The hydrangeas originated in Xing but somehow managed to spread to the area of Ishbal. The bushes boasted their colourful flowers proudly, even as they stood just outside the warzone. They observed the massacre of the normally peaceful people in the desert area. They listened to the screams and the gunshots and the sound of houses burning and collapsing. They did little more than flinch when their normally pink, and blue, and purple suddenly became a glaring crimson and their sweet smell was covered by a coppery, tangy odour. They watched as the State Alchemists snuffed out human lives, one by one or by the hundreds, seemingly without a care.

One man did care though; he stumbled to the outskirts of town at the end of a particularly long day. He vomited into the dust and then, walking a few steps, collapsed in front of a bush covered in flowers, some dying and some close to blooming. Roy leaned back into them and then, feeling something chilly, and sticky on his neck, sat up straight again. He slowly twisted his neck to peer over his shoulder. One look at the blood drenched petals was enough to make him woozy again. Deciding not to get up, he couldn't trust his legs right now; he waited in front of those crimson streaked petals for the nausea to pass. The State Alchemist stared at the shifting sands, also stained with blood.

"For the good of the people, for the good of the people" Repeating this mantra almost silently under his breath he leaned forward and supported his head in his hands. He was here in this war because he had to be. He had joined the military to help the nation. What kind of a person would he be if he backed out now? Looking up at the sky, he exhaled into the evening air, growing chilly enough for him to vaguely see his breath. His goal was still clear, but he didn't know if he could reach it. How much more of this could he take? How many more humans could he kill before whatever made him human died too? His mind was constantly overrun by panic and confusion. How could he be helping the people if all he ever did, day after day, was killing people? How could he ever claim to be a hero, like so many called him, if he simply incinerated everything in his country's path? State Alchemists were there for the people. How could he support the people if all of them were dead? The stress weighed heavily on his shoulders. He shuddered against the bush, trying to ease the throbbing in his head by rubbing his temples. He choked on a sandy breath and for a moment drowned in the feeling of being so sick of life. Fatigue wore at his bones and before he knew it he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

The next morning he woke up leaning on that same bush. He managed to sit up straight. Would the rest of the soldiers be worried that one of their human weapons had seemingly disappeared? He would have to hurry back to the camp so they would know he was still alive. Standing up and steadying himself, he prepared to run back to where the rest of the soldiers had slept. Something caught his eye though, and he turned around. One of the flowers was blooming. The inside was still pure, void of any blood that tainted its underside and all the flowers around it. It was opening to show the world that it had seen horrible things, been stained with blood, but inside, it was still okay, still capable of being beautiful. It had persevered through violent battles and horrible explosions, and so much bloodshed, and it would live on. It would survive and get over this. It would show the world all it had and make it a little more bearable.

Roy took note of this flower, blooming past the trials it had faced, and turned to run back to the camp. This hydrangea would live and it would thrive and continue to tomorrow. And so would he.

The hydrangea represents perseverance.