Eponine was always pretending, and she knew it. Her life was one of darkness and despair, but to make it bearable, it turned to an illusion. A thin layer of imagination, turning the hovel she lived in into a cottage, her father's gang into unworthy and jealous suitors, her parents into ugly step-parents that her prince would someday rescue her from. She was Cendrillon, the slave girl who turned to a princess. Yet she didn't know who her prince was, who was going to sweep her off her feet and carry her to a castle. But she knew he would come.
Then Monsieur Marius came. He gave new life to her fantasy, which was becoming faded around the edges. He renewed her hope that her prince would come, and Marius himself began to appear as the prince in her daydreams. He gave her reason to exist in life and continue to enjoy the brief pleasures of it.
So Eponine helped him, ran letters for him, took messages, told him the gossip of the streets. She knew she loved him, with every fiber of her being. She told him so in her dreams. She could only hope he felt the same, that she would one day have her fairy tale ending with him.
Eponine knew of the cold world beyond deception of her mind, but refused to step into it, but still believed in the soft edged world of her own mirage. And thus she was unprepared, not ready for when the delusion would finally fail to guard her.
When Monsieur Marius saw her in the market, when Eponine saw the look in his eyes, her mirror of make believe cracked. Weakened. But even as Marius asked her to find the home of the lark, she clung to the childish dream that he would still see her and love her, rather than the rich pretty lady that once was Eponine's personal servant. It did her no good, but in her harsh world, it maybe was kinder to let her play charades with him.
Her illusion that had given her so much hope shattered in one instant, the instant that she, Cosette, the lark, kissed her Marius. It left her on the floor, pieces of razor edged dreams surrounding her. It turned the love and belief she had held onto for so long into daggers the wedged into her heart. The sudden free fall into the unforgiving, unfair universe left her grasping for any piece of comfort. Of course, there was none.
Even though Monsieur Marius bled her heart onto the cobblestones, she didn't leave him. Her father's gang planned to rob the Lark's house. She should have let them, let them show how much it hurt to be rejected. Show him how much he hurt her.
But she didn't. She screamed. She warned them. And she paid. Yet he didn't know. He didn't know how much Eponine sacrificed for him, both physically and emotionally. He said that she was his best friend, that she was the best, but did that do anything? Did that change his feelings? No. And that fact hurt. It hurt, now that there was no mirage to guard her heart. It was torn open for it to wither with neglect.
But Eponine followed Monsieur Marius, trusted him, went with him all the way to the barricades. She tried to show him her love, her devotion.
In the moment she took the bullet for him, in the moment she leaped in front of him, she was happy. Marius would see her love. And he cradled her, soothed her, whispered sweet things to her.
She felt like he cared. And when she at last reached to the darkness, she was at peace, and not from any illusion. It was real. He was real. And he cried for her, kissed her forehead.
She was there at the wedding. She watched the the Lark, radiant and shining, and Marius, handsome and elegant. And for once, she felt no strife.
Eponine was there when the Lark's 'father' died. She was at their shoulder, watching them. She sang to him, Monsieur Marius, and she believed every word of it.
Take my hand, i'll lead you to salvation
Take my love,
For love is everlasting
Fin