Fine line black script reading faith, crossed by a horizontal stroke to form a cross, drawn on a sepia textured background.

Faith script with a crossed line

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

The design shows the word faith written vertically in thin, flowing black script. A single horizontal stroke crosses the lettering near the top, forming a cross shape. It sits on a warm sepia background with visible grain and texture.

Fine line Lettering Faith Cross Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hush now, sit nearer, the lamp is nearly dry and I have only one cup of wine left in me. You asked about Demas the scribe, the one who painted the letters on the harbour wall at Pergamon. Everyone says he was mad. He was not mad. He was slow, and in a city that sells its hours by the cupful, slowness looks like madness.

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The merchant Lysandros paid him in silver to paint one word where every ship coming home through the storms would see it. He wanted gold leaf and blue borders. Demas wanted only soot mixed with oil and a single reed pen. He drew the letters tall and thin, the way a heron stands in shallow water, and when he came to the middle of the word he drew one long stroke falling straight down through all of it. Then, near the top, he laid a bar across the stroke, level as a yoke on an ox.

Lysandros shouted that no sailor would read a word that looked like a crossroads. Demas kept painting. The winter rains came early that year, and by the second week the lower letters had begun to run down the plaster in black tears. Lysandros swore he would have the scribe thrown off the wall. Demas only pointed at the bar, which had not moved, not by a finger's width, through all that weather.

When the spring boats came in, a grain ship crept into the harbour half-drowned, and her helmsman stood at the rail and read the wall aloud to his crew. Then he crossed himself with his wet thumb, and the whole crew did the same, and they all went ashore to find the scribe. Lysandros had already fled to Smyrna. Demas was asleep in the shade of his own painting, one hand on the cold plaster, and the bar above his head was still as dry as the day he drew it.