At the execution grounds, made in front of the grand castle of her birth, Dymphna's heart raced faster than the galloping horses that once carried her through the royal gardens. The early spring air was cool and crisp, carrying a faint scent of blooming flowers that seemed to mock the grim event about to unfold. The crowd, a sea of faces blurred by fear and anticipation, murmured like a distant river. Each murmur felt like a knife twisting in her gut, yet she remained silent and still, her eyes focused on the executioner's block in the center of the square.

Though she was a princess and 15-year-old-only, due to wrath of her father the king, Dymphna could not avoid the rule that every death convict should be totally undressed before his/her neck would be severed. She felt the cold breeze on her skin as the royal guards approached, their eyes averted out of respect or perhaps fear of what was to come. With trembling hands, she began to unclasp the gold brooches that held her royal cloak in place, letting it slip off her shoulders to reveal the simple white linen shift beneath. The fabric, once soft and comforting, now felt rough against her skin, a stark reminder of the harshness of her fate.

SUMMARY^1: Dymphna, the 15-year-old princess, awaits her execution on a spring day at the castle's execution grounds, surrounded by a murmuring crowd. Despite her royal status, she must follow the custom of undressing for her beheading, feeling the cold air and the weight of her fate as she undoes her cloak to reveal her plain shift.

Her corset, a symbol of her station, was next to go. The guards stepped closer, each movement precise and practiced, as if they had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. They unlaced it gently, the sound of each loop coming undone echoing through the tense silence. The garment fell to her waist, exposing her trembling midriff. She took a deep breath, her ribs expanding with the effort to remain calm. Dymphna's gaze remained fixed on the executioner's block, the dark wooden surface now stark against the emerging green of the surrounding grass.

The guards then knelt to remove her shoes, the soft leather a stark contrast to the cold, hard ground beneath. Her small, delicate feet emerged, and she curled her toes, feeling the chilly earth for what she knew would be the last time. With a whispered apology, one of the guards slid the stockings from her ankles, leaving her barefoot. The fabric whispered against her skin as it was peeled away, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Each layer that was removed brought her closer to the inevitable, each item of clothing a piece of her dignity she had to relinquish.

The linen shift was the final barrier between Dymphna and the world's gaze. Her hands paused at the neckline, feeling the coarse fabric under her fingertips. The crowd held its collective breath as she began to lower it, the soft material slipping over her skin like a tear. She stepped out of the pool of fabric, now standing before the assembly in nothing but her chemise, the last vestige of her humanity. The guards, their faces now averted, waited for the final command.

The chemise, translucent from years of wear, clung to her youthful form. Her heart thumped in her chest, each beat a silent plea for mercy. With a tremble that threatened to shake her to her core, she reached for the hem, lifting it up to expose her knees, then her thighs. The cold air stung her legs, and she felt a flush of embarrassment that was almost painful. Yet, she did not look away, her eyes still on the executioner's block, her mind steeled for the ultimate surrender.

The guards stepped aside, and Dymphna's personal handmaiden, Elara, took their place. Tears streamed down her plump cheeks as she helped Dymphna over the final hurdle of her fate. With trembling hands, Elara untied the bow at the neck of the chemise, her eyes never meeting Dymphna's. The material fell away, and the cool air washed over the princess's bare skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature. She felt naked and vulnerable, but there was a strange sense of freedom in the openness of it all.

Dymphna's youthful body was a canvas of alabaster skin, untouched by the harshness of the world. Her breasts were small but perfectly formed, the tips a delicate shade of pink that matched the flush now spreading across her neck and chest. Her stomach was flat and smooth, with only the slightest hint of the swell that would come with maturity. Her hips flared gently, leading down to slender thighs that had never known a day of hard work. Her pubic hair was a soft, downy patch, barely visible against the paleness of her skin, a symbol of her innocence and purity. Her legs, though slender, were toned from the years of dancing and running through the castle halls, now standing firm as she faced the executioner. Her feet, though cold, bore the marks of a life of comfort, the soles unblemished by the callouses of labor. This 15-year-old-only young and beautiful princess, but now even only a young girl death convict's youthful, slim, sensual, but elegant naked body, on which not even one bit of thread was dressed, was dazzled in the sun.

The guards turned Dymphna's hands back, crossed both wrists at right angles and tied them together. And by the same rope, they tied her naked chest tightly. The rope made a big X letter at the sensual cleavage between two of Dymphna's small but perfectly formed breasts. And they knelt her down on the floor behind the executioner's block.

The supervisor shouted to Dymphna kneeling down in naked and bound.
"Sinner Dymphna! You deserve to be executed by beheading due to disobeying the king, but the king gives last chance to you. If you accept to marry the king, he will forgive you!"
Without any hesitation, Dymphna answered with her own clear voice.
"I would rather die than marry my own father. Execute me as being already commanded."
Her words resonated through the execution ground, a declaration of her purity and moral stand. The crowd was silent, the weight of her decision palpable.

The captain of royal guards stepped forward to perform the role of the executioner of Dymphna's beheading execution. His eyes was packed with grief and pity toward this young and lovely princess, so he whispered to her. "Your highness, please forgive me, I'm just carrying out the king's orders."

Dymphna, her eyes never leaving the executioner's, nodded slightly and said noblely. "Mister, you need not my forgiveness. You're a servant of the crown, and I understand your duty."

She continued. "Could I give you some help? If you guide and set up my posture for my beheading execution, I will follow totally."

The captain swallowed hard, his hand shaking as he nodded. He didn't expect such calmness and maturity from a young girl her 15-year-old-only age, especially in the face of death, in addition, especially, horrible death by her own neck being severed. "Your Highness, please, if you would..." His voice cracked, and he paused to gather his composure. Dymphna gently tilted her chin up, indicating she was ready to proceed.

With a heavy sigh, the captain stepped closer, his gaze flicking briefly over her naked form before focusing on the block. He was a man of duty, but he was also a man with a heart. "Your Highness, if you would place your neck here..." He touched the center of the block, his finger brushing against the worn, darkened wood. Dymphna leaned forward, her skin brushing against the cold, hard surface. "And if you could spread your knees a bit more, it will be easier for me to do what I must."

Dymphna complied, feeling the rough wood against her knees as she positioned herself. Her breath was shallow and quick, but she didn't flinch as the captain gently pushed her head down until her tender neck rested on the block. She felt the rope at her chest tighten as she did so, the tension cutting into her skin slightly. "Is this right, Mister?" she asked, her voice a soft whisper of acceptance. "Have I to move some more?"

"Yes, Your Highness, that's correct," the captain replied, his voice thick with emotion. "Please hold still." He reached for the rope around her chest, tightening it slightly, making sure she was secured in place. Dymphna felt the rope bite into her skin, but she made no sound of protest. Instead, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort to maintain her composure.

This 15-year-old-only young princess but now became only a young girl death convict's slim and pretty calves and cute feet was exposed on the floor, and the curve of the ample hips was beautiful. Under her smooth back, the small but perfectly formed breasts, at the end of which cute pink nipples were, were being dangled.

The captain's gaze could not avoid the nakedness of Dymphna's body, the beauty of her form, and the innocence of her soul. He felt the weight of his duty pressing down on him like a leaden cloak, but he knew he had to perform his grim task. "Your Highness," he began, his voice gruff with the effort to remain neutral. "Is there anything you wish to say before I carry out the king's command?"

Dymphna took one final, deep breath, feeling the rope at her chest and wrists dig into her skin. She thought of her late mother, her friends, and the life she would never get to live. Then she spoke, her voice clear and firm. "Mister, I have nothing to say to my father, but I want to thank you and your men for treating me with respect and dignity in this, my final hour."

The captain, his hand resting on the hilt of the axe, felt his heart ache. "Your Highness, you've shown more courage than any I've ever seen. If there is anything you wish for in your final moments, name it, and I shall do my best to grant it."

Dymphna, her eyes still closed, whispered, "Please sever my neck cleanly just in only one swift blow. My neck is so slim and delicate enough for you to do so. And, after severing my neck, please don't have any guilty feelings. This is the fate I have chosen for myself."

The captain answered, with a tremble in his voice, "Your wish is my command, Your Highness. I will surely slice your neck cleanly just in only one swing."

He raised the axe, the sun glinting off the polished steel. Dymphna could feel the heat of it even from a distance, a stark contrast to the chill of the block beneath her neck. She started her own last prayer in the mind. 'Oh, Virgin Mary, take my soul to your embrace...'

The captain, with all of his own power, brandished his own axe down, longing that he himself could sever this pitiful princess's neck by only this one swing. His strong arms flexed, his biceps bulging, and the axe's blade sliced through the air with a sound like a thunderclap. Dymphna felt the pressure of the axe as it descended, the cold steel pressing against her neck, the rope digging into her skin.

The impact was sudden and sharp, like a bolt of lightning searing through her. The axe met her neck with a sickening crunch, the blade parting the tender flesh as easily as it would a ripe fruit. The pain was intense, a white-hot agony that exploded through her body, sending shockwaves of torment through her limbs. Her naked body jerked reflexively, her legs quivering and her bound wrists straining against the ropes. Her eyes shot open, the pupils dilating with the horror of the moment, but she did not scream. Instead, she took in the scene around her, the world swimming in a haze of pain.

The ropes binding Dymphna's chest and wrists had held firm, keeping her in place as the blade was slicing through her neck. The edges of her vision grew dark, and she felt a strange, almost detached curiosity as her lifeblood spurted forth, painting the ground around her in a crimson pool. Her body was now a battleground of sensations, the coldness of the earth beneath her own knees, the harshness of the rope against her own skin, the warm wetness of her own blood, and the pain of her own flesh sharply split. Yet, amidst such chaos, her mind remained serene due to her own faith.

Finally, the captain's axe cleanly severed Dymphna's slim and delicate snow-white neck just in only one swift motion. Her severed, a picture of innocence and resolve, dropped to the floor with a sickening thud, and rolled slightly, coming to rest in a pool of crimson that grew larger with each pulsing beat of her lifeblood. Her eyes remained open, a silent testament to her unwavering courage, reflecting the shock and horror of the gathered crowd. 'Oh, Virgin Mary,' she thought, 'I'm coming to you now.' Her last thought left a faint smile around the pure red lips of her own dead but still beautiful face.

Just after, at the opposite side of the block, this 15-year-old-only young princess but now became only a young girl death convict's fresh and slim, sensual but chaste and elegant naked body, on which not even one bit of thread was dressed except for ropes tying tightly a attractive chest and two cute wrists, collapsed sideways with a thud.

Her legs, once strong and graceful, now lay limp and lifeless, the muscles no longer responding to the silent commands of her severed spine. The curve of her hips was now stark and unyielding, no longer shifting with the gentle rhythm of life. Her feet, once nimble and quick, were still, the toes curled slightly as if in a final protest against the cold embrace of the ground.

Her torso, so recently the home of a fiercely beating heart and a sharp, intelligent mind, convulsed in a final, futile attempt to survive. The ropes that had held her so firmly in place had grown taut with the spray of her blood, sticking to her skin like a gruesome accessory. The crimson tide that poured from her cruelly severed neck painted her body in a gruesome tableau of sacrifice, the last of her life force spilling out onto the cold earth.

Dymphna's arms, bound at the wrists, twitched spasmodically, the muscles jerking in a dance of death as the nerves sent their final, erratic messages. Her small, delicate hands clenched and unclenched, the fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp at the last vestiges of her lost life. The rope around her chest though still tight though the pulse of blood was weakened.

Her legs, once the epitome of regal grace, now lay in a tangled mess, the knees bent and the feet splayed apart. The crowd could see the tension in the muscles slowly ebb away, leaving them as lifeless as the rest of her. Her thighs, which had been the envy of many a court lady, quivered one last time and were slightly spread before growing still. Her delicate sex, hidden in the folds of her thighs, was now completely exposed to the world, the soft pink flesh a stark contrast to the crimson pool that surrounded it. The last vestige of her purity, it remained untouched by the horror of the moment, a silent protest to the depravity that had led to this tragic end.

The captain's arm fell to his side, the axe slipping from his grasp, the grisly task completed. His eyes met Dymphna's lifeless gaze, and he felt a tear escape, rolling down his cheek to fall into the crimson pool that was quickly spreading from her decapitated body. In spite of Dymphna's last request not to have any guilty feelings, the weight of his guilt was almost too much to bear. He had taken a life, a life so young, so innocent and full of potential, by horribly cutting her slim and delicate beautiful neck by himself. The crowd remained silent, the only sound the soft gurgle of her blood as it drained into the earth.

But, the captain's grousome duties, in other words, the horrible things Dymphna should endure even though she had already horribly died by her neck being severed, were left some yet. The captain stood a tall wooden pole, at 2 feet point below the apex of which a small but thick stick was attached horizontally. And, he hung Dymphna's severed head high on the apex of that pole, and reversely hung her headless naked body, whose chest and wrists were still bound tightly, by tying her feet at the horizontal stick, such as reversly hanging the headless body of a butchered animal having been butchered at a butcher's shop. Between two of her still slim and long legs which were spread in V-shaped, even her delicate sex was totally exposed to public, under the king's creul intention that his own disgusted daughter would receive ceaseless and endless humiliation even after her horrible death.

The supervisor recited the king's final command about Dymphna's severed head and headless naked body.
"Display the severed head and headless naked body of this disobeying felony sinner Dymphna, until her head and body, and all of her bones, will be completely decayed and destroyed!"

The captain nodded solemnly, his eyes never leaving Dymphna's lifeless form. He knew that this was not a task that any man should have to perform, but he had taken an oath to the crown, and he would see it through to the bitter end. With the help of the other guards, they raised the pole upright, the severed head at its peak, the headless body hanging reversely beneath. The sight was one of horror and disbelief, a stark reminder of the price paid for standing against the king's will.

Facing such horrible sight and command, the crowd gasped collectively, a symphony of shock and disgust echoing through the execution square. Some looked away, unable to bear the grisly spectacle, while others stared in a mix of horror and fascination. The wind picked up, making Dymphna's headless corpse sway gently, the ropes that held it in place creaking with each movement. The severed head, still beautiful despite the delicate neck gruesomely having been severed, with the long and silky hair fluttering around it like a macabre halo, remained impaled on the pole, its lifeless eyes staring out at the world that had abandoned her.

But, though days went into weeks and months, Dymphna's severed head and headless naked body were not decayed nor destroyed as the king had hoped. Her skin remained soft, her hair lustrous, and her eyes, though vacant, seemed to hold a glimmer of life. Around the red lips, her faint smlie made a mysterious and holy mood. Her headless naked body, even though reversely hung like the headless flesh lump of a butched animal, had not lost its elegance and nobility. The ropes had not frayed, the knots had not loosened, and the wood of the pole had not rotted. The sight was both terrifying and mesmerizing, and whispers of a miracle began to spread throughout the kingdom.

People started to visit the execution ground not to gawk at the grim spectacle, but to pray to the girl who had stood so firmly by her beliefs. They brought flowers and candles, laying them at the base of the pole. Some claimed to see tears glisten in her lifeless eyes, others swore they heard her whisper words of comfort in the stillness of the night. The once feared execution square had become a place of pilgrimage, a sacred space where the faithful gathered to seek solace and hope.

Long and long even after the king, in other words, Dymphna's father, who had ordered to execute his daughter by such grousome beheading, passed away, Dymphna's head and body was exhibited such a way, maintaining their beauty, elegance, and gracefulness. Finally the Christianity was accepted as the national religion, Dymphna's body and head were taken down from the pole and buried with great reverence by the people. Dymphna was later recognized as a saint, her story becoming a beacon of purity and courage due to faith, against the tyranny of her own father.

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