Black and grey botanical tattoo of peonies on a woman's hip and thigh, with a small bird in flight on her ribs, shown while she lies on a blue couch.

Peony and bird tattoo on hip and ribs

Botanical · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A person lies on their side on a dark blue surface, showing a black and grey tattoo of large peony or rose-like flowers across the hip and upper thigh. A small bird in flight and a few sprigs sit on the side of the ribs, below a grey t-shirt pulled up over the torso. The linework is detailed with soft shading, and the composition is a horizontal crop with a light screenshot-style interface frame above and below the photo.

Botanical Thigh Ribs Peony Flower Rose Bird Leaves Sprig

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mara had been climbing since before the bells at Kessel, and the pass still hadn't decided whether to let her over. Wind came off the snowfield in sheets, flattening the grass to grey. In her coat pocket, wrapped in oilcloth, were nine peony roots dug from her grandmother's bank in the valley, each one as knotted as a fist. The widow at the far inn had paid for them in advance, two silver coins and a promise to plant them by the wall where the sun first touched.

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Halfway up the shale she lost the path. Cloud rolled down over the cairns and the world narrowed to the next step. Something moved above her, a small dark bird riding the gusts without a single flap, circling and dropping and rising again. She had seen swifts over the lake, but never one so high, and it kept turning back to look at her, or so she told herself. She followed where it tilted its wings, over a lip of rock and down into a hollow where the wind dropped away.

In the hollow, sheltered from the gale, a stand of wild peonies had opened, pale crimson cups above leaves dark as ink. Their stems bowed under the weight of the blooms, and sprigs of rosemary scattered among them smelt sharp in the cold. She knelt and cupped one flower, and the bird landed on the rock beside her, folded its wings and waited with the patience of a clerk. Mara understood then that the pass had never been trying to keep her out. It had only wanted to show her where the roots would take.

She planted all nine that evening by the inn wall, under the last of the light, while the bird sat on the gate and gave its one dry note. The widow watched from the doorway with a lamp and said, without asking, that she had come over the top. Mara pressed the soil flat with her palms and said nothing, because the bird had already gone, the ground was cold, and somewhere under the stones a root had begun to swell.