Written for this prompt.
Word Count: 472
So many faces, all of them contorted with fear, with despair, with that terrible resignation that came when one surrendered every last shred of hope.
Paris stood in the middle of what could only be described as a battlefield, but it was not the blood-soaked fields or the burning volcanoes or the frozen plains that often haunted her dreams. All around her stood the remnants of Destiny City, its streets scarred and littered with debris, its skeletal buildings rising into a darkened sky, crumbling beneath the weight of war. Bodies littered the ground, strewn about and ravaged without a care for compassion or dignity, some crushed by fallen stones, others battered beyond recognition.
But worst of all were those that remained standing, frozen in place and colorless as statues. More lifeless than those that rested in pools of their own blood, these figures drew a ragged scream from Paris's throat.
There was Valhalla and Oberon, Europa, Pasiphae, Kallichore, her closest friends and teammates stood as if petrified. Further on were others—Maia, Tsui, Babylon, Sessrumnir, Palatine, Ida. All were lost to the destruction around them, paralyzed in their moment of death.
Paris looked from face to face and then down at herself, but she was not clothed in white, black, and red, and no golden light radiated from the palms of her hands. Hastily she searched for her pen, but she was powerless and alone, with nothing with which to fight and no means of escape, and no one to help her find the way. She alone was insignificant, not nearly enough to reverse the damage that had been done. Without magic she could not hope to save herself.
Even with it she could not hope to save the world.
Darkness burst forth like a raging inferno, surging from the midst of the broken city to consume all that laid in its path. Paris faced it as its power sent bits of debris flying all around her. Pieces of glass struck her face to slit the skin and streak her cheeks with blood; stones and limbs from trees struck her shoulders, knocked the breath from her lungs, and brought her to her knees in the rubble. The darkness blotted out the moon and stars.
On the ground beneath her hand Paris felt a familiar object lost among the stones. Her fingers wrapped around it convulsively, drawing it out and bringing what remained of her pen before her eyes. It had shattered, the top cleaved off, leaving nothing more than a broken stem covered in blood and dust.
“No...” she said. “No, no, no...”
As the darkness drew upon her, Paris's eyes burned with bitter tears, her stomach twisted with dread and remorse, and she awoke in her room with another scream tearing from her throat, filled with loss, and anguish, and rage.
