As she watches from her window, Denethor spends himself. At the very moment of his climax, the mountain spews forth.
"Fitting," she whispers, turning from the sight.
"I am useless; he must take relief in other ways." Swallowing her shame, closing the door to their private garden, and finally falling upon their bed, she shuts him out.
She had failed him - miserably, utterly, completely. There had been only one reason for him to marry her - to give him heirs - and all she had produced were two. The Warden had been adamant; she must not bear again, else she would die.
He had sworn that he loved her, sworn to her on the White Tree that the two sons she had given him were more than he could ever hope for. Yet, her heart was troubled and refused to accept his words, his gifts, his love.
Mithrandir had come, after the sentence had been passed, and held her hand, telling her she heeded an evil voice. She listened to him meekly, let him ramble on about her goodness, her fulfilling of Gondor's needs, and she fooled him; the old man left her, a smile upon his face.
The blue cloak lay upon the floor; she kicked it in pain and frustration. She was not worthy of such love, such devotion, such gifts. Her own self-hatred grew. She heard the voice again and walked slowly to the Tower, to the one thing that understood her.
She put her hands once more upon the cold globe and opened her mind.