Two small crown tattoos on inner wrists, the left a solid black silhouette and the right a black outline, both in fine line style.

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Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two hands are held close together, each wrist showing a small crown tattoo. The crown on the left is a solid black silhouette with a row of dots along its base, while the crown on the right is a black outline with dotted detail. Both are in black ink on pale skin, against a dim, softly lit indoor background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The bell at Hollin Edge was still swinging when you reached the stile, and your sister had already climbed the wall to where the beeches begin. She held her hand back without looking, the way she had since she was small, and you took it because the wood did not like to be entered alone.

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Under the oldest beech, where the roots humped up like sleeping dogs, lay two iron crowns no bigger than bracelets. One was black and solid, with a row of dots pressed along its base. The other was only a thin ring of outline, as though someone had drawn it in the mud and forgotten to fill it in. Your sister picked up the solid one and laughed, and the wood went quiet in the way it did before rain.

Grandmother had given you the rule years ago: a crown found in the forest must be worn, or it will go looking for whoever was meant to have it. So you pressed the thin one to your wrist, and it was cold enough to sting, and when your sister pressed the heavy one to hers, the dots flared the colour of a struck match and then were only dots again.

Back at the stile the bell had stopped. Nobody in Hollin Edge ever asked why the two of you walked home with your hands held so tight, or why the outline never faded, or why, on the days the wind came off the moor, it still felt as if you were carrying something heavy for her. You only know the crowns are yours to keep, and that the forest, which keeps everything, has never once asked for them back.

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