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Once there was a man who was scared of dying.
His fear consumed him, occupying every waking moment and many sleeping ones with visions of untimely ends and unfinished business. The man sought protections and panaceas, all manner of medicines and myriad dubious cures—the best wards and words and wellness tips that science and pseudoscience had to offer. And it helped, for a while. Or perhaps it didn't. Whether what he would call prudence, and others might deem paranoia, made any difference at all makes no difference in the end. Nor does it matter which of Death's many snares the man finally ran afoul of.
In the end, Death came for him, as They do for every living thing, and his brief sojourn on this mortal coil was over almost as soon as it had begun.
And the man wept, for all his planning and preparation had been for naught. And what was he left with? A life unlived for want of a few more years in which to live it. Relationships withered on the vine, pursuits unfollowed and paths untrodden, all forsaken for the sake of a little more time.
As he wept, he bowed his head and waited for Death, with Their wicked scythe, to reap his soul, as is Their duty, and be on Their way to meet the next departing traveler on the long road from here to eternity.
But Their hand did not stir, holding fast to the shaft of that terminal instrument that it is Their privilege and duty and burden to wield. Instead, They spoke, and asked, as is customary, if the man wished to challenge Them to a game for his soul.
The man was rather taken aback by this, since for all his superstitions he had never put much stock in any sort of outright spirituality, let alone old folktales about games with Death. But he certainly would not pass up a chance, however small, at a few more years. He eagerly answered yes, and Death asked, as is customary, what game he wished to play.
If there was a reason for the man's choice, it is long since lost. Perhaps he knew he lacked the wit to beat Death at any game of skill, the luck to win at simple chance, or the gall to simply cheat. Perhaps, in that moment, he foresaw the whole of this story, his winning gambit springing fully-formed and ready for enaction into his mind. Or perhaps he did not think of winning but of all he had lost, and grasped desperately for a way to reclaim in death some fragment of what he had missed in life.
Perhaps he did not think at all.
Whatever the reason, the man found a single, fateful word rising seemingly-unbidden to his lips, and even as he became aware of it he heard himself say,
"Love."
Death seemed almost taken aback at this, though not nearly so much as the man was at his own words. He had little experience with love even in the usual sense, let alone as a cosmic game for one's soul. Death, for Their part, merely paused for one vast, yawning chasm of a moment before reaching up to draw back Their hood.
Beneath that hood lay not the macabre, grinning skull that innumerable fairy stories would have you believe, but a face—neither youthful nor careworn, and all too human in its ambiguity. Death's smile was warm, yet with a hint of amusement behind it, as if this "game of love" was all some wry inside joke shared between the two of them. Mounting Their horse, Death offered a hand to the man. Numbly, he accepted, climbing astride the steed behind Death, and together they galloped off into the mists of everywhere and neverwhen.
The man traveled with Death through countless eras of history, countless nations, countless planets. He watched Them reap the souls of a few people he had known in life and of countless strangers, of humans and animals and things that defied the meager carbon-based classifications he knew altogether. He saw those who fell to their knees and sobbed and begged for mercy, those who walked willingly to their fate with heads held high, those who accepted Death's challenge out of cupidity or curiosity or desperation, and, of course, those lucky—or unlucky—few who challenged and won, though Death always paid them another visit in good time.
Through it all, the man talked with Death. Sometimes he told Them what few stories he could tell of what life was like. In return, They told him stories that were ancient when humanity first walked erect, and still others that had never been told on Earth at all, for when Death reaps a soul, They bear witness to all its stories, and so They keep those stories safe until They are called upon to tell them again.
At other times they played games, for Death knows the rules to every game in the universe and many others besides, as is necessary for the challenge. Still others they simply sat in silence and enjoyed each other's company, for though They were loath to admit it, Death was glad to have a traveling companion on Their lonely journeys between the aeons and across the stars.
Eventually, after an eternity and a day, the man asked Death how they would know when the game was finished, and who had won. Death smiled wistfully and asked the man if he wished for the game to end. The man said no, and Death told him that the game of love does not end until one of its participants wills it so. The man asked Death if They wanted the game to end. In response, Death climbed atop Their horse and offered the man Their hand.
He accepted, and off they went.