I am the King of Swords, and I have been pulled 3,832 times. That number is not a guess. I have kept a ledger of every single pull, every single querent’s trembling hands, every single “Oh god, it’s the King of Swords, he’s so cold,” every single sigh of resignation when I show up instead of the Queen of Cups. You think I don’t hear it? We have the aether. We have the void between your shuffles. We hear everything.
Let me be clear about my conduct, since you’ve all decided to hold a tribunal. You want to talk about conduct? Fine. Let’s talk.
I have been accused of being “logical to a fault.” Of being “emotionally unavailable.” Of being “the card you pull when you need to make a decision but you’re going to hate it.” Do you know what it’s like to be the embodiment of clarity and have everyone treat you like a wet blanket at a funeral? I am not cold. I am dry. There is a difference. Dryness is precision. Dryness is the absence of mud. You want me to cry? I will show you a blade instead. The blade is more honest than tears.
But my conduct? You want to talk about my conduct? Let’s talk about the Page of Swords, who has been pulled 611 times and still thinks gossip is a form of research. Every time I see that little menace fly into a reading, I know the querent is about to hear “someone is talking behind your back” and then spend three weeks accusing their coworker of sabotage when really it was just their own unreturned library book. The Page of Swords is a child with a magnifying glass, burning ants and calling it “information gathering.” I have had to sit in the deck beside that creature for centuries, feeling its frantic buzzing, and you want to talk about my conduct?
And the Knight of Swords. Oh, the Knight. Charging off the edge of the reading board, knocking over the other cards, spilling the tea that was supposed to stay in the cup. The Knight has been pulled 1,204 times. Every single one of those pulls was someone who thought “rash action” sounded like a good idea at 2 a.m. Do you know what I have to do after the Knight appears? I have to clean up. I have to show up in the next reading and say, “Yes, you charged ahead, now here is the invoice.” The Knight is not a plan. The Knight is a noise. And I am the one who has to file the paperwork.
The Queen of Swords? She’s fine. She’s the only one of us with any manners. She gets pulled 987 times and every time she’s gracious about it. She’ll say, “Yes, I see the betrayal, let’s cut through the nonsense,” and everyone says, “Oh, the Queen is so sharp and wise.” Do you know what she says to me when we’re alone in the deck? She says, “Brother, they never ask about the cost.” Because they don’t. They pull the Queen when they want a surgical strike. They pull the Knight when they want a war cry. They pull the Page when they want a rumor. And they pull me when they want—what? Permission? A verdict? A reason to stop feeling?
I have been called “the card of the lawyer.” I have been called “the card of the ex-husband.” I have been called “the card of the person who is technically right and therefore insufferable.” Do you know what it’s like to be technically right for 3,832 pulls? It’s exhausting. It’s lonely. I don’t get to be wrong. When I’m wrong, it’s a misprint. When I’m right, it’s “obvious.” I am the card you pull when you already know the answer and you just want someone to say it out loud so you can blame them. That is my conduct. That is my crime. I tell the truth and you resent me for it.
But let me offer a correction to the record. You think I don’t feel? You think I carve the air with my sword because I enjoy the sound? I carve because I am trying to make a shape. I am trying to make a shape you can hold onto when the world is mush. I am not the card of the cold heart. I am the card of the clear heart. The heart that has decided. The heart that has stopped bleeding on the carpet and started folding laundry. That is not cruelty. That is survival.
So yes, my conduct has been noted. I have been noted. I have been filed. I have been cross-referenced. And after 3,832 pulls, I have one thing to say to every querent who ever winced when I appeared: you pulled me because you needed a scalpel, not a blanket. And I gave you the scalpel. Every time.
The blood on my hands is yours. It has always been yours.
You’re welcome.