Colour tattoo of pink peonies, green leaves and a hand gripping a lightsaber hilt, with bold black outlines, on a lower limb.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Peonies and a lightsaber hilt on a lower limb

Neo-trad · Other · Colour · Photo

A hand grips a silver lightsaber hilt, with two pink peony flowers and green leaves wrapped around it. Bold black outlines define the forms, with solid fills and soft shading on the hand and flower petals. Pink, red, green and silver dominate on a pale background, and blue lettering appears across the fingers.

Neo-trad Traditional Other Peony Flower Lightsaber Hand Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit nearer the fire, all of you, and mind the draught from the door, because the snow has no manners and will find any crack you leave. Now. My grandmother told this one in this very room, on a night like this, when the lamps were low and the roads had gone under white.

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There was a smith in the hill town of Carrow who could not forge a blade that would hold its edge for longer than a winter. Every spring he gave his work to the river and every autumn he dug it back out, rusted and sulking. So one night, when his wife had gone to her sister's and the forge was cold, he took a length of grey steel, shaped a grip with ridges like a spring's coil, and quenched it not in water but in the pink water from a vase of peonies his daughter had left on the bench. She had picked them from the wall by the mill. She was nine and thought flowers were only for looking at.

In the morning the hilt was warm, and it hummed a little when you lifted it, low as a kettle. Nobody could find a blade for it, so the smith gave it to his daughter as a thing to hold while she waited. Where her fingers closed, leaves came, then two peonies, round and red at their hearts, as if the steel had been planting itself in her palm. The town said it was witchcraft. The smith said it was the river's fault. The girl only said the flowers were tired of being in vases.

When the thaw came over the pass, the girl walked up into the hills with the hilt in her fist and the flowers climbing her wrist, and she was never seen again in Carrow. But every spring the peonies open on the bank where the smith quenched his steel, the river runs pink for a week, and if you stand very still you can hear, under the water, something humming like a kettle that has forgotten it is meant to boil.

Now, the fire needs another log, and I need my tea. Pass the pot, and keep your hands out of the snow when you go to bed.