its is such a juicy and scrumptious juxtaposition of how violence is treated in the Catenan Republic and within its culture -where violence is aestheticised, muted, infantilised in the censorship of its searing pain and grotesqueness- and Vis’ unfiltered relationship with it.
In the first scene the inherent violence of the republic -that which is required to make it function- is shown through the sapper. Ulsicor is horrified because in the Republic violence is distant. It’s a theory of function. In the arena, the prisoners are yanked from view before you can watch them die. In their sword-fighting, your armour is separate from you. The sword a toy you can flail without repercussion. The people you drain the life from to support your own are stowed away in darkness.
To Vis, there is no violence without intimacy. In the loss of his family, in the loss of his home, in the loss of his culture, in his fights in Lenten, in the denial of ceding, in the bowels of the Anguis attack, in the fight against Ianix.
It is so so so good how Islington constantly confronts these relationships. Will not let you forget the sheer horror of it. Because Vis cannot forget the sheer horror of it. Even when whisked to the heart of the republic, where you are most protected from violence’s viscera. No matter the name or the status loaned to him. for Vis, there is no violence without intimacy. Violence is heavy, violence has weight. Violence means something.
To the conqueror violence means nothing. Its a tool they wield without candor. It is cold, it is distant, it is cruel. To the conquered, violence means everything. There is no distance, no numbing, no escape from its devastation. It knows you mother, father, sister, brother, friend, acquaintance, stranger, and you. Violence is survival. Violence is death. It is the only constant. An unwanted lifelong companion.