Title: Shattered Fate

Summary: The path that was supposed to have been taken was destroyed. Two strangers save Brom, Eragon and Saphira after the Ra'zac attack.

Pairings: Undecided

World: Eragon

Rating: T

Author's Note: Murtagh's description from the book was used.

For what seemed to be an eternity, the burning pain in Eragon's side encompassed his entire existence. Even a single breath was a painful, strenuous exercise. There was no way for him to determine how much time had passed since the Ra'zac had been driven away. It could have been a few hours, days or even weeks. When he was finally able to pry his eyes open, he could see a campfire flickering a few feet away and one of Saphira's eyes staring at him.

Good, you're awake.

Saphira! Are you injured? He had last seen her chained like a wild beast and was already searching all that he could see of her (which in all honesty, wasn't much) to make sure she wasn't harmed.

No, but you are still hurt. She crouched over him, wings hovering protectively around him.

Saphira…what happened…? Eragon mentally frowned, there were things that weren't fitting together. Saphira couldn't have gotten out of those chains by herself or have started a fire. Nor had she had anything of the surely wounded Brom, which, in his mind, hopefully meant that the old man was alright.

It seems that we are not the only enemies of the Ra'zac. It was when she moved that he saw the three figures around the fire.

The first stranger, dressed in battered clothes, exuded a calm, assured air. In his hands was a bow, at his side a long hand-and-a-half sword. A white horn bound with silver fittings lay in his lap, and the hilt of a dagger protruded from his boot. His serious face and fierce eyes were framed by locks of dark brown hair that was nearly black. He appeared to be a few years older than Eragon and perhaps an inch or so taller. Behind him, a gray war-horse was picketed.

The second stranger, dressed in well-worn black clothing, exuded a confident, vaguely aristocratic air. The hood of the odd, ragged cloak was up and hid most of his features while the dark scarf round his neck hid the rest. A bow with silver filigree leaned against his side as he continued working on making what looked like a poultice. Leather clad hands placed the bowl near the fire. With that one motion, Eragon glimpsed an odd bracelet wrapped around his right wrist. The beads were shaped like the claws and fangs of an animal.

But the third figure, the third figure was Brom. Propped up and covered with a blanket or two, he was alive and conscious. He maintained a steady stream of conversation with the first stranger on the different styles of swords and their benefits while the second stranger cleaned a deceptively shallow wound in the older man's side. His color was pale but otherwise healthy and alive. When he caught sight of Eragon's open eyes, a twinkle entered his own as relief visibly coursed through his body.

"Well, Storm, it seems you have a new patient. The drug's finally worn off the boy." At those words, the second stranger, Storm, bandaged Brom's wound and turned towards Eragon. "Eragon, meet our saviors, Murtagh," the one holding the white horn nodded in his direction, "and Storm."

Storm grasped Eragon's arms, gently pulling him up into a sitting position. He yelped at the movement and would have fallen without the extra support. Deftly, he helped the wounded Rider remove his shirt. Eragon realized that underneath Storm's oddly shadowed eyes, he was frowning.

Murtagh, who had stood up to aid lowering Eragon back onto the ground, whistled when he caught sight of the damage. "Ouch."

"Agreed," Eragon weakly seconded. The pain was numbing his senses and making it difficult to think. He almost didn't look down, for he knew if he did and saw his wound, the pain would get worse.

He regretted it immediately.

A blotchy bruise extended down his entire left side. His skin was swollen and red, as well as broken in several places. There was probably a rib or two broken where the blasted Ra'zac had kicked him. It was a sheer miracle that he wasn't coughing up his own blood and drowning in it. Which, now that he thought about it, was probably what they had hoped for.

So lost was Eragon in his morbid musings that he didn't even notice when Storm removed one of his gloves to reveal an oddly small hand and pressed it softly to his side. It was the cool touch along his ribs that startled him out of his thoughts.

"Two ribs broken, one bruised. Better than expected." Storm's muffled, soft voice calmed his fears. "Now that that poison is out of your system, I can get to work."

A soft white glow surrounded Storm's hand as Eragon could feel his wounds painlessly mending.

"You're a magician." Awe filled Eragon at the power that Storm had expanded without breaking a sweat. It would have taken his body weeks if not months for his wounds to heal naturally. It was one of his first lessons with Brom, that the same amount of energy needed to be expended.