No man will have mercy on another
What next mayest befall them, he asked himself, alone upon his throne before the sea of stars, looking out with his sole remaining eye into the endless, churning oceans of light and shadow. Despite the assurances of his dubious half-brother, deceitful Loki, so Thor, King of all that remained of Asgard, found himself plagued with doubt, resting upon his steel throne, Megingjörð about his waist, the iron gloves Járngreipr upon his fists, and mighty Mjölnir at his feet.
Had he done the right thing, he asked himself; in sacrificing Asgard to Surtr's flames, in allowing the events of dread Ragnarök to unfold, had he followed that which his father had plotted and schemed following his visit to aged and wizened Vafþrúðnir? No, he had not, and this troubled him. Though Asgard had fallen, though Surtr had riven the Earth from the over-heaven, though all had been bathed in flames and Odin had been lost, that proud father, Lord of the Æsir, had not fallen before foul Fenrir, nor had his passing been avenged by proud Víðarr—indeed, had it not been Banner, in his guise as the Hulk, who had cast the great beast, one of Loki's brood, out into the star-fields? Likewise, he himself had not fallen, bloated with the poison of Jörmungandr, its slithering shape silent at last, nine paces at his back.
A dread thought stirred within him, the terrible conclusion that Ragnarök had not occurred, that despite the misery all had endured, there were yet more tears left to spill.
Unhappy fate, he thought, full of brooding and sorrow.
Amidst the stars beyond, a shadow stirred, portending to further woe.