Fine line lettering reading warrior with a thin arrow and two small dots, tattooed on the inside of a wrist in light ink.

Warrior script and arrow on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of the inner wrist and forearm, with the word warrior written in thin, light-coloured lettering that runs diagonally across the skin. A fine line arrow points down and to the right beneath the word, and two small dark dots sit beside the lettering. The background is a textured knitted fabric, and the ink appears mostly pale with the dots in black.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Warrior Script Arrow Dot Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Wenna had been sanding the same ash shaft since the bells for Vespers, and her thumb had gone raw and glossy with it. Her father, Osric, did not look up from the bench where he was binding goose feathers with waxed thread. "You'll wear that stick to a whistle," he said. "Then the arrow won't fly true, and the man you're aiming at will laugh at you from the next parish."

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She had cut the word WARRIOR into the underside of the fletching bench that morning, the letters backward because she had carved them from the wrong side. The schoolmaster from Ely had read her the word from a pamphlet about the Danish wars, and she had decided it was the only word worth knowing. Osric ran a thumbnail along the cuts and sighed, the way he did over bad glue.

Two days later the reeve's men came up the causeway carrying a bow cracked across the belly. Osric made a new one of yew in a single night, then sent Wenna out along the marsh road with a quiver of finished arrows and a sack of salted eel. "Don't shoot anything," he said. "Walk it. Leave one at each post so the carters know who made them." There were seven posts. At each she pushed an arrow point-down into the peat, feathers turned to the road like a row of small birds, and every shaft pointed her onward and away from home.

At the last post a carter's boy was waiting, cold and thin, with his cap in his hands. He asked whether she was the warrior. She said no, gave him the final arrow and two eels anyway, and walked home in the dark thinking of the pamphlet men, who never carried anything heavier than a shield, and of her father's hands, which were never still. At the bench the carved word had been planed smooth. Beside the place where it had been, he had dabbed two small marks in ink, one for her and one for the road.