Up he goes, with resentment trying to swallow him whole, but this is nothing (it is not nothing, it is something immense, but it is unified) in the face of hundreds, thousands of people, pouring into him, screaming, demanding, their rage and horror and sorrow all wanting something he can't give, borrowing the voices of people he cared for most to lull and lure and coax and just give in.

The nature of his song changes as he's lifted, offering no resistance to the tendrils, but not looking distressed by it, either. From the commands that slew hundreds, that annihilated armies once upon a nightmare of a war, to the song that had soothed, calmed, and protected what has mattered more to him than power ever would.

Memory is our due, our honour, or burden. Life and death, joy and sorrow. Sing this song, this one song, with me, and sing it well. Love, warmth, forgiveness, and the pain of living, of being alive, even when they aren't. That is memory.

Don't drop him, Chaos, that'd be rude.