Title: Beneath The Dogwood Tree
Genre: Fantasy I guess?
Target Audience: Anyone who cares to read this
Desired Feedback: The goal of this piece is to paint a detailed picture in the reader's mind, so any feedback about how I succeeded or failed at this goal would be appreciated. I will of course accept any feedback you have even if it is not about that.
In the grounds of the manor atop the hill there is a dogwood tree, which stands to the left of the great oak doors. This tree has stood there since it was planted for the birth of the old lord’s children, watching all who come and go from the grounds. On most days the only company it holds are the hounds when they rest in its shade. But on this day in spring, a man stands beneath the branches so laden with white flowers. He wears a long, deep blue coat with golden embroidery along the edges and a similarly colored hat sits on top of his dark brown hair. He stands there and watches the gates from his place beneath the tree, clearly waiting for someone.
Over time, the sun begins to dip closer to the horizon, gifting the sky with a lavender hue and sending shadows cascading over the land. Just as the light begins to fade, a group of horses passes through the gate. The lead rider is the first to dismount, leaping down from their chestnut steed and racing towards the waiting man. Their dark green cloak almost gets caught on the saddle in their rush, but they yank it free and run to embrace their brother. For now it is clear as the two hug beneath their dogwood that the man was waiting for his twin, his sister. The other riders dismount to let a group of servants take the horses and bags away, then stand waiting for the twins to remember them.
And of course, the dogwood tree with its branches of white spring flowers watches as it always does. The tree sees all who pass through the gates, from servants to guests for a winter ball. But if it could choose a favorite day of the year, it would choose the day when the children it grew alongside meet again beneath its branches.
