You were a very delicate being. You got into trouble most of the time and got bruises often. Someone had to take care of you. And that someone is, Astaroth, the demon king.

You sat in the garden, inhaling the fresh air. You sat there mainly for the tranquility.

"How are you feeling, my delicate flower?" Astaroth asked from behind. Not knowing you had a sickness that could lead to death.