Colour tattoo of a blue-winged fairy in a flowing dress, placed on the side of the ribs.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Blue fairy tattoo on the ribs

Ribs · Colour · Photo

A fairy in a long flowing blue dress sits in a crouched, airborne pose with two blue wings spread behind her. The linework is dark and fairly fine, with soft blue shading across the wings and dress and brown tones in the hair and skin. The tattoo sits diagonally on the side of the torso against the subject's skin, with a striped top at the upper edge of the frame.

Ribs Fairy Wing Dress Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had been coming down since Martinmas, and by the third week of January the lane to Harrow Cross had vanished under it. My father kept the Fleece open anyway, because travellers still come to a lit window, and on the night the fairy came in she was sitting on the sill of the back room as if she had always lived there, knees drawn up, wings folded like wet silk.

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She was no bigger than my hand, and her dress was the colour of meltwater under a sky that has not decided on morning. She told me her name was Ysolde and that she had come down from the hills to find the thaw, which a man in the valley had bought up by the ounce and locked in the cellars of the lords. I laughed at her. She did not laugh back. She only pointed at the hearth, where the flames had shrunk to small blue roots.

"Give me the kettle's warmth and I will give you the road," she said. So I did, though my hands shook. I carried the iron kettle out to the drift behind the stable and poured it into the snow, and the white peeled back like a sheet pulled off a bed. Ysolde rose into the dark on wings like a kingfisher's, and where she passed, the hedges greened one bud at a time.

My father found me at dawn with the empty kettle in my lap and the lane clear all the way to the village. On the sill lay a single blue thread, fine as hair, that had come off her dress. I still have it, pinned inside the ledger where he wrote down what the winter cost us, and some mornings I swear the page is warm.