Black fine line and dotwork tattoo of antlers, two arrows and a floral band above the script words expecto patronum, on the inner forearm.

Antlers, arrows and script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a pair of antlers above two crossed arrows and a band of stylised flowers, with the words expecto patronum in flowing script below. The antlers and flowers are built from fine outlines with stippled dotwork shading, while the script is solid black linework. The design is in black ink only and sits centred on the inner forearm against plain skin.

Fine line Dotwork Lettering Forearm Antler Arrow Flower Script Deer

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the guy rope, it's the only thing holding up what's left of us. You want the story of the stag, then you'll have to listen while I fold the banners, because the last of the crowd has gone home to watch the telly and the sawdust won't sweep itself.

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My grandfather, Ezra Vane, ran the Vane & Halloway Travelling Show when there were still three trains a week carrying us between the coal towns. The star of the ring was a grey stag called Halloran, antlers like a hatstand, and every night my grandmother, Lottie, stood at the far pole with a bow and a quiver of blunt arrows. She'd loose two at once over the stag's head, and each one would catch a paper wreath of flowers strung between the poles. The crowd gasped, the stag bowed, and Ezra stood in the middle of the sawdust murmuring the old words under his breath, the ones his own father had taught him in a Welsh chapel yard. Expecto patronum, he'd say, and the stag would lift his head as if someone had called his name from far off.

The council wanted the field for houses by the autumn. The auctioneer came on a wet Tuesday with his clipboard, and Halloran was loaded into the horsebox while Lottie stood in the rain with her last unbroken arrow. She said the words once, quietly, and let it fly into the hedge. Where it landed, the mist went silver and a second stag stepped out of the fog, shining like a coin held up to the light. It trotted past the horsebox, over the stile, up towards the hills, and the real Halloran threw back his head and bellowed as if he'd been let out of a cage at last.

The auctioneer sold the grey stag with the chipped tooth for a fair price, and he's still jumping hoops in a farm in Shropshire, though he never does it without sulking. Halloran was never seen again. Every spring the field behind the old showground grows a band of pale flowers along the hedge, and I've never once managed to say which of the two stags was the decoy.