Black fine line script tattoo of the word fidelium on the top of a foot near the ankle, with a purple patterned fabric beneath.

Fine line script word on a foot

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A bare foot with toes visible at the top of the frame rests on a purple and white patterned fabric. A single word is written in thin, flowing black script across the top of the foot near the ankle. The soft focus blurs the background and toes while keeping the lettering sharp.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The relief boat should have come on Tuesday, and by Thursday I had stopped pretending the gulls were the sound of its engine. I kept the lamp wound and the log up to date in my cramped hand, writing the hours, the wind, the barometer falling like a stone down a well.

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On the third night I wrote the word in the margin, the way my mother used to write it on the flyleaf of her prayer book. Fidelium. Of the faithful. She had said it at the November bell, when the whole parish went out to the graves with lanterns and called the names of people nobody had yet told her were dead. I had thought it a strange word to give a child. Now it sat beside a tide table like a small black vine, looping and trailing where my pen had been careless.

Before dawn a light came up on the water, low and yellow, and I stood at the gallery rail with my heart going like a hammer. It was only a trawler's riding light, drifting, its crew asleep below. I was almost glad of it. I counted its flashes against my own, one, two, three, as my father taught me, and I felt less alone for having something to count.

The boat came at noon on Friday, her bow thrown up white, a young lad leaping ashore with the mail sack held over his head. He asked whether I had kept the light. I showed him the log, open at Wednesday, the margin full of that one word repeated down the page. He read it, frowned, and said the relief had been held in harbour by fog. I told him that was no matter. I had only been keeping faith with the ships.

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