#novodevichy cemetery

[gothic-architecture]

Novodevichy Cemetery, Moskovsky district, St. Petersburg

(alexdoomer)

[skinnyazn]

I Will Not Ask and Neither Should You

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 2/3 Notes: inspired by Hozier's Like Real People Do, Jag Backstory unlocked!!!

Part One | Part Three | AO3 | MASTERLIST Why were you digging? / What did you bury Before those hands pulled me / From the earth? I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask and neither should you

___

You were in the kitchen getting water for the both of you when the message came in.

55.7249º N, 37.5541º E. Tuesday, 14:00. 

The +7 country code made a cold sweat break over your body. Russia. You didn’t know how the sender got your number, but if it was who you thought, they would have their ways. All you could do was stare at your phone as your heart hammered through your chest.

“Everything al’right?”

You hadn’t even noticed Simon come up behind you.

“Mmhmm,” you managed, passing him a glass of water as you set your phone screen-down on the counter. You lowered your head onto your arms, resting them on the surface to hide your face while you backed your nakedness against the colossus of a man. A raspy grunt was his response.

“Dangerous, Jag,” Simon warned, but closed the gap all the same. He kissed your shoulders and back, setting down the glass of water next to your phone. “Heart’s racin’,” he murmured against your skin as his hands smoothed down to your hips. “Can hear it from ‘ere.”

“You have that effect on me.” It wasn’t a lie—not usually. But at present, the contents of the text message were still etched into your brain. You felt like throwing up.

“Thought you needed a break, luv.”

“Changed my mind,” you tried your best to even your voice, but it still came out shaky.

Ghost’s hands stilled on your hips as he paused. “We don’t ‘ave to—” 

“Need you, Simon,” you interrupted, raising your head to look back at him while snaking his tattooed hand up and around your neck.

Dark eyes glinted in the low light, looking at the phone on the counter, then searching yours for a moment—for an out, a reason. But all they found was benediction. He tightened his grip around your throat and kissed you softly.

When your beautiful man was finally asleep, sound and unsuspecting, you hated yourself for exploiting his weaknesses. For knowing that he got sloppy around you in this domestic setting; that he slept deeper—you both did—after a few rounds. That he knew you’d get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or refill your water.

You slipped out of the warm bed, packing as quietly as you could—shoving your life with Simon “Ghost” Riley into your black duffel. Hating yourself more as you scribbled on the back of a receipt and set it down next to his mask.

Something I have to do. 

You looked at him one last time—perhaps for the final time. His blonde hair was exposed, his ultimate layer of trust in you; you watched his scared back softly rise and fall as he slept. Numbness ran through your body at stupidity of thinking you’d finally escaped your past. Cut all the ties. That you naively thought you had built something here, too. People in your line of work never get happy endings. Your throat tightened as you slipped through the front door, locking it behind you. Your cab was already gone by the time he woke.

______

Moscow was frigid and covered in a light dusting of snow when you landed. And all those memories of a life left behind seeped back up from their well of suppression on the cab ride to the coordinates. It seemed like a lifetime ago. In a way, it was. There was a split in the road then, where you made a choice. One that lead you to San Francisco and to Kokshetau and to Leeds. One where you chose your life. 

Yet here you were, back in the cold and snow—despair growing in the pit of your stomach with each mile passed. You worried your jaguar pendant between gloved fingers.

The cab stilled in front of large bronze doors, now a dull green after centuries of oxidation.

Новодевичье кладбище: Novodevichy Cemetery.

You paid the fare and got out, duffel slung over your shoulder. There were tourists and locals alike visiting the historic cemetery. It made you even more on edge as you entered through the double doors. You were too vulnerable out here in the open. 

Checking your watch, you were thirty minutes early, giving you enough time to scope out the location. It calmed you some, passing by the beautiful tombstones and monuments of Russia’s most notable and respected citizens. Anton Chekhov, Vera Mukhina, Lyudmila Gurchenko. Pristine marble and greying stone and wet concrete. It was an odd location for a meeting but you hoped with all the people around you could let your guard down a little. You wandered through the maze of the deceased. But then you saw it: a mound of freshly laid earth and an ornate marble bust. You stopped completely. Felt your heart stuck in your throat and a flush of heat to your face. Your hands went numb as you just stared. 

Vladislava Ignatyev.

The thread that lead you to where you were now. In memory you heard the gentle clink of a tea cup and the soft rustling of a maid’s dress.

You’d make a fine spy one day, my beautiful Odette.

That your wish or mine?

Neither. It’s your nature, dear. The same way a fish takes to water or a swan flight. 

…

You can give me that look but you know I’m right. You were a caged, pretty little thing when I discovered you. And now you’ve grown majestically into your true nature. Just remember who gave you your wings when you are enjoying your freedom. My door will always be open for you…

The marble bust on the cold floor did the older woman no justice. It failed to capture her elegance and the magnitude of her character. You’d learned so much from her. Vladislava was a woman who silenced a room when she entered, through no other means than just being her. And now she was in the cold ground beneath you. Beauty and stature decaying. You wanted to cry but the tears would not come.

“It’s you…”

The gentle voice snapped you to the present again. Standing across from you was a handsome man, with blonde, wavy hair falling to frame his young face. His blue eyes took you in.

You inhaled deeply. “Dimitri.”

He smiled and you felt a tightness in your chest.

“I…I was not sure you would come.” Low chatter from the other visitors passing by filled the silence as you took each other in. His smile grew wider. “You look so different, and yet exactly how I remember you.”

“And you’ve grown,” you found yourself returning the smile slightly. Dimitri shifted on his feet, like he wanted to take your hand like he used to, but knowing that too much time had passed. You continued, “Surprised you even recognized me.”

He looked at you kindly and chuckled. “You weren’t always in ballet attire, my lisIchka. The short hair suits you though.”

You ran your gloved fingers through your choppy hair, recalling the muscle memory that had sleeked it into a taught bun countless times in the past—not a flyway in sight. Streamline. Efficient. Orderly. Your true nature. 

Dimitri stepped around the grave so that he was facing it too, the both of you staring at the bust on the floor.

“We were just kids, then, weren’t we?”

You hummed. “You more-so.” You sucked in a breath. “When did she pass?”

“Last week. A stroke. It was so sudden—she had been in perfectly good health," his voice wavered slightly. “I was the one who found her in her bed in the morning. She just looked like she was sleeping...”

The statue’s hollowed eyes stared into nothingness. You had to look away, so you looked up at Dimitri. “I owe your mother a lot. I… I’m sorry I never came back,” you paused, studying the side of his face. He must be twenty six now—a decade gone in the blink of an eye; all those memories of the two of you when you were younger filtered back. You steadied your breath. “But I had to experience the world for myself.”

The younger man turned to you. “I understand. Never could keep you caged. No one could.”

You smiled but it didn’t meet your eyes. Nostalgia was a deceiver.

Dimitri cleared his throat. “There is another reason I asked you here, though. Something I have for you. From Vladislava.”

He reached into his wool peacoat and procured a long velvet box. Hesitating, you reached for the it, staring at the plain box in your hands before opening it. 

It was the necklace that Vladislava had worn the night you first met: a massive canary diamond choker, surrounded by ornate gold and diamonds. You recalled the burning in your legs as you took your closing bow for the Vaganova Ballet Academy, peering into the crowd and seeing a glint of yellow among the blur of the audience. She’d come to you after, as you were removing all the feathers and makeup backstage. Introduced herself. You had no idea her influence at the time; you were only eighteen. But soon you were living with her. Wandering her massive estate with Dimitri. Being her eyes and ears at events with the most affluent; sometimes the most corrupt as well. Learning all you could from her as you started down a completely different path than when you first moved to Russia.

The significance of the necklace wasn’t lost on you as you stared down at the gorgeous piece. You closed the box quietly.

“I can’t take this, Dima,” you passed the box back to him, but he didn’t move. He just looked down at you, fondness in his eyes at the familiarity of his moniker. He wrapped his hands over yours.

“I'm afraid you don’t have a choice, lisIchka. It was in her will.” His hands stayed for a moment, then fell back to his side. 

You simply stared at the box. 

“You know,” he said softly, moving slightly closer to you, “there’s always a place for you here. In Moscow. At our home.”

And for a moment, the sun peaked through the grey day, alighting Dima’s golden hair. But when you looked at him, all you saw was Simon and his flat and the rain and his warmth. You gave a sad smile.

“Ah,” he said, understandingly.

You reached out and took his hand, running your gloved-thumb over his knuckles. “In another life, perhaps.”

He squeezed back. “I’ll look for you, then.”

You heart hurt at the whole situation. Vladislava was a force, now extinguished. And a childhood crush had clearly become something more. You held onto him for a while longer, then finally let go of his hand.

“Well, you must be exhausted from your travels,” Dima looked around. The oppressive sky was continuing to lighten. “To be honest I wasn’t sure you would even come, but I reserved a room for you at the Kempinski anyway. Stay as long as you need.”

You tucked the box into you jacket and looked at the younger man one last time, reaching up to touch his face. “Thank you for everything, Dima.” He leaned into your caress. “Take care of yourself.”

“And you.”

You gave a final glance at the grave, then left, not looking back. ______

Dima bb we're so sorry T^T Thanks for the wait, one more chapter to go! if you'd like to be (un)tagged for updates let me know! @deadbranch @solidly-indulgent @aalxrose @dotcie

[sixty-silver-wishes]

So I often think about how Shostakovich's housekeeper claimed that Shostakovich loved growing flowers, but hated cut flowers:

This is a picture of Shostakovich's grave in Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow:

There's a plot of live flowers planted over his grave.

[alliluyevas]

feels cosmic in some way that i’m having this utah trip pretty much exactly five years after i was in russia (i was in russia for way longer but i left for the trimester abroad around this time in 2018) and it was about this same time of the year that i was visiting the graves of different obscure soviet historical figures and their families in novodevichy cemetery and now i will be doing it in the salt lake city cemetery.

[axlna]

This is not Nadezhda's grave. Her tombstone is indeed located in Novodevichy cemetery in Moscow and is guarded by unbreakable glass.

As for the grave in the picture. I have spend the last couple hours of my life trying to find who it houses and have come back empty handed. The only clues on internet I have found is mainly tumblr posts and a wordpress website that quote eachother back and front.

Via yandex I finally managed to trace it back to Novodevichy cemetery (full circle) via Instagram posts from the location I can say for sure that it's indeed there. No one whoever seems to mention it in articles about the residents and the name isn't visible on ant photo I've seen.

The statue however, is a copy of Sleeping Ariadne

The tombstone of Nadezhda Alliluyeva, Stalin's second wife, is surrounded by unbreakable glass to prevent vandalism.

[dianabelial]

в Novodevichy Cemetery, Nazim Hikmet, Moscow https://www.instagram.com/p/CnsVIn3y2UZ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[lullomakin]

Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow

[moozheek]

NOVODEVICHY CEMETERY 2017

[gothic-architecture]

Novodevichy Cemetery, St. Petersburg

[brimstone-pilgrim]

Cemetery of the Novodevichy monastery, Saint-Petersburg, Russia.

[jeusussavearmyveteran1205]

USSR's Last Leader: Gorbachev's Marriage, Like His Beliefs, Broke The MoldGorbachev passed away at age 91 and was buried next to his wife this weekend in Moscow."He loved a woman more than his work, he placed human rights above the state and he valued peaceful skies more than personal power.” Mikhail Gorbachev's grave in Moscow's Novodevichy Cemetery lies next to that of his wife, Raisa, with whom he shared the world stage in a visibly close and loving marriage that was unprecedented for a Soviet leader.“They were a true pair. She was a part of him, almost always at his side,” then Chancellor Helmut Kohl of Germany said at Raisa’s funeral in 1999, where Gorbachev wept openly. “Much of what he achieved is simply unimaginable without his wife.”

[gothic-architecture]

Novodevichy Cemetery, Moskovsky district, St. Petersburg

(Serpant11)

[mariacallous]

The last head of the USSR, Mikhail Gorbachev, is dead. He lived to be 91. Gorbachev died at Moscow’s Central Clinical Hospital, a heavily guarded medical facility managed by the Russian president’s administrative directorate. Spokespeople for the hospital said in a press release that the former Soviet leader died on Tuesday evening, August 30, “after a severe and prolonged illness.” Sources told the tabloid Mash that Gorbachev arrived at Central Clinical Hospital the day before for hemodialysis to address alleged problems with his kidneys. At the time of this writing, the date of Gorbachev’s funeral isn’t set, but officials have announced that he will be buried at Moscow’s Novodevichy Cemetery beside his late wife, Raisa Gorbacheva, who died in September 1999. Meduza reviews reactions to the passing of the last Soviet leader and looks back at his legacy.

[green-ann]

Today’s quiet morning at the Novodevichy Cemetery

@connihd @connihd @litttlesilkworm @alyeen1 @elenatria

[alliluyevas]

The five Mikoyan sons, shown in birth order—Stepan, Vladimir, Alexei, Vano, and Sergo. I gave Stepan a rose because I know him better than his brothers, because he was a lifelong friend of Svetlana Alliluyeva’s and I’m aware of him through that. I was intrigued by the bouquet left by Stepan’s grave, since there were otherwise no flowers currently on the Mikoyan family plot, and I wondered who had put it there. My question was answered when I read the printing on the red ribbon—it says наш любимый дедушка, “our beloved grandpa”. This promptly sent me into sobbing for the second time today.

[elenatria]

Tragic fate

Victor Lamm

(x)

  A stingy information about him in the collection "Outstanding Chemists of the World" of 1991 edition.

There is no reason to count myself among his friends, although we knew each other; I undertake to assert that Legasov was the most outstanding graduate of the Mendeleev Institute for the entire almost 100-year history of its existence.

While still a student, Valery Legasov became a member of the party, and this did not happen often.

I repeat - the author has no intention of counting himself among Legasov's friends, although he was familiar with him during his student days, and it happened to be in contact on Komsomol affairs. What do you remember about those contacts? Some kind of soft, intelligent manner of communication with those who addressed him, in contrast to many of the then Komsomol leaders.

While still at school, Legasov was the secretary of the Komsomol organization. Disagreeing with the current charter of the Komsomol, he wrote a new one. At that time, this threatened with serious trouble, but in the spring of 1953 Stalin died, and the young man got away with this business.

We will not talk about the educational affairs of our hero, especially since the author is not in the know. I don't even know if he had a red diploma, or blue. After all, what is a red diploma? A kind of recognition of the abilities of a given student at the learning stage and nothing more. And then life itself will put everything in its place and determine who is worth what. Another thing is important. (btw what is a red diploma..?)

Legasov was the secretary of the Komsomol committee of the institute for two convocations. And as an eyewitness, I can claim that this was her best time.     In the photo from the high school press "Mendeleevets" we see our character on the platform of the Komsomol conference of the institute in November 1957, where he makes a report. He is still a fourth-year student and everything is ahead of him ...

The first time after that obituary, we did not know the details. But at our enterprise there was an employee who knew Legasov well from his student days in Komsomol work. He was at the funeral. It was from him that it became known that the academician had committed suicide.

The investigation into the death was entrusted to the Investigator for Particularly Important Cases under the USSR Prosecutor General, Senior Counselor of Justice Boris Vladimirovich Pogorelov. In the course of the investigation, all possible versions were checked, including about driving to suicide. This version did not find any confirmation - he was not materially or otherwise dependent on anyone, there was no harsh treatment or systematic humiliation of personal dignity with him. Therefore, the conclusion of the investigation is that there are no persons responsible for his death. The investigator said briefly, "Depression ..." Did he? Perhaps from a legal point of view, and so; But let's try to figure it out, because depression must also have reasons.

The story of the awarding of the title of Hero of Labor, as already mentioned. Who would dare at that time change the decision of the Politburo? Not otherwise, it happened with the knowledge of Gorbachev. Ten years later, a journalist close to government circles, in a conversation with Gorbachev, tried to remind him of this, to put it mildly, not the most successful decision. But he did not receive a direct answer - Mikhail Sergeyevich's ability to speak a lot and say nothing is known. (I totally cracked up reading this lmaooo)

The reasons for depression include troubles with his son - he is delayed by the police while driving drunk, uses the name of the academician in vain - there is little good.

... During the funeral events at the Kurchatov Institute, and then at the Novodevichy Cemetery, where employees of the Academy of Sciences, the Council of Ministers, the Central Committee, military men with generals and marshal's shoulder straps were present, complete confusion reigned. Harsh, and sometimes even the most incredible, assumptions were made about the causes of suicide; and at the same time there was a kind of dull murmur.

It turns out that there were many reasons for depression and its consequences. In particular, one of the titled "luminaries" once threw to Legasov's address that he was "a boy from the chemical suburb." (@green-ann​ I remember you writing about this.)

He was serious and respectful of the Soviet regime and that for this reason he was a black sheep at the Kurchatov Institute (damned if he did, damned if he didn’t..). Any donkey is capable of kicking a dead lion.  If you want to achieve something, then accept the "rules of the game" and either walk in step with everyone, or do not get in the way. (the only mistake Legasov did, in a nutshell)