I own nothing but Trisha's made up past. Enjoy.
Trisha's earliest memory was of a long walk with her father, and his laughter as he swept her up in his arms and fell backwards onto the grassy hill, holding her tight.
She remembered the tiny school in the center of Rizembul, the school that her children would one day attend. She and little Sarah Kent had been inseparable, back then. They had always been round at one another's houses, or perhaps in Trisha's mother's little shop, where they could be found giggling over the girl's comics that came in once a week by train, or sneaking goodies from the sweet section, liquorice and chocolate and boiled sweets and Mrs Rockbell's gingerbread, baked fresh daily and delivered by little Jake Rockbell. Sarah detested Jake as a child, but would eventually come to view him as a friend, and later, as a lover and husband.
When Trisha was fourteen, she lost her father to illness, and for the next few years she and her mother struggled. Mrs Rockbell became a haven then, and although the little shop was still running, it was making less and less money. It wasn't until an unexpected donation from Trisha's great aunt in Central arrived that the tiny store got back on its feet once more, and again it became a buzz of activity as the local children, fresh from school, hurried in and out with their parents' spare few cens for sweets and comics and Mrs Rockbell's gingerbread biscuits.
Trisha was well-liked by the residents of Rizembul in her late teens, as she took to helping out around town to earn a little extra for her mother's pocket. She took in clothes to be mended and cooked and cleaned for the older inhabitants who could no longer look after themselves, taking in more and more work as her mother's health failed.
And then had come that fateful day- the day he arrived. Trisha had heard of him before she saw him, as Sarah, still unmarried then, started describing about the handsome young man who'd just shown up at the train station.
She remembered him so clearly, the tall, golden-haired stranger who appeared in her mother's shop. Her mother was by now too old to keep a watchful eye on her customers any more, and so Trisha came in to help out- and there he had been, softly-spoken and gentle, with a look in his eye that said he had seen too much, although he looked her age.
As she had served him, they had talked, and as such things do the conversation had evolved into a request to take her to dinner. Although there were no restaurants in Rizembul, he bought enough food for a picnic, and they had taken it up into the woods and sat on the rocks next to the river together. They had talked for a while, and then somehow or other they had ended up in the river, paddling in the shallows and laughing as he transmuted a crown for her out of the flowers that were scattered across the ground. At the end of the evening Trisha felt like a teenager all over again, going home in her bare feet with a ring of impossibly bright pink cherry-blossoms on her head and an irrepressible smile on her lips, a tall, smiling, golden-haired man at her side.
He did not live in Rizembul, but in Central, and Trisha had sadly accepted that she would likely never see him again. So she was taken aback when the next week he turned up on her doorstep with yet more impossible flowers and asked her if she would be willing to accompany him to the nearest town where he had made reservations for dinner.
It was barely a year before he presented Trisha with an elegant ring, a glittering diamond entwined between delicate strands of gold. Her mother said she was rushing into a relationship, but Trisha didn't care. They bought a small house up on the highest hill in Rizembul, near Sarah (previously Kent, now Rockbell), and together they filled it with transmuted flowers, brilliantly vibrant. Hoenheim comforted her through her mother's death and smiled with her through the birth of their children- golden-haired Edward, who it was easy to see took after his father, and sweet, silver-eyed Alphonse, who would one day look so like his mother.
For a while, it was perfect, idyllic- but it was impossible to say that she didn't notice.
Her husband's smiles grew faded, and the cloying scent of perfume grew stronger. She could see a strange and ugly rash, marring her husband's skin, and although she did not understand it, she knew what it was- it was rot. Her husband was rotting, and no matter how hard he tried to hide it, he could not.
It was not long after she first noticed his odd condition that he disappeared. He assured her in one final letter that he loved her, and then he was gone.
Her boys were too young for them to really be affected by the loss of their father, but Trisha remembered every moment.
She remembered those strong arms as they wrapped around her, the calluses of his hand as he took her fingers in his own and brought them to his lips. She remembered light kisses and his quiet passion. She remembered the sincerity in his voice as he told her he loved her. She remembered the bright light of alchemy and bright, beautiful flowers, in a rainbow of colours, impossible and amazing and only hers. A crown of gorgeous silvery roses for her hair, or a posy of large, vibrant, pink-tipped daisies. Transmuted flowers in shades normally found only in her dreams- the same brilliant blue hue as the sky, or glittering golden. Unnatural they may have been, but to her, they were perfect.
And then, suddenly, he was gone.
Her smiles grew forced and her laughter hollow. Her boys were a balm to her, loving and caring, ever-determined Edward eager to help around the house once she explained to him that 'now Daddy's gone, I need help from you, my little man.' Edward quickly pulled Alphonse into the chores too- for where Edward went, Alphonse always followed- and they continued life as they had before, and only Trisha seemed to notice the void her husband had occupied. Now, the flowers that filled her house were natural, and to her, they seemed dull- red roses had none of the glorious vibrancy her husband's golden ones had, and the colour of the lilies and orchids brought to her by Edward and Alphonse seemed faded in comparison to the impossible transmuted hues of the flowers Hoenheim had given her.
Edward soon came to understand that his mother was not the same bright, cheerful person she had once been, but his attempts to compensate for the loss of his father brought a smile to Trisha's face, and in turn, to his own. When he saw a visiting alchemist transmute flowers and saw the longing on his mother's face, he threw himself into learning it, and Alphonse too, although the younger of her boys was too small to understand in the same way that Edward did. Their first successful transmutation had been a doll for Sarah's daughter Winry- and after that the alchemic creations came thick and first. Toys, statues, and of course; flowers- Trisha smiled at every single one, knowing that no matter how lopsided or malformed their creations, they had been made for her, to make her happy. And for a while, things were fine- perhaps she did awake in the night aching and cold for the lack of caring arms around her, and perhaps it was hard to bring in the money needed, but life went on, and her boys needed at least one parent.
But then she had grown sick.
She kept it well hidden, but it soon became obvious to both her and the doctor (not the doctor in Rizembul, who knew her and her little family well, and would insist she tell somebody, but the doctor in the little town a few train stations away from her home) that the drugs were no longer working. The disease had become resistant to the pills she was given.
She hid it as best as she could; telling her boys she was 'a little tired' whenever it became too difficult, finding excuses not to see people who would notice the sickly pallor of her skin, or the way her cheeks had become hollow, or the fact that her touch left burning trails across their skin due to her occasional bouts of fever. She managed for almost a year before it finally became too much.
As the day wore on, she felt increasingly tired. Edward and Alphonse both tried to express their concerns- she didn't look well, maybe she needed to sleep some more- but she simply smiled and told them she was just fine, but could they perhaps do her a favour and go and get some things that Duncan down in the village had promised her? The boys had naturally agreed, and run off to do as she asked.
She was in the kitchen when it happened. She felt suddenly light-headed and her vision tunnelled, and for a second her legs nearly gave out on her- but she shook the ache from her limbs as best she could and continued. She only made it a few steps before the blackness overwhelmed her, and this time, she was unable to stop herself as she fell backwards, mind slipping into the abyss of unconsciousness as she hit the floor with a thud.
She awoke in a bed in the local doctor's, surrounded by concerned friends, her boys waiting anxiously at her bedside. They were both red-eyed, and the relief was painted clearly across both their faces when she came to. Edward had instantly rushed at her, Al close behind, and they wrapped their arms around her, begging her to be okay and sobbing into her dress. She lifted her hands to their heads, running her fingers through their hair and whispering comforting things to them in a hoarse voice.
She was bedridden for the rest of the month, Edward and Alphonse at her side very day, the fear and concern become more and more clearly etched in their faces as the weeks passed and she still did not get better. She could feel herself dying, and at night, she cried bitterly for the boys she was leaving behind and the husband who still had not returned.
Trisha Elric never left her bed. One bright summer day, with her boys beside her, she clutched at them weakly, and begged them to take care of themselves.
Her last wish was for Edward to transmute her a ring of flowers, as his father had always done. She died before he could fulfil it.