Black and grey realism tattoo of a lion's face wearing a feathered headdress, on the inner forearm.

Lion in feathered headdress on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A lion's face is shown head-on, framed by a feathered headdress with a beaded band and small diamond motifs. The lion's fur, whiskers and eyes are rendered in soft, fine shading, with the feathers drawn in detailed, layered linework. The design is entirely in black and grey ink and sits centred on a forearm against a dark, glossy background.

Realism Forearm Lion Headdress Feather Bead Mane

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Pull that chair closer, because the lion does not care for being talked about from across a room. This was Ward Seven at three in the morning, when the corridor lights hum and the drip stands stand about like tired men waiting for a bus. Maureen Pike, who had worked nights for thirty years and never once been surprised, found the headdress in the linen cupboard. It was made of real feathers, dark at the tips, with a beaded band and little diamonds stitched along it, and it had been left behind after the Christmas panto at the church hall. Nobody claimed it. Nobody ever does.

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Then the lion came, though nobody saw him walk in. He sat on the plastic chair beside the sluice room with the headdress tilted on his mane as if it were a hat he had worn to too many weddings. His eyes were steady and amber, and he did not ask anybody how they were feeling, which was a mercy, because everybody on nights is sick of being asked.

In bed four, Mrs Okafor had not slept for two days. She had been listening to the machines count out their small green numbers, and she had started to believe they were counting her down. The lion sat by her bed and breathed slowly, in and out, the way a big cat does on a warm stone. The feathers shivered in the draught from the vent. By four o'clock she was laughing at something he had not said, and the machines, for once, were quiet.

At six the day staff came clattering in with their coffee and their clean clipboards. The chair was empty. The headdress lay folded on the windowsill, and one long feather was stuck to Mrs Okafor's pillow. Some people say he has gone back to the church hall. I say he is still on nights, so you had better be kind to the porters.