Close-up of a black and grey Deathly Hallows tattoo on the inner forearm, with a shaded rod across the base and a thin red line rising through the centre.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Deathly Hallows symbol on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows a triangle enclosing a circle with a vertical line, the Deathly Hallows symbol, with a shaded grey rod crossing the lower part of the design. The triangle and circle are drawn in bold black linework, while the rod has soft grey shading that gives it volume. A thin red line runs up the centre from the rod, providing the only colour against the skin.

Geometric Realism Forearm Deathly hallows Triangle Circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Owen,

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The galley on the Brigid Rae has gone quiet since they carried Old Hob off at Ullapool. I've taken his tins as my own, which he would have called theft before handing me the heel of a loaf. You asked in your last letter what he left aboard. Three things, and I've been turning them over at night while the stove ticks down.

The first is a tin lid, dented at one edge, scored with a fish knife into a triangle with a ring inside it. A single line runs straight down through the middle of the ring, and where the ring meets the bottom point he'd hammered a stub of brass that looks like a cross-piece of a tiny hilt. He nailed it above the bread shelf and never once explained it. The second is a length of ash the colour of strong tea, worn smooth where a hand has gripped it for forty years. He stirred the stockpot with it and swore it made the crew honest, which is the only lie I ever heard him tell with a straight face.

The third is red wool, no thicker than a bootlace, wound tight from the handle up towards the tip. It was fresh. He'd tied it the morning before the squall, when the wind went round and the lamps swung like pendulums. I unwound a turn to see where it ended and found his thumbprint pressed into the knot.

So I've kept the stove lit and the wool tied, and every Sunday I stir the broth with the ash until the fat breaks up on the surface. It tastes exactly as it did under his hand, which I suppose is the point of a spoon. Tell Mam the cook is fine. Tell her the bread is only slightly worse than his.

Mae