The Youth Who Fell in Love with a Vila | TaleTreasury

Long ago, in the enchanting kingdom of Nor, where emerald mountains rolled like waves against the sky, there lived a young goatherd named Lysander. With hair the rich color of polished acorns and eyes as soft as a forest at dawn, Lysander was admired by every maiden in the village. Yet, he remained untouched by their affection, preferring solitude, his gentle goats, and the sweet melodies of his flute.

Some whispered that he was shy. Others swore he must have left his heart in a distant village. But Lysander told no one his secret. Instead, he spent his days tending his goats, letting his music fill the valleys and forests where he wandered.

In that same village lived a curious little girl, no older than seven, whose name was Elsabeth. She had watched Lysander from afar and often wondered why he was always alone. One morning, with a basket holding a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, she decided to follow him in secret.

She found Lysander gathering his goats with a merry tune that made even the leaves tremble with delight. She slipped quietly among the goats, and although they sniffed her basket, not a single one tried to eat her food. Perhaps, she thought, they knew she had a mission far more important.

They walked through fields of clover and wild daisies until they reached a grassy clearing near the forest’s edge. When noon came, Lysander sat to eat his meal—two goose eggs and a slab of goat cheese—while playing his flute to the grazing herd. Elsabeth ate quietly, marveling at how the music seemed to tell stories without words.

But the true wonder awaited her at dusk. Lysander led the goats to another meadow, this one bursting with wildflowers of every hue. In the middle stood a perfectly round, grassless circle, where not even the boldest weed dared to grow.

Lysander sat at the circle’s edge and let out a sigh so deep and mournful that it wrapped around Elsabeth’s heart. Then, he lifted his flute and played a tune unlike any she had heard before—slow, haunting, and heavy with sorrow. The goats stood still. Even the wind seemed to pause, as though the whole world was listening.

And then she appeared.

From the misty heart of the circle rose a maiden of otherworldly beauty. Her hair shone like pale gold, and she wore a flowing white gown, frayed at the edges as though time itself had worn it. She carried two bouquets—one of fragrant mint, the other of blue columbines with a solitary black rose at the center.

She danced within the circle, her bare feet gliding soundlessly over the barren earth. She wept as she moved, her keening voice blending with the flute’s mournful song. Every time Lysander reached out to touch her, she twirled just beyond his grasp, her sorrow deepening with each turn.

Night after night, for six days, Elsabeth returned to witness this ghostly performance. Each time, the goats would gently escort her back home, where she awoke in her bed, uncertain if it had all been a dream.

On the seventh day, something was different.

Lysander’s songs that morning were no longer cheerful. His face was drawn, his eyes hollowed with exhaustion, and his movements slow, as if his very soul was growing heavier. A strange bundle hung from his belt, but Elsabeth couldn’t see what it was. He led his goats with mechanical motions, his music filled with a pain so raw it made even the goats lie quietly, as though mourning with him.

When night fell, Lysander played once more, and the golden-haired maiden rose. But this time, others came too—ghostly maidens of ethereal grace, appearing from behind trees, stones, and flowers. They formed a wide circle around Lysander, their dances intertwining in a mesmerizing but unsettling rhythm.

The music grew frantic, the air thick with grief and desperation. The first maiden danced harder, shaking her bouquets, her cries piercing the night. Yet, Lysander played on, his face wet with tears, his fingers trembling but determined.

Suddenly, summoning courage, the golden maiden dashed toward Lysander. Their hands finally clasped, and for a fleeting moment, joy shone on their faces. But the other maidens shrieked and clawed at Lysander, trying to pull him away.

Then, Lysander reached for the bundle at his belt—it was a knife.

Elsabeth cried out, rushing forward to stop him, but the goats blocked her path. She could only watch in horror as Lysander, with shaking hands, cut a lock of the maiden’s golden hair. Their cries merged, both sorrowful and sweet, as she smiled and embraced him one final time. Slowly, her form faded—feet, legs, torso—until she was nothing but mist.

But Lysander did not fade. The spectral maidens surrounded him, forcing him to dance. His feet bled, staining the barren circle with red. Yet he danced, until exhaustion overcame him and he collapsed. As he took his final breath, peace washed over his face, and then… he was still.

Elsabeth watched, frozen in fear and sadness, until her eyelids grew heavy and she sank into sleep.

When she awoke, she was safe in her bed, the morning sun brushing gently through the window. But on her bedside table sat a simple wooden flute, and beside it, a lock of shimmering golden hair tied with a piece of white fabric.

Moral of the Story

Love can be both beautiful and tragic, especially when it crosses the boundaries between worlds. Sometimes, the heart sees what the eyes cannot—spirits, sorrow, and sacrifices made in the name of love.