One of the regulars at the place tosses him a half-apple in exchange for a story, and the old man obliges.

The apple is nice – he takes a thinking bite, considering her request.

“I heard tell of a king, once,” he begins, after a couple of thoughtful chews. “Far off place, can’t quite remember the name – but it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Point is – there was a king. He was old, and it was almost time to let someone else take the throne.”

The old man idly rotates the remaining bit of apple in his hands as he speaks.

“The king had his four sons brought before him, and said to each, ‘what is your idea of power?’ Now, this king himself had been warlike – he was a fearsome general in his day, and had done much to expand his country’s borders. It was said his heart was made of stone, for there was no room for mercy or dissent.

But the whole empire was shaking at the pillars – too big, too much blood in its foundations. The king knew he had to make the right choice, or the whole place would fracture.”

Another bite. Another chew.

“The first son, the eldest, said: ‘to conquer those who would defy me.’ The second son said: ‘to inspire fear in my enemies.’ The third son said: ‘to take what I am owed.’ The fourth son remained quiet, looking at his brothers, and then at the king, whose face was stern.”

He takes a final bite, leaving only the core of the apple-half.

“The fourth son said, finally, ‘my idea of power is to serve,’ and it was said he trembled as he spoke, for he knew his father’s history, and that he would disappoint the king’s warlike heart.

The king rose from his throne, and said: ‘you have told me wrath, fear, and debt, my sons – those are your ideas of power. Perhaps you believe those to be the right answers, the ones that might place the crown atop your head. Perhaps you are sincere. I hope, I pray, that it is merely self-serving obedience that speaks of wrath, fear, and debt.’”

The old man discards the core, and pats his hands clean on his robe.

“The king continued, ‘in my youth I indulged my wrath, I inspired fear, and I took my debts. Do you know what I earned for my troubles?’ The elder sons all said: ‘territory, father. Wealth. Servants.’

The king’s face became a mask of rage, and he said ‘no, my sons. No, what I earned was blood. I paid for every ounce of gold, every inch of dirt with the lives of my brethren, or the lives of men who stood against me – lives that were not mine to wager.

I will tell you, in the depths of my age, what my wrath, fear, and debt have brought me: ghosts of those I have wronged, marching through my dreams.’”

“The king said, ‘the duty of a ruler is to protect his people – to serve his people. I have seen the wisdom I should have sought before I ever put sword to throat. Were I to give you the crown – you, who love wrath, you, who love fear, you, who love debt – you would simply pour more blood from throats that were never yours to cut.

No – the youngest have the right of it. He shall be king.’”

The old man grins as he finishes telling the story.

“Funny thing, to develop a conscience after building an empire,” he says. “Still, to my understanding the fourth son was a right old fellow, and they called his reign a golden age. How’s that for a story? Worth the half-apple?”