith flinched. The workers nearby exchanged puzzled glances, wondering who the hooded girl was, but one of them pointed kindly toward the tool lying on the ground.
Flustered, she picked it up and handed it to Favia.
"Why are you here?" he asked, still without raising his head—but somehow, from the small scar on her hand, he already knew who she was.
"..."
Baobhan Sith fidgeted with her fingers, silent. She simply watched as Favia swung the axe along the marked lines—each cut measured, exact, methodical.
When he finished, she saw him take several heated iron fittings from the fire and hammer them into shape.
"Why are you here?" he asked again, the hammer ringing rhythmically against the wood.
"...I… I'm sorry… but I… did what you said…"
Her voice trembled as she glanced toward the fire. Its flickering glow slipped through the gaps in the boards, illuminating their faces.
Somehow, that faint light, and the narrow space it filled, felt exactly like the distance between them—warm, fragile, and strangely comforting.
"I was just asking," Favia sighed again. "You really do make me use up all my sighs, Baobhan Sith."
Around them, the clamor of saws and hammers filled the shipyard. The fairy girl moved instinctively, helping him wherever she could.
When the rough shaping was done, Favia began sanding and smoothing the boards, removing every splinter and flaw—each motion deliberate, until the surfaces gleamed like polished skin.
As evening came, the workers left one by one, and Favia followed suit, with Baobhan Sith trailing behind, still lost in thought.
Her steps were light—almost floating. Perhaps she was happy, just to have helped him, even in a small way.
Back at Favia's home, the red-haired fairy removed her hood and collapsed into a chair, breathing hard, sweat beading her brow. The heat of the shipyard still clung to her.
She found herself wondering again—why didn't Favia use magic? It would have been so much easier. He wouldn't even sweat…
As she stood to fetch a towel, his voice stopped her.
"Judging by your condition, you didn't let Paracelsus heal you, did you?"
"I—I didn't… I'm sorry…"
She waved her hands frantically, shaking her head like a scolded child. Then she clutched her skirt, trembling.
"You think I'm angry?" Favia chuckled softly. "I'm not. Actually—I'd prefer if you weren't so obedient all the time. I'd rather see you be arrogant, even a little defiant."
For someone like Baobhan Sith, who had suffered cruelty for so long, he didn't wish her to become a "good girl." Before that, he wanted her to overcome the fear and guilt that ruled her—to learn to live for herself.
Because being too well-behaved often isn't a virtue—it's repression. A "good child" might grow up never having made a choice for themselves, and one day, they might rebel in ruin, just to prove they exist.
He didn't want that for her.
Baobhan Sith didn't really understand his reasoning, but seeing the rare joy in his expression, she nodded.
"Since Paracelsus couldn't do it," he said, "I'll handle the treatment myself. Lie down."
She obeyed quietly.
Soon, Favia's face was close enough for her to see her reflection in his silver eyes.
In that faint glow, he looked almost luminous—beautiful enough to make her heart skip.
As she stared blankly, the word "friend" echoed again in her mind. Her cheeks flushed, and she clasped her hands over her chest like a girl lost in a fairytale dream.
Just as Paracelsus had said, this was Favia's first time performing such a "surgery." But Baobhan Sith's throat wound wasn't a fatal one—for a fairy, time alone would have healed it. She had only been afraid to try—afraid that using her power would make others hate her again.
Now, for the first time, she truly wanted to heal—to sing again with her own voice.
"All right, that should do it," Favia said after a few minutes, rising to his feet.
"I… you…" she began, testing her voice.
It was clear, no longer hoarse—though still a little rough from long disuse.
"Good," he smiled. "Now, drink some warm water and get some rest."
She wanted to say thank you—but before the words could leave her lips, her body moved on its own. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
By the time Favia realized it, she was holding him tightly.
"I'm Baobhan Sith," she whispered. "I'm… happy to meet you, Favia."
"...Yeah."
"You're… my friend."
"Mm. I'm your friend."
Under the serene moonlight, their quiet conversation continued—small, fragmented words that meant nothing to the world, yet carried the warmth of something profoundly human.