Chrysaor must have screamed and wept for hours over the mutilated corpse of his mother. At times his grief and fury drove him to pound his fists against the unyielding rock of the cave floor and walls until his knuckles bled, or run out into the sunlight and howl to the voiceless sky. But again and again, he returned to look down at the headless body and hoarsely sob "Who has done this...Who? Who?" Once he even prayed to Poseidon, hoping his father would give him some sign, but the sea god answered not. Chrysaor wondered if Athene herself had done this, out of sheer hatred of Medusa. No...He felt certain somehow that a man was responsible for this awful thing...but how?

The sun was not far from the western horizon when Chrysaor, his tears exhausted now, set a flaming torch to the pyre of wood he had built, and watched in silence as the fire spread and enveloped what was left of Medusa, lying atop it. In a leather bag he carried what gold and jewels his mother had been able to obtain from those she had been forced to kill. She had told him enough of the lands of men for him to know he would require such baubles to trade in order to live once he reached them. Medusa's slayer would be out there somewhere, and Chrysaor meant to find him, whoever he was, at which time no man or god would stay his wrath. He took a last look at the cave he had grown up in and, purely on instinct, began to walk east. He did not think he would ever return to this place.

Again Chrysaor journeyed. Further this time, and not out of mere restlessness and curiosity, but grim determination. He rationed his food and water carefully, for he knew he must shortly cross the Libyan desert, where survival was hard in the vast waste of sand and rock. When he looked upon the desolation, he wondered if it was the result of the ancient war between the gods and Typhon, the great demon-snake born of the blood of giants that Zeus and his brethren had slain. It would not have surprised him much.

The days and nights cycled by indifferent to him, the light bringing searing heat, and the darkness bitter cold. On these nights, he wrapped himself up in his cloak and, shivering, looked up at the stars and the grey-white disc of the moon. "What do you think of me, Selene?" he said one evening as he thought of the goddess of the moon. Hypnos cast his spell upon him then, and he slept amid the sand. When Chrysaor's eyes at last fluttered open, he still lay in the sand in the night...and yet something felt different to him. He looked about him at the silent dunes and saw nothing, but knew he was being surveyed. "Who is out there?" he called out, half wondering if his weary mind played tricks on him.

He looked up at that moment, as the moon's luminescent glow seemed to become even brighter, and on that light there seemed to be conveyed a voice: "The one you sense, Chrysaor, is I - Selene, daughter of Hyperion. In my light, I beheld you alone in the trackless wastes; your plight moved me, and so I picked you up in the palm of my hand while you slept, and carried you many leagues across the desert to spare you hardship. You are now in the land called Egypt, and with the morning light shall come upon a city beside the Nile River."

Chrysaor remained on his knees in the sand as he replied "You have my eternal thanks, O Selene, but I must ask you, know you anything of my mother's killer? I cannot truly rest until I have found him and exacted my vengeance!"

The moonlight was silent for a moment, but then Selene responded "I regret that I cannot aid you in that matter, Chrysaor...but others nearby may be able to give you the answers you seek...though I counsel you to tread with caution."

Selene spoke true. It was not yet noon of the following day when, from out of the desert haze, appeared to Chrysaor the walls of a city in the near distance. Shielding his eyes from the sun's glare, he made out a wide gate through which crowds of people passed in and out, and he was shortly walking up to those gates himself. Standing beside the entrance was a guard, exotically armoured and carrying a spear and shield. "Pardon a stranger, sir," Chrysaor said as he approached the man, "but what city is this?"

"Why, you stand at the gate of the city of Memphis," the guard told him, "the glory of the land! Its' founder was the Pharaoh Menes of the first dynasty, and its patron god is Ptah. You may visit Ptah's great temple here, if you wish." Nodding his thanks, Chrysaor strode through the open gate and for the first time experienced human civilization. People of myriad descriptions filled the streets; vendors shouted of the things they sold, and at what prices, from their stalls to entice shoppers; groups of children ran laughing between adults. Further away and above the simple dwellings soared the richly built palaces of the rich and temples of the gods, the largest and most magnificent of which Chrysaor knew must be that of Ptah. Not all he saw was pleasing though: A few times he spotted figures sat on the ground, painfully thin, dressed in rags and their faces forlorn as they begged passersby for coin with which to buy food. And once he beheld a fat, finely attired man asking a crowd to bid for those in a line of mannacled individuals on a small platform.

Chrysaor was certain of one thing: Having spent days in the desert, he needed somewhere he could rest in comfort. After some enquires, he was directed to a modest inn. "What will these afford me?" he said to the wizened, bearded innkeeper as he placed two good-sized, glittering gemstones onto the counter between them in the shadowy main chamber.

The old man picked the gems up in his hands and peered closely at them, holding them between thumb and forefinger for a minute, then said "These will afford you a bed for the evening, and our best food for supper, sir. A servant will show you to your room."

"Thank you," Chrysaor said, "but tell me, know you of Medusa, the Gorgon?"

Hearing this, the innkeeper shuddered and made the sign of one of his gods. "Aye, my good man, who has not heard that evil tale? But I implore you, speak not of that nightmare here; it does no good to think of such things!"

"I am sorry," said Chrysaor, "but I must know, has anything recently been heard relating to her? Her death, perhaps?" But no, the old man swore that nothing of the sort had been mentioned, and refused to talk further on the matter.