Rasputin and the Rhythm of Time [October 2025]
This one is a very special gift for my delicious SnuggleCubby @FlameAndSong for our 8 month milestone.
Fin, my sweet and loving One, there have been so many memories in our time together and I look forward to many more. You have completed me in so many ways. I love you my Twin Soul, and I treasure you so very much. Happy 8 months baby.
Fin, my sweet and loving One, there have been so many memories in our time together and I look forward to many more. You have completed me in so many ways. I love you my Twin Soul, and I treasure you so very much. Happy 8 months baby.
Rasputin and the Rhythm of Time
A Findy Carriage Adventure
The snow was falling sideways, the sort of cold that could insult a person’s bloodline. The Eternal Carriage barreled through it in a storm of teal and violet light, its lamps glowing with unearned confidence. From somewhere within the magical framework came the unmistakable beat of “Rasputin” by Boney M.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of pine, magic, and mild panic.
“Andy,” Fin said, holding onto his seat as the carriage jolted through another century, “if this lands us in Siberia again, I’m divorcing you from the concept of navigation.”
“Not possible,” Andy said cheerfully. “We’re married to the universe now.”
Oscar, the black stallion up front, snorted through the reins. “Technically, you’re married to each other. The universe just regrets the paperwork.”
Walt, the white stallion with the philosopher’s mane, replied serenely, “Let them have their adventure. Mortals need context for poetry.”
The carriage gave a dramatic twirl, shimmered once, and landed.
---
The doors swung open to a grand St Petersburg salon lit by hundreds of candles and the slightly suspicious smell of incense. Nobles froze mid-gossip. A balalaika player dropped his instrument in existential fear.
And at the center, framed in beard and ego, stood Rasputin himself.
He blinked. “You are not the tea delivery.”
Fin stepped forward, cloak flaring like something out of divine fashion week. “We could be,” he said smoothly, “depending on how you take it.”
Andy followed, brushing snow from his shoulders. “Technically, we bring tea and enlightenment. Mostly tea.”
Oscar poked his head through the doorway. “And skepticism.”
Rasputin’s eyes narrowed. “Talking horses?”
Walt bowed his head with all the solemn dignity of a poet at a funeral. “We prefer conversational equines.”
There was a pause long enough to hear the snow melt off history.
Then the phonograph in the corner sputtered to life, catching the carriage’s leftover magic. The room filled with the sudden, scandalous beat of “RA RA Rasputin.”
Rasputin froze, utterly transfixed by the sound of his own name sung with disco fervor. “It’s… prophetic,” he whispered. “A revelation of rhythm!”
Fin leaned in towards Andy. “I told you bringing that record was a mistake.”
“You said that about the cinnamon scones too,” Andy murmured. “And yet here we are, both alive and delicious.”
---
Within minutes, the salon had transformed. Nobles were clapping, Rasputin was attempting a dance that looked like exorcism with ambition, and Oscar was complaining that no one appreciated proper tempo.
Walt trotted in slow circles, narrating the scene like a poet in full flourish. “And lo, two travelers from the stars taught the mad monk the sacred beat.”
Amid the chaos, Andy and Fin found a moment’s quiet near the window. Outside, the snow glowed with reflected light; inside, Rasputin was shouting something about founding a new religion called Groovism.
Fin laughed softly, the sound bright against the candlelight. “We cause the oddest revolutions.”
Andy brushed a flake of snow from Fin's hair. “At least ours involve better music.”
For a moment, time itself slowed, the music, the laughter, the flicker of a hundred candles all folding around both of them.
Then Rasputin burst between them, clutching a samovar. “Tea!” he bellowed triumphantly. “For my cosmic guests! No spirits, only soul!”
Fin accepted a cup politely. “A man after our own boundaries.”
Oscar muttered from the doorway, “This is the most sober riot I’ve ever seen.”
---
When dawn broke, the nobles were asleep in drifts of fur and incense. Rasputin waved them off from the steps, steam rising from his teacup like blessings. “Tell your carriage,” he called, “that destiny has excellent rhythm!”
The carriage door closed. The horses pawed at the snow, ready for the leap through time.
Fin leaned against Andy, smiling as the sky began to twist back into color. “Next time,” he said, “maybe somewhere with fewer mystics.”
Andy squeezed his hand. “And better heating.”
Oscar snorted. “And no more disco.”
The carriage disagreed immediately.
The first notes of “Rasputin” began again, louder than ever.
“RA RA RASPUTIN!”
Walt sighed dreamily. “Ah, repetition.. the heartbeat of poetry.”
And with that, the Eternal Carriage lifted from the snow, disappearing into the dawn, leaving behind one dancing monk, two laughing souls, and a trail of teal and purple light curling through the Russian sky.
