The King of Swords
The best judge of them all is the King of Swords, because he can take any situation, look at it with total impartiality, and then render a decision that is both fair and insightful. He has powerful emotions, but he keeps them under control and uses them for the best possible purposes.
He is totally incorruptible, a pillar of strength who gives sound advice to everyone, no matter who they are. Though not the same as the King of Wands, the King of Swords is a leader in his own way. His command style is more like a general than a governor. He does not inspire people, he commands them, and they obey him because they trust him. His decisions are almost always the right ones, because he sees the big picture and never lets his heart sway his judgement.
But the King of Swords is not a passive leader who sits back and gives orders while never doing anything himself. All generals were soldiers once, and the King is no exception. He is very active, and when he thinks it is necessary his will be the blade that draws first blood.
The King of Swords' arrival in your life is an event that almost never goes unnoticed simply because he commands attention from everyone around him. He does not linger waiting for something to do; he appears only when he is needed to drive raging emotions from you, or when his impartiality and cold judgement will help you solve a problem. For a moment, your head is clear and you can see things in a different light. Problems which refused to be solved before may simply solve themselves rather than stand before the King of Swords. Judge fairly, speak truth, and never waver from your standards.
Copyright 2000 James Rioux, ATA Tarot.com
One morning, when he was nine years old, Dean took a sip of beer while cleaning up.
It became a ritual: get a beating, get snuggled by Sammy, get up early, take a drink before dumping the rest down the drain.
It was curiosity more than anything: he wouldn’t begin to enjoy the taste until his teens.
By fourteen, he could down a full beer without getting tipsy. By sixteen, he could drink a six pack at lunch and be sober by dinner. By eighteen, he was cracking beers at the garage from the time he got to work until the time he left.
It never occurred to him he was like his Dad: he never let it get beyond a low buzz, never yelled or hit, and didn’t start blacking out until Sammy hit the fan and his drinking turned to bingeing. He was on a constant edge, and beer helped eased him down to a normal level of stress. Instead of bills, insurance, Sammy needs clothes, Sammy needs shoes, Sammy needs soccer cleats, Sammy needs to get outside more, Sammy needs to feel secure so he can grow up and not be you, he thought I’ve got this. I can handle this. I will handle this.
Beer and whiskey opened doors for him: made him brave enough to go to bed with beautiful women and chance rough hook-ups with men. It steeled his nerves when he felt crippled by responsibility, when he saw all the other guys going off on dates and to clubs and he had to go home and cook dinner and make sure Sam did his homework and Dad didn’t drink so much he wouldn’t get to work the next day.
When his Dad needed to take it out on him, a drink or two eased the aches he felt the next day. When Dad sliced Sammy’s side open with the lid of a tuna can, drinking made him forget, for a few hours, what a colossal failure he was.
When Dean wound up in the hospital on occasion, not having a drink was no big deal. Therefore, he reasoned, he wasn’t an alcoholic. Alcoholics didn’t hold jobs. They didn’t take care of little brothers. They didn’t pay bills on time. They didn’t have girlfriends or boyfriends.
Gordon could drink him under the table. Bella could bang strangers faster than Dean could deal cards. Lisa was so focused on her own reflection, she wouldn’t have cared if Dean’s liver walked out of his mouth and bled out on her carpet.
Dean tried to hide his drinking when he met Cas. Kept to the garage, to secret chugs from his flask, to sneaking whiskey into his beers. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Cas to look at him and say “you’re a drunk and a dropout and a loser...do you know what I am?”
But all Cas ever said was “you hit me and I’ll leave you,” and like that, Dean had become John Winchester, all he’d sworn to never be.
And at the moment he’d thought, for sure, that his life was over, Cas was there, all warm arms and an open heart, full of the faith Dean had so long ago lost.
Because the most painful truth Dean would ever face wasn’t that he was an alcoholic. Or that he had almost hit the man he loved. Or that he was a loser by life’s standards.
It was that he had to learn to live without Sam.
His whole world had narrowed down to his brother to the point that Sammy’s mistakes were his own. To the point that he couldn’t even recognize his own, because he was so focused on Sammy.
And he’d neglected the biggest thing that Sammy needed: his big brother.
For all he’d tried to be there for Cas, it was somehow close to impossible to let him reciprocate. And yet, when he finally did, when he finally let down his pride, more love and support and advice than he could ever imagine flooded in.
Dean and Sam were, forever and always, deeply connected: they were brothers, best friends, partners in shame and crime. For years, outsiders were a threat, lest they discover what went on behind closed doors and tour them apart.
And then Cas, and Bobby, and Ellen, and Andy, and Ash, and countless others arrived and showed them that they were missing something by being so afraid to break out of themselves, to break themselves of their trauma, to let go and let themselves be accepted, really accepted.
Now, when Dean goes to bed, he gets a buzz from Cas’ damp t-shirts and bright eyes and warm grin. He gets a rush from the bills coming in and knowing he can pay them all and have enough left over to take Sammy and Cas to dinner and buy a potted plant for Ellen’s garden. He cracks Pepsis instead of beers, and he can churn out twice as many cars when their underbellies aren’t blurring.
And when Cas and Sam tell him they love him, he believes it like he’s never believed in anything, because if they know every bit of his life and get nothing in return but him still being there, how could they not mean it?
In retrospect, life was easy. Choices were obvious. Sober, properly educated and counseled, it was crystal clear how stupid and weak and selfish he’d been. But denial wasn’t a conscious decision, and Dean had always believed that what he did was alright, whether he was full of nuke or not. Now, he knows there’s a difference between believing and knowing.
Dean believed drinking was alright behind the bars of his own psychological death camp. Now, when he climbs out of the Impala and yells what Cas wants to eat, only to see him waiting, smiling, Sam bounding down the stairs in the background, he knows that he’s made his life right, that all the work they’ve done is right, and-finally-that living, happily, is a right of its own, and one he’s-finally-claimed
He is totally incorruptible, a pillar of strength who gives sound advice to everyone, no matter who they are. Though not the same as the King of Wands, the King of Swords is a leader in his own way. His command style is more like a general than a governor. He does not inspire people, he commands them, and they obey him because they trust him. His decisions are almost always the right ones, because he sees the big picture and never lets his heart sway his judgement.
But the King of Swords is not a passive leader who sits back and gives orders while never doing anything himself. All generals were soldiers once, and the King is no exception. He is very active, and when he thinks it is necessary his will be the blade that draws first blood.
The King of Swords' arrival in your life is an event that almost never goes unnoticed simply because he commands attention from everyone around him. He does not linger waiting for something to do; he appears only when he is needed to drive raging emotions from you, or when his impartiality and cold judgement will help you solve a problem. For a moment, your head is clear and you can see things in a different light. Problems which refused to be solved before may simply solve themselves rather than stand before the King of Swords. Judge fairly, speak truth, and never waver from your standards.
Copyright 2000 James Rioux, ATA Tarot.com
One morning, when he was nine years old, Dean took a sip of beer while cleaning up.
It became a ritual: get a beating, get snuggled by Sammy, get up early, take a drink before dumping the rest down the drain.
It was curiosity more than anything: he wouldn’t begin to enjoy the taste until his teens.
By fourteen, he could down a full beer without getting tipsy. By sixteen, he could drink a six pack at lunch and be sober by dinner. By eighteen, he was cracking beers at the garage from the time he got to work until the time he left.
It never occurred to him he was like his Dad: he never let it get beyond a low buzz, never yelled or hit, and didn’t start blacking out until Sammy hit the fan and his drinking turned to bingeing. He was on a constant edge, and beer helped eased him down to a normal level of stress. Instead of bills, insurance, Sammy needs clothes, Sammy needs shoes, Sammy needs soccer cleats, Sammy needs to get outside more, Sammy needs to feel secure so he can grow up and not be you, he thought I’ve got this. I can handle this. I will handle this.
Beer and whiskey opened doors for him: made him brave enough to go to bed with beautiful women and chance rough hook-ups with men. It steeled his nerves when he felt crippled by responsibility, when he saw all the other guys going off on dates and to clubs and he had to go home and cook dinner and make sure Sam did his homework and Dad didn’t drink so much he wouldn’t get to work the next day.
When his Dad needed to take it out on him, a drink or two eased the aches he felt the next day. When Dad sliced Sammy’s side open with the lid of a tuna can, drinking made him forget, for a few hours, what a colossal failure he was.
When Dean wound up in the hospital on occasion, not having a drink was no big deal. Therefore, he reasoned, he wasn’t an alcoholic. Alcoholics didn’t hold jobs. They didn’t take care of little brothers. They didn’t pay bills on time. They didn’t have girlfriends or boyfriends.
Gordon could drink him under the table. Bella could bang strangers faster than Dean could deal cards. Lisa was so focused on her own reflection, she wouldn’t have cared if Dean’s liver walked out of his mouth and bled out on her carpet.
Dean tried to hide his drinking when he met Cas. Kept to the garage, to secret chugs from his flask, to sneaking whiskey into his beers. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Cas to look at him and say “you’re a drunk and a dropout and a loser...do you know what I am?”
But all Cas ever said was “you hit me and I’ll leave you,” and like that, Dean had become John Winchester, all he’d sworn to never be.
And at the moment he’d thought, for sure, that his life was over, Cas was there, all warm arms and an open heart, full of the faith Dean had so long ago lost.
Because the most painful truth Dean would ever face wasn’t that he was an alcoholic. Or that he had almost hit the man he loved. Or that he was a loser by life’s standards.
It was that he had to learn to live without Sam.
His whole world had narrowed down to his brother to the point that Sammy’s mistakes were his own. To the point that he couldn’t even recognize his own, because he was so focused on Sammy.
And he’d neglected the biggest thing that Sammy needed: his big brother.
For all he’d tried to be there for Cas, it was somehow close to impossible to let him reciprocate. And yet, when he finally did, when he finally let down his pride, more love and support and advice than he could ever imagine flooded in.
Dean and Sam were, forever and always, deeply connected: they were brothers, best friends, partners in shame and crime. For years, outsiders were a threat, lest they discover what went on behind closed doors and tour them apart.
And then Cas, and Bobby, and Ellen, and Andy, and Ash, and countless others arrived and showed them that they were missing something by being so afraid to break out of themselves, to break themselves of their trauma, to let go and let themselves be accepted, really accepted.
Now, when Dean goes to bed, he gets a buzz from Cas’ damp t-shirts and bright eyes and warm grin. He gets a rush from the bills coming in and knowing he can pay them all and have enough left over to take Sammy and Cas to dinner and buy a potted plant for Ellen’s garden. He cracks Pepsis instead of beers, and he can churn out twice as many cars when their underbellies aren’t blurring.
And when Cas and Sam tell him they love him, he believes it like he’s never believed in anything, because if they know every bit of his life and get nothing in return but him still being there, how could they not mean it?
In retrospect, life was easy. Choices were obvious. Sober, properly educated and counseled, it was crystal clear how stupid and weak and selfish he’d been. But denial wasn’t a conscious decision, and Dean had always believed that what he did was alright, whether he was full of nuke or not. Now, he knows there’s a difference between believing and knowing.
Dean believed drinking was alright behind the bars of his own psychological death camp. Now, when he climbs out of the Impala and yells what Cas wants to eat, only to see him waiting, smiling, Sam bounding down the stairs in the background, he knows that he’s made his life right, that all the work they’ve done is right, and-finally-that living, happily, is a right of its own, and one he’s-finally-claimed