Black and grey Chi Rho monogram with Alpha and Omega letters inside a laurel wreath, tattooed on an upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Chi Rho and laurel wreath on upper arm

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A large Chi Rho monogram, formed by the Greek letters chi and rho, sits at the centre of the design, with an alpha and an omega on either side. A laurel wreath of leaves and berries curves around the symbol. The linework is bold and solid, with soft grey shading on the leaves and a clean black outline, and the tattoo is shown in a close photograph on the upper arm beneath a grey sleeve.

Upper arm Laurel wreath Monogram Leaves Berry

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Old Hatty Venn kept the bees at the top of Ashdown Hanger, and every spring she walked the boundary stones with a pot of pitch and a stick of charcoal, marking the ones that had gone soft. The village below had long stopped asking why. They only knew that when the Cornish carrier came through with his cart full of salt, the stones he touched were always the ones she had marked, and his wheels never sank into the bog.

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The year the frost came early, a lad named Tobias Rudd came panting up the hanger with his boots split and his coat torn at the elbow. He said the bog had taken his brother's ox in the night, and that the men of Lower Wyck wanted the old woman to come down and make it right. Hatty did not answer him. She went into her hut and came out with a bundle of bay laurel cut green from the hedge behind the church, and her mother's brass ring, which she turned twice in her palm before putting it in her apron pocket.

She bound the leaves into a wreath as they walked, knotting each stem with grey wool, and she made the lad carry it the whole way down to the bog. At the edge she knelt on the wet moss and scratched two letters into the flat grey stone that had sunk to its shoulders. One she shaped like a shepherd's crook. The other she made like a curl of smoke. Between them she set a cross that was really a P laid over an X, and she pressed the ring into the mud beside it.

At first light the ox was standing on the stone, steaming and bewildered, its legs planted on ground that had never once held anything heavier than a sparrow. Tobias wept and Hatty did not. She only said that every stone on the hanger had a beginning and an ending, and that a careful woman knew which of them to mark first.