Black and grey tattoo of two crossed daggers over a pentagram in a sun burst, with the words Fear No Evil below, on an upper arm.

Crossed daggers, pentagram and Fear No Evil on arm

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo of two crossed daggers with engraved symbols on the blades sits over a pentagram inside a sun burst. Soft smoke-like shading surrounds the central motif, and the script words Fear No Evil curve along the bottom of the design. The photograph is taken at an angle across the upper arm and shoulder against a blue wall.

Upper arm Dagger Pentagram Sun Smoke Script Text

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fog came up the channel like wet wool that October, and by the time the bell buoy stopped answering I had already taken the two blades down from their pegs above the lamp room door. My grandfather brought them back from a ship's chandler in Hull, and he never once told me what the marks on the fullers meant. He only said that a light is a thing that makes a promise, and that a keeper must keep it. I wiped the oil off them with my sleeve and felt the old metal warm under my palm.

Keep reading

Something began knocking on the iron stair below the gallery. It was patient and unhurried, the knock of a man who has all night and knows the door will open. Mrs Pryce, who had come out to the rock as relief cook that week, was sleeping in the cottage with the shutters bolted, and I did not want her woken by the sound. I went down with one blade in each hand and the pentagram I had chalked on the lintel that morning still pale and clean above me.

I did not need to fight it. I only needed to climb back up and turn the lens. The great lamp came round with its slow brass breath, and the sun of its light opened across the water and the wet black rocks. Whatever stood at the foot of the stair turned from it the way a dog turns from a hearth, and the knocking drew away into the fog, unhurried still, until it was no more than the slap of the swell.

At first light I opened the log to write the weather. Wind south-west, visibility poor, buoy silent. Then I sat for a long time with the pen above the page, and in the space where the remarks usually go I wrote the words my grandfather had carved under the blades: Fear No Evil. Below them I put my initials, and then, because it was true, the hour the light had turned.