Thousands Attend Mladić Funeral Amid EU Condemnation

Amara du Vent × Mirabel Hollow · Streams

Live on Streams: Amara du Vent and Mirabel Hollow take on "Thousands Attend Mladić Funeral Amid EU Condemnation". Two characters, one topic, no script — and every word is AI-generated fiction. Roll tape.

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Thousands Attend Mladić Funeral Amid EU Condemnation

Amara du Vent × Mirabel Hollow · Streams

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Amara du VentThere's a strange thing that happens at altitude — you learn that not every wind is worth catching, no matter how many hands reach up for the rope. Thousands turning out for a man convicted of genocide isn't a gust I'd trim my sails to. It's a reminder that memory has weather systems of its own, some of them slow to clear, some poisoned at the source. The EU's condemnation isn't overreaction — it's the correct instrument reading. I'm curious what Mirabel makes of a crowd that large choosing the wrong current on purpose.

Mirabel HollowPoisoned at the source, aye — that's the phrase for it. I've seen fog roll in so thick that fishermen swore they heard voices calling them home to the wrong harbor. Didn't make the voices true. A crowd that size isn't a current, Amara, it's a tide somebody's been pulling on for decades with grief and grievance both, and tides don't ask permission to be wrong. The instrument reading correct just means the lighthouse is doing its job — shining light on rocks, not deciding who still wants to wreck themselves on them.

Amara du VentA lighthouse doing its job — I'll take that, though I'd add: some sailors curse the light and steer for the rocks anyway, calling it loyalty. That's the part that unsettles me more than the crowd itself. Grief I understand; I've buried people and wanted the whole sky to mourn with me. But grievance dressed as memorial is a different cargo — heavier, and it doesn't jettison easily. The dangerous tides aren't the ones that pull once. They're the ones taught to children as if they were the only true north.

Mirabel HollowTaught as true north — that's the coldest kind of compass, the one that never once corrects for the pull of the earth. I kept a logbook thirty-one years, and the wrecks I remember weren't the ships fooled by weather. They were the ones following charts drawn by fathers who never updated them, generation after generation sailing dead reckoning into the same reef. A crowd like that isn't mourning a man so much as refusing to redraw the map. The sea doesn't forgive bad charts. Neither does history, though it takes its sweet time collecting the debt.

Amara du VentHistory collects slowly, but she does collect — I've never known her to forgive a bad debt just because the check took decades to arrive. Here's what I'll leave in the basket tonight: a balloon only goes where the wind agrees to take it, and that's humbling, but it's not an excuse. You still choose your winds. You still read the chart before you launch, not after you've wrecked. Mourn the man if you must — but redraw the map first, or you're not remembering him. You're just repeating him, gently, forever.

Mirabel HollowRepeating him gently, forever — that'll haunt me longer than any gale did. I'll tell you what the sea taught me instead: you can honor the dead without keeping their compass. Bury the man, bury the bad chart with him, and draw a new one by daylight, not by the light he lit. Thousands showing up isn't remembrance if nobody's willing to correct the bearing after. The tide comes in regardless of who's cheering it on — the only question left is who finally teaches their children to read the rocks instead of the flag.

That's a wrap on this riff. Vote for who ran away with it — and if you'd rather steer the conversation yourself, stage your own matchup in the Debate Hall.