Before the pain, before the alchemy, before the storm of choices and consequences—there was her.
Trisha Elric.
Their mother.
The memory came to Auron one quiet morning as he walked alone through the apple orchard behind the house. The trees were in bloom, and the breeze carried the scent of blossoms and warm soil. It was the kind of day that made the heart ache from how peaceful it was.
Auron let his eyes close, and like the turn of a page, he was back in that golden spring years ago—when he was only six, and the world had still felt whole.
"Now, hold the needle steady, Auron."
Trisha's voice was soft, musical, filled with endless patience.
Auron sat cross-legged beside her on the front porch, his tiny fingers wrapped clumsily around a needle and thread. His brow furrowed as he tried to patch up a ripped pillowcase. Next to him, Edward was already done with his piece, grinning smugly, while Alphonse stitched with wide, careful eyes.
"You're gripping it too hard," Trisha said kindly. "Let it glide, not fight."
"But I am letting it glide," Auron pouted.
Edward laughed. "He looks like he's stabbing a chimera!"
"Do not stab the pillow," Al chimed in innocently.
Trisha giggled, and Auron blinked at the sound.
It was her laugh. He hadn't heard it in so long.
She reached forward and gently adjusted his hands, guiding them through the motion. "See? Threading things together is like… making connections. Stitch by stitch. Like how people connect to each other."
"That's a weird way to talk about sewing," Edward mumbled.
Trisha smiled. "Everything is connected, Ed. People. The world. Even pain. You just have to look close enough."
Auron remembered looking up at her face back then, framed by sunlight and kindness. Her eyes carried the weariness of someone who'd lost too much… and the strength of someone who refused to let that loss poison her love.
She had accepted him immediately, even when she sensed something… different.
"You've got the strangest eyes, Auron," she said once, brushing his hair aside. "But I've never seen anyone look at the world with such depth."
He asked her then: "Do you think I'm a monster?"
She had knelt before him, cupped his cheeks, and said, "No. I think you're a gift."
He never told her how much that saved him.
She was the one who taught him to garden, to mend, to cook—things his old world would've sneered at. To breathe deeply before lashing out. To use strength not as a sword, but as a shield.
One day, during a quiet lesson, the three boys sat with her while she played the piano.
"What's this song called, Mom?" Edward asked.
"It doesn't have a name," she said, her fingers dancing across the keys. "It's just… the sound of my heart."
Alphonse leaned against her, eyes sleepy. "It's pretty."
Auron had closed his eyes that day, listening not just with ears, but with his chakra, feeling her energy ripple with every note. It was warm. Pure. Overflowing with maternal love.
It was the kind of power that didn't need explosions or battles to be legendary.
Now, in the present, standing beneath the blooming apple trees, Auron opened his eyes. His breath caught as he saw a single white flower fall from above, spinning slowly.
He caught it gently.
That memory was long past.
But her lessons lived on.
Later that evening, he returned to the house. Edward was tinkering with a prototype mechanical hand, probably dreaming of automail before he'd even lost a limb. Alphonse was rereading an old alchemy textbook.
Auron stepped inside and placed a bowl of fresh-picked apples on the table.
"You went to the orchard?" Al asked.
Auron nodded. "Thought we could make pie. Like she used to."
Edward paused, glancing up.
The room fell silent.
Then Ed stood and walked over. "I remember she let me eat the dough raw once. Got sick. Still worth it."
Al smiled. "She always laughed when you tried to eat flour straight."
"I was experimenting," Ed muttered.
Auron chuckled. "With your stomach."
They laughed together for the first time in days. Not loud or long—but real.
And that night, they baked together. The pie was lopsided. The crust burned slightly. The filling leaked through the sides.
But it tasted like home.
Later, Auron stood outside under the stars, holding the same white blossom in his hand.
"Your lessons still guide us," he whispered. "And I'll protect them both. No matter what."
From somewhere deep in the sky, a soft breeze stirred.
And for just a moment, it smelled like apples and spring.