It was more than a thrill to hear it.
The roars, the howls, the cries of adoration; words screamed filled with love and appreciation and awe. Noises learned and earned as a filly, even if it were just from parents with a faux - then gradually, real - appreciation, friends who couldn't harness that talent and were impressed by her progress, or of teachers cooing encouraging sounds of appraisal upon passing grade exams and taking part, or holding, live performances. The first ever real taste of fame was a school concert, where the notoriety began. A mildly shy foal, but she could play with grace the cello like a virtuoso: professional, smooth, immaculate; there was never a sour note from those strings. From then on, people remembered her, the musical department treated her like a Goddess, and the parents who visited and revisited the school's concerts did not only anticipate their own child's performance, but her's too.
And the flood of recognition washed away nervousness, and replaced it with pride and self esteem.
Come her later years, she was in more prestigious performances, being one of the few cello soloists to be around. Her name, it seemed, was everywhere, the word 'Octavia' followed by whatever the highlight of her show would be. Plastered on the walls in the towns and streets and cities was her title for the whole world to see. Ponies everywhere in Canterlot lining up for each and every show, hooked and addicted to the mellifluous intonation of the arco, and hanging on tight to reverberation of the pizzicato. The vast expanse of the performance hall would echo in favor of the tunes unraveled by hooves and taut strings. Over time, hearing the beauty of the sounds reflected back at her, an ego began to form inside of the upper-class mare, a twisted sense of pride arising inside of her - a lust for glory. Its long fingers reached out to grab her, curling and wrapping tightly around her mind and heart, crushing her consciousness in its unforgiving grip. The ego began to consume her, devour her, mould her into a new pony; an imitation of the notorious string players from the years gone by.
Octavia's maturity had blossomed, and with that, her self-esteem flourished, and almost took control of her. She'd began turning away her friends, in the lucid belief that she didn't actually need them any more, that she, her ancient cello, and her bow -rosined and tightened- were all she would ever need. The adoring fans were her friends, the rolling boom of hooves stomping and clapping were her conversations, her manager was her mother. The heavy pressures of composing were her father, looming down on her and reminding her of responsibility and dedication, along with a brutal greed to obtain success or more. Her brothers and sisters were the violists and the ponies who mastered the double bass, which played the backing in her orchestral performances and compositions, often lending a hoof to fashion their parts, and make tweaks. Too much adjustment, or not allowing Octavia to begin forming the part individually always ended in the physical expression of a ruthless nastiness from the grey pelted mare, and often storming out followed suit.
The fame and stardom got to her head, possessing her and driving her to what essentially became an irreversible point of corruption and almost self-addiction. But yet, eungulfed entirely by laudation and prestige, she was fully aware of what it was turning her into; she hardly cared; she couldn't care. A narcissistic husk of who she was before, all this one pony, all Octavia lived for now, was the certainty she would go down in the history books. Having come so far, having had to strive for so long to achieve her only goal, she knew in her heart of hearts that success was her only option now; failure would end her entirely. No, she could not play one single note wrong, miss the fingering or even slightly scrape another string. Everything had to be pristine. Immaculate. Exact. A deep and droned sigh; an hour of practice, that would help, even if it was just in her dressing room. The hour was done with no break, solid, continuous hard work until she felt that not once could she falter; how could she? She was Octavia, the most recognized, notorious, celebrated cellists in the whole of Equestria. So it seemed, anyway.
So, now, mounting the stage for what could be her most important performance, she felt a certain and disturbing rush. Her blood pounded through her body, the susurration loud in her ears; she stood erect, balancing her cello with the typical demeanor. Sweat rolled down from her brow, to her cheek, and then dissipated. The curtains were drawn; her view was red. Brain pounding, eyes fuzzy, she glanced near frantically over the sheet music. 2 minutes. Carefully poising her instrument, she adjusted her bow tie and collar, and briefly patted down her fur; she took the stringed instrument back into her grip. The crowd outside was silencing. A hushed count down in her microphone. A count. The first note resonated as the curtains were drawn back, in the dark she began a mournful melody that swooped its way through the air and weaved through the crowds. Fading in, the stage light came down, putting her in a bright glow, her shadow cast harshly back against the wooden paneling of the Royal Canterlot Hall, deep black against the mahogany. Each viewer was still in awe, eyes wide, impressed. Suddenly, a bravery lunged through her body, thrusting from her palpitating heart through her trembling body, filling her with a sudden rush, an urge, a greed. She stole the show, no questions about it, the whole of the run time she was the star. The stage light came down, the thumping roar of hooves echoed from the bleachers, and Octavia heaved and panted once the microphones were off and the curtains were drawn.
In the wings, she held a brief celebration; one for success, one for courage, one for glory.
