Matching arrow and quote tattoos

The river has come up over the lower fence again, so I have been carrying fletching blanks up the hill in a basket that gets heavier every day. Your mule-man came through on the Tuesday and said you were camped past the salt flats at the well they call Ember, and that the caravan master has you on the water carts. I told him he was lying about the well. He said it was a fine well and you had only complained about the flies in it.

I have been thinking about what we said to each other on the bank the morning you left. You made me say it back to you three times, the way Mother used to make us recite the names of the gods. You keep me safe. I'll keep you wild. I did not understand it then, and I am not sure I understand it now, but I have been doing my part. I have made eleven arrows since the rains began, each one straightened over the coals and bound with the grey goose feather you hate, because it flies truer in a crosswind. Each shaft has a small notch cut near the nock, two short lines crossing, so you will know which ones are mine when they come back to the market in your hands.

I cut the last pair yesterday. One I have wrapped in oiled linen and tied to the lintel of the shop. The other I am folding into this letter, so you have something of my hand in the desert. Do not snap it for kindling. Keep it in your boot, where the sand cannot find it.

Write when the caravan turns. Tell me the wells are sweet and the drivers are honest, and that you have stopped climbing the dunes at night to see how far the lights of the city still reach. Tell me you are still the reckless boy who swam the weir in spring.

Your sister, Ysolde