Black line drawing of a centaur archer with a drawn bow and arrow, shown as a tattoo design on white paper, with no body placement visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Centaur archer line drawing

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A single-line drawing of a centaur drawn in black marker, shown with a curved bow and an arrow pointing left. The horse body has a looping tail, and the archer's head has flowing hair. The image is plain black linework on a pale background with no shading or colour.

Fine line Bow Arrow Zodiac

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the time you reached the walled garden the gate was swinging on one hinge and the gravel was scored with hoofprints that belonged to nothing in the stables at Hollin Court. Mr Ferrier had sent you up with a rake and a bucket of lime, nothing more, so you stood there holding both like a fool and listened to a bowstring sing somewhere beyond the yew hedge.

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The centaur was standing by the sundial when you found him, his flank steaming in the cold, the bow held loose in one hand as though he had forgotten he carried it. His hair was tied back with a strip of old sailcloth. He did not look at you. He was watching the arrow he had loosed, which hung in the dusk above the far wall and pointed west toward the village, as if it had a name to find.

Ferrier had told you the stories in the potting shed: how the horse-men were the first archers, how they were driven up into the hills when the orchards were planted and never forgave the apple trees. You had thought him drunk. Ask him what he is aiming at, Ferrier had said, and he will tell you the truth or shoot you, and most men cannot tell which. So you asked.

He said he was aiming at the last of the year's light, the thin gold that comes before the frost and makes a garden look as if it is holding its breath. He said nobody had ever hit it. Then he pressed the bow into your hands, and you drew, and the string kissed your cheek, and the arrow climbed straight up into the first star. When you lowered your eyes he had gone, and across the bed beneath the sundial the first frost had laid a white line pointing west.