Then again, getting somewhere in spite of this.
Then, and only then, were we able to look around at our surroundings and notice not what was there, but what wasn't. Again and again we didn't see those things which, in the days previous to our arrival, had made us want to come here in the first place: the spires, the crags, the other landmarks. Getting here had been difficult, and our confusion was now tempered by a sadness about our perceived failure. Somewhere close to where we were, those spires and crags existed, and why we could not now see them was only quietly discussed, with whispers. In our secret hearts, we believed ourselves to be standing on top of the place we had intended to be standing, and so very on top of it that we could not see it, like the forest for the trees, but this of course never proved to be true. Spite against nature began to grow in us, but slowly. Of the anger, we felt but little—so slow was it to take us over. This, in the end, was our undoing.