This is not something that Goliath would normally attend, except to watch at a distance. And even more so, not at a time like this, when he is still reeling with disorientation, immersed in the pain of the possibility that he is - truly this time - the last of his kind.

But that is a lot of noise for one place, when the rest of the ship is so quiet. And so he slips in quietly, standing like the statue he has been - possibly for thousands more years - in a dark corner. Just to watch.

Eventually, when the songs take a more solemn turn, when it becomes clear he is not the only one mourning family, he begins to think of verses from his homeland, poems he read before and after sleeping for a thousand years.

Late in the evening, when many songs have been song, a deep, mournful voice fills the room, soft but pervasive. The translation engines shadow the Gaelic of the ancient dirge, so that his language is still clear as he mourns his long dead brothers, their fate sealed and sorrowful, and Manhattan clan - whose fate he cannot be certain of.

He's not sure which hurts him more.