In hindsight, it only makes sense that artists such as our deities would indulge in other artists, but I was unprepared for the sheer volume of music that was compiled for my sake. Each siren had their own pile and was just as anxious as I was to see what I would pick. The Scholar was similarly overwhelmed, but their preference for George led them to his pile first. I followed, figuring I could take an album from each pile and listen to one song from each before picking my favorite.

My plans were dashed upon noticing George had over ten albums to choose from. If he saw my dismay (it was rumored George could read minds), he said nothing of it but sat patiently on his cushion as my indecision nearly drove me mad. "What do you listen to?" I asked after an eternity of hemming and hawing. "I'd prefer to start this journey by listening to one of your favorite songs."

George pored over his collection, then handed me an album made of mesquite wood. "The Fabulous Miracles, by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. We covered one of their songs, so you might want to start here."

Finally, some headway! I thanked him and chose a comfortable spot in the chamber. The Scholar grabbed a horn and sat next to me.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all!"

Shoulder to shoulder, we marveled at the tracks once I opened the case. There were ten of them in total, each one full of potential. I reached for them, then retracted my hand, once again struck with indecision. Should I begin with the song our deities sang? Or listen to the album in order?

I turned over the lid and read the tracklist glued to the interior. Fortune be praised, the song was also the first track! I lifted it out of its section and slid it into the horn's holder. It vibrated, and before long a novel instrument accompanied the guitars and drums I was used to, followed by new, but no less melodious voices.

I don't like you, but I love you

Seems that I'm always thinking of you

Oh, oh, oh, you treat me badly

I love you madly, you really got a hold on me...

My mind started to sink into the usual trance. Started to. It was as if I thought to submerge myself in a lake, only to realize it was a large puddle. These 'Miracles' were not sirens, and even if they had been, the Scholar said we were "inexorably bound" to The Beatles as their Holds. It would require powerful mind magic to decouple us.

I don't want you, but I need you

Don't want to kiss you, but I need you

Oh, oh, oh, you do me wrong now

My love is strong now, you really got a hold on me...

For the first time in a long time, dear reader, music was a choice, not a need. I could discard this group and never listen to them again, or listen to them sometimes, or grow just as obsessed with them as I did with The Beatles. It was liberating.

It was terrifying.

I love you and all I want you to do is just

Hold me

Hold me,

Hold me,

hold me...

I glanced at the Scholar. Were they experiencing a similar epiphany? Were they just as disquieted by this newfound freedom?

Tighter...

Tighter...

The hooded one was as still as the grave. It was difficult to tell if they were even breathing. I waved a hand before their face. They followed it and turned to me. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. Merely thinking."

Thinking. But not listening? Were they able to listen? Or had their extended exposure created an intolerance? Were they only humoring me?

I love you, and all I want you to do is just hold me-

Please.

Hold me-

Squeeze.

Hold me, hold me...

The lead singer of this group-Smokey Robinson, presumably-lacked John's lustful desperation on those lines. It was strange not to feel the words tumble down my chest, sending me three levels deeper in their power. Then again, everything was strange, but I could not say it was bad.

You really got a hold on me...

(You really got a hold on me...)

You really got a hold on me...

(You really got a hold on me...)

I said you really got a hold on me...

The music faded out, and for once, there was nothing to recover from. There was only the natural satisfaction of hearing a good song. I took the track out and put it back in the case, then mused in the silence.

The Beatles mused too, but amongst each other, no doubt discussing our reactions. The Scholar watched them until they locked eyes with George, and he pulled away from the group. "How was it?" he asked.

I spoke honestly. "Different."

"Do you want to listen to the rest of the album or something else?"

I closed the case and stood. "I believe I've had my fill for today." I gave it back to him. "Thank you, George. And sorry to the rest of you for making you undergo all that work for me."

They claimed it wasn't an issue, but I still felt an apology was warranted. The Scholar stood at my side.

"Would you like to return to our chambers? It's about time for lunch."

"Yes, please."

The Scholar announced there would be a sermon the following morning during the meal. I was not interrogated about my departure, but a few of our small congregation shared meaningful looks with myself and each other.