To Coin A Phrase...
Of the ponies who'd had the misfortune to successfully talk their way into a direct meeting with Blank Canvas, a few had met one of his siblings first and thus been warned that he was, in their words, 'charmingly disconnected from reality'. This was, as those ponies quickly realized, a partial lie. It was true that the artist was almost completely disconnected from reality: there just wasn't anything particularly charming about it.
When it came to talent, it could be argued that Blank Canvas was a rather special sort. There were times when it seemed as if his mark was not for art, but for Art. No single method of visual expression was sufficient to contain his skills. Painting, sculpture, metalwork... he could render beauty in all of them and when those outlets threatened to become boring, could come very close to inventing something entirely new. His talent was a category case, and there were only a few of those in every generation. When it came to art, he was currently the only such pony alive, and this had turned him into Equestria's Greatest Living Artist.
Not that he'd truly noticed that. Or much of anything else.
Blank Canvas' being was focused on Art, and so he tended to neglect those portions of existence which weren't it. Details like Food generally didn't slip his mind for more than a few days at a time, if only because he would eventually realize that continuing to create Art when he was passing out every five minutes made the process slightly more difficult. (However, there had ultimately been a benefit to that: the splatter impressions from having his paint-covered form impact fabric-covered floor had sold rather well.) Trying to recall the necessity of Rent was decidedly harder. And when it came to interaction with those clients who'd decided they just had to meet such a tremendous talent, he stood as much of a chance of mastering Social Niceties as he did of igniting his horn and flying up to Moon.
He didn't pay attention to the world, for he was too busy creating his own. He didn't know history, barely had a jaw grip on science, and it was perhaps fortunate that the exceptionally-early manifestation of his mark had come after his first language classes, if only because anything else would have likely found him making those rare attempts to communicate with pictograms. Prior to his travels, he would have been capable of picking Princess Celestia out of a police lineup, but it would have been through one of three methods: pure dumb luck, process of elimination, or a nearby officer going mad and screaming "THE ONE WHO'S TWICE THE SIZE OF EVERYPONY ELSE, YOU IDIOT!"
This normally created the kind of situation where (at least in fiction) an unscrupulous agent collected all the bits for decades and the artist eventually found themselves painting on the walls of the padded cell which they, strictly speaking, had needed to occupy so much earlier. But Blank Canvas had a family (whom he occasionally recalled to exist) which loved and protected him as best they could. And when it came to the dubious state of his relationship to everything outside his studio, they had reluctantly agreed to treat him somewhat like a pony who had come under the delusion that he was actually a chicken: not only did they (and he) need the eggs, but he was also the sort of exceptionally stupid chicken who would get lost on the way to his pecking seed and stop to ask directions from a goshawk.
But for all that, he was still Equestria's Greatest Living Artist and so no matter what his siblings did, there were always a few more ponies who just had to speak directly with him. Two of those had recently made a request which it had seemed could not be denied, and the artist had set out via train to cross the continent which he barely recognized to exist. Most of Blank Canvas' family was currently waiting in a state of perpetual tremble to find out exactly what would wind up going wrong.
He was standing just outside the Moonrise Gate of the palace's throne room (unknown to him, the other throne room) as sunset approached, waiting for the time of his appointment. He didn't particularly mind the wait: the palace had some rather interesting art, and he was currently thinking about some things which could be done with the metalwork around the Gate itself, something which would be better suited to the silver-flecked marble...
"Enter," a rather imperious voice said, and he did.
There were two mares in the room: one white, one dark blue. He noticed that they each possessed both horn and wings, then considered that such things probably happened sometimes and he just hadn't seen it until now. He was rather more taken by the strange flows of their manes and tails, mostly because he hadn't been aware that such things could result from cosmetics (he knew about cosmetics, at least in that some of his models would use them to adjust their own hues) and was already starting to see the possibilities for a particularly dynamic portrait.
The dark blue mare was seated upon an elevated throne. The white was standing on the marble floor near its base.
"Mr. Canvas," the white one greeted him, smiling all the while. "This is a long-delayed pleasure. I've seen your work, of course. We have some of it, although it's only in the Solar Wing at the moment."
The dark blue nodded. "I have also beheld your creations," she stated. "And after some discussion, we have agreed that you are the pony whom we wish to create for us. A rather special piece: something which everypony in Equestria will ultimately own..."
He blinked. He didn't make copies. There was no such thing as a Blank Canvas print run. Every creation was unique, for that was Art --
-- but before he could speak, the white one did.
"As you are aware," she unwittingly falsely observed, "it has been nearly three years since my sister's Return."
The multicolored head, which looked like nothing so much as a living palette upon which the hues were just starting to mix, tilted slightly to the right.
"Who?"
Marble floors and walls could do strange things to sound and as it turned out, also had a certain way of enhancing silence.
"...Princess Luna," the white mare eventually said, still shaking some of the stun from that flowing mane.
"The pony," the dark blue slowly tried, "who is upon the throne. The one directly in front of you."
The unicorn's head went left this time.
"There's only one Princess," he definitively stated. (He had a rather thick Trottingham accent and sometimes donned glasses to magnify things for detail work before leaving them on for days at a time. Those traits occasionally combined to create the unfortunate illusion that he had some idea what he was talking about.) "That's what they taught us in school." And was briefly proud of himself for remembering that, as he really hadn't retained that much from the scant time prior to dropping out. "And if she just showed up nearly three years ago, she's very big for her age."
The mares briefly stared at each other.
"Mister Canvas," the dark blue said in a rather tight voice, "do you follow the news?"
Newspapers contained art critics, who were stupid, plus things which weren't art critics, and were therefore stupider. "No."
"Do you happen to remember," the white mare tried (with most of the unrecognized desperation blocked), "anything... unusual taking place in the last few years?"
He thought about it.
"There was a morning," he said, "where I got up early to work on a painting outside. With natural light. Only there was no natural light. There wasn't Sun's light. For hours. I very nearly had somepony write a letter."
"...yes," the white mare slowly said. "I think --"
"And," Blank Canvas casually interrupted because breaking into another's speech was natural when words weren't all that important, "the next time I tried to compose while outdoors, the sky turned purple. And the ground assumed a checkerboard pattern. I did have somepony write a letter about that one. Several letters."
"Mister Canvas --" the dark blue began.
"Because," he finished, "it was very inspirational, it wasn't present long enough, and I'd rather like to have it back." With open irritation, "But no matter which department was contacted, none of them did anything about it."
The mares took a mutual deep breath. The atmospheric pressure in the room briefly dropped.
"...right," the white one finally decided. "Let's try it this way. Princess Luna -- who is the mare on the throne before you -- is one of the rulers of your nation. I'm the other."
"Two rulers," he said.
"Yes."
"That's strange."
"Rather," the dark blue dryly (pretended to) agree(d).
"And it is traditional," the white mare went on, "that the image of the leadership is embossed on the currency."
Blank Canvas blinked and after doing so, looked at the white mare again.
"I thought you looked familiar," he decided. He knew money to exist, if only because the cosmic injustice of the universe meant that art supplies weren't free and models often wanted payment in things other than Art. "Although not very. Because it's a very bad portrait. The details are lacking. For starters, nothing about it suggests the sheer magnitude of your size --"
"-- the details," the dark blue cut in, visibly repressing a smirk, "are why we asked you here tonight. Although not on my sister's behalf."
"You see," the white one said, at least after she'd unclenched her tightened jaw, "Princess Luna's image is not on our currency. And that's something which is long overdue to be fixed. You are Equestria's greatest living artist, Mr. Canvas, and among your talents is the ability to not only work in both paint and metal, but to render the results from the first onto the second."
He nodded. "My mother was an engraver," he said. (Both mares waited for him to continue speaking on that topic, with each quite unaware that he'd just fulfilled his small talk quota for the next sixteen moons.) "So there's going to be new money. And you want me to create the image for it."
They nodded. And then he understood. There would be one original creation -- but it would be transferred to something which would eventually be in every pony's possession. He was about to make Art for all of Equestria...
A new emotion made itself known in his soul, and he spent a little time gazing inwards in wonder.
"I'm honored," he told them. And meant it, for this had the chance to be the creation of his life. He could already feel Inspiration rising within...
"So we would like you to stay in Canterlot for a time," the dark blue told him. "We have created a faithful reproduction of your studio, and filled it with supplies. There is also a budget for hiring assistants, should you require them. And of course, I will be certain to make myself available as a model. We would appreciate your first impression concept sketches in -- shall we say, two weeks?"
The artist responded with "Stand up."
The dark blue gazed down at him. "Your pardon?"
"Stand up. Turn around." His mind felt as if it was starting to blaze, little trials of creative fire moving through his blood. "I'm going to start working tonight. I remember what I see. I need to see all of you. Spread the wings. Raise your tail, then lower it. Shake out your mane, but only if that won't get rid of the makeup."
"We're not wearing --" the white one tried.
"-- let it go, sister," the dark blue said as she stood up. "I can recognize an inspired artist when I see one." She began to turn, and did not speak again until his examination was complete. "When shall I come to the studio? The best hours for me are --"
"-- first impressions," he interrupted.
"Yes," the dark blue said. "Nothing too complicated yet, unless your inspiration leads you to the final product immediately. Otherwise, consider what you first recognized when you saw me, perhaps what you believe others should recognize on that initial meeting --"
"-- two weeks. Back in two weeks." And, with some degree of insult, "It won't be with sketches, either. Two weeks..."
He spun, just about doing so on a single hoof, and thin legs raced away from the throne room.
Two weeks passed. Blank Canvas measured them in concept art and a rapidly-accruing number of foodless faints.
He had asked to have the mares enter the marble space after he did: he needed some time to set up the covered easels. Like just about all of his clients, they (initially) cooperated. It gave him some time for arranging the eventual reveal, along with adjusting the throne's cushions to a configuration which provided stronger contrast.
In time, the mares came in.
"Mr. Canvas," the white pleasantly greeted him. "I see no less than -- six? Six draped easels before us. So you have multiple designs for our review."
"I am unsurprised by the quantity," the dark blue smugly stated. "I am known to be rather inspirational. Although I would have expected at least one request to enter the studio --"
"-- didn't need it," the artist cut them off, speaking at the speed of still-blazing inner fever. "Things ponies recognize when they first see you, things they should recognize. Six full paintings. Ready?"
They nodded, moved closer. It left him in their mutual shadow: he was rather small for a unicorn, and they were -- not...
"Back up," he instructed. "Don't want anything in the shade. Lighting's bad enough in here as-is."
They backed up.
He'd already decided to start with his favorite of the six, and so the energy from his ignited horn went directly for the drapecloth on the far left, whipped it to the back of the easel.
They stared.
He took it as a compliment. Ponies often entered a state of wordless, nearly monomaniacal focus when they first beheld his work. When you were Equestria's Greatest Living Artist, it was something to be expected.
"...yes," the white one finally said. "That's... impressive."
The dark blue was silent. The flowing tail twitched.
"I think," the white continued, "that very few ponies would say that's anything other than impressive."
"Sister..." The tones of warning.
"I've known ponies to have very real trouble in not looking."
"You do not wish to do this," the dark blue abruptly stated. "Or worse, you do --"
"-- and yet," the white smoothly finished, "despite how very impressive the view might be, I think we might encounter a few problems with making the five-bit piece into an extremely detailed and lovingly faithful portrait of Princess Luna's hindquarters."
"As opposed," the dark blue muttered, "to requiring a larger scale of currency for yours --"
"-- so let's see what else you have," the white quickly cut in. And before Blank Canvas could stop her, that horn ignited, and cloth began to roll. "So here we have more of a focus on the tail. Mane for this one. And -- yes, wings, mane, and hindquarters. Superimposed. You're a stallion of varied tastes, Mr. Canvas. However, as I'm not particularly interested in having a simple minting lead into a rather complicated discussion with protest groups, I really don't see any of this as being suitable for placing upon money."
"But...!" Which was where, for the first time in his life, he stopped himself. He'd had clients speak against his creations before, and he accepted that they had always been wrong because Equestria's Greatest Living Artist clearly had the more elevated hoof in any discussion. He'd never encountered any previous difficulty in telling them just how stupid they were before.
However... this was for the creation which would ultimately be in every pony's possession. The chance to be recognized by an entire nation. And to think that these two might offer the feeble final protest of so many others by placing the commission into the custody of a lesser talent... that pain could not be borne.
"...it's my first impressions..." he weakly finished. "She makes a very strong first impression..."
The white one's gaze flickered back to the hindquarters portrait, then moved to the fuming dark blue.
"Yes," the white agreed. "Particularly from certain angles. Even so, we may want to try something else. You were working from a purely visual impression, Mr. Canvas."
"I did a portrait of a pony's smile once," he tried.
"Truly?" the dark blue managed to ask.
"Just the smile."
"I've seen the photographs," the white said.
The dark blue was somewhat less staid. "Solely the smile?"
"Ponies all over Equestria," Blank Canvas told them, "still wonder just why she was smiling."
They both visibly thought about that.
"And what would the actual reason be?" asked the dark blue.
Wasn't it obvious? "She was my model and I told her to."
"...right," the white one finally resumed, long after the intervening silence had saturated the marble. "Mr. Canvas... you are a great artist. The greatest in this generation. And there's no doubt that you were inspired. The, shall we say, truly loving attention to detail is amazing --" and moved just in time to dodge the kick "-- but in this case, it's not appropriate. You're capturing aspects of the physical form only. And much like The Smile, while the images raise... certain questions about how the artist perceives the world -- these don't say anything about who my sister is as a pony. I would like you to learn about her. Get to know her better. Perhaps some time spent --"
"-- get to know her," he repeated. And the fire rose again.
"Yes," the white unnecessarily went on. "Learning who she truly is, during what's starting to feel like some very overdue visits --"
"-- two weeks?"
"If you feel that's enough time in conversation and interviews," the white said. "But we can't clear that much consecutive time and of course, when it comes to asking her to discuss certain --"
"I'll be back in two weeks!"
And he was gone.
Art was Art: nopony could (or should) argue that. But now research would have to be research, and while the lack of internal capitals was justified, the need for Something Extra had just been recognized -- if only for now, and solely in the name of creating his greatest work.
He'd never thought like this before. He'd never felt like this before.
He had to do it right. Or at least in a way which his inferiors in taste would recognize as such...
"I have," the dark blue slowly said as she looked at the row of fourteen cloth-covered easels, "been attempting to visit you."
"Oh?" Blank Canvas asked, making the first, mostly unsuccessful attempt of his life to keep the sheer disinterest out of his tone.
"For two weeks. I had expected that you would hire assistants, so in that sense, the presence of ponies in front of the studio's door was easily explained. Guards, however..."
"I don't like to be interrupted when I'm working," the unicorn declared, and moved to the rightmost easel. "Now, before you see this --" and he was almost shivering with excitement "-- I had an idea."
"It looks," the white noted, "as if you had several."
He fervently nodded.
"More ideas," she continued, "than meals. You've visibly lost weight, Mr. Canvas. I'm worried about you. There's a kitchen in your studio. You have the funds to hire a chef, or enjoy some of Canterlot's many fine restaurants. A pony can make art, but they can't live on it --"
She was starting to sound oddly like his younger sister, which meant the instinct to ignore her came right in. "I've been studying coins," he cut her off. It had been an education. He'd never really looked at his own money before, or thought about all the possibilities it could contain... "Coins aren't paintings: they're closer to two-dimensional sculptures with some minor relief aspects. There isn't a lot of edge to work with, but they have a front and a back. So that means it's possible to do something special with one or both."
The dark blue leaned in, eyes illuminated with a growing inner light. "Your meaning?"
"A universal portrait or representative image on the front," he proudly said. "And on the back, one of the images you're about to see. But it'll be one for each of the largest settled zones. Trottingham and the towns nearby get one image. Canterlot gets another." Which was nearly all the settled zones he could name, but he was sure there were a few more: the train in had clearly been passing through something. "And as ponies travel and spend money, they'll get to see coins from everywhere else! They can make a gallery in their change purses."
The white one blinked.
"There will be," Blank Canvas declared, "collectors."
White looked to dark blue. Both slowly nodded.
"Well," the white smiled, "we already knew the numismaticians were going to go into a frenzy when the initial minting was released. But creating so many versions at once, on purpose... yes, Mr. Canvas, I think that would catch on. Children would set aside a little money in the name of making a complete set. Hunting through their allowance to see if they could finally spot that missing portrait from Manehattan."
"We could have the mint sell commemorative frames," the dark blue realized. "And donate the profits to charity."
"We could," the white agreed. "It's a fine idea, Mr. Canvas. I know there's going to be an increased cost at the start: it takes money to make money, and we'll need to set up so many more plates and devices than we would for a single design. But in the end... I think it'll be worth it." A brief pause. "However, while there would be many ponies eager to collect the complete set of your first results --" dodged "-- and even with the possibility of a follow-up minting --" twice "-- all right. Shall we see what you've rendered this time? Because..."
The mares briefly looked at each other again.
"I went to speak with you," the dark blue said. "Several times."
"I was hoping that you'd spend some hours with her," the white carefully stated. "Getting to know her as a pony before you tried again. But you've been locked in your studio, Mr. Canvas, locked away from the world..."
He understood Art. Ponies were things which you made Art about. Ponies were... hard. And research hadn't been much easier, but at least it had proven -- interesting.
"I researched," he told them. "As soon as I left the palace. I found a bookseller and I made a purchase from the budget. I made notes about my sources. I read about her, and I painted. I found a means by which I could know her." He gazed up at the dark blue. "You've had an interesting life."
There was a moment when it seemed as if the shades of her fur were being underlit by red.
"...yes," she eventually agreed. "But still -- Mister Canvas, you have learned about me from books --"
"Books!" he snorted. "Books are passé! I found something better than books!"
Both mares quickly looked around the room. He didn't understand why, and had no way of knowing they were each making the same instinctive check for a small, highly-offended purple form.
"I found," he declared, "inspiration!"
His horn flared, and the first cloth was flipped backwards.
A white jaw dropped. The dark blue's tightened. He took it as applause.
"This," he proudly said, "is from the battle against Discord."
No movement.
"Note the strong suggestion of force and direction."
They were barely breathing.
"It takes a lot," he declared, "to suggest the sheer amount of strength required to rip a head off with one's teeth."
"Mr. Canvas..." the white one tentatively tried. "Are you aware -- well, it could be argued as some form of art, so I guess there's a chance -- that there used to be a statue in the gardens --"
"Of Discord," he nodded. "Yes. I've seen it in art collection studies." The shudder was instinctive. "Ugly work. Whoever chose that for display --"
"-- did you happen to notice," she continued, "that it -- had a head?"
"Unfortunately." Another shudder. "However, unlike the pony who chiseled out that abomination, I tried to reflect reality."
The dark blue moved. Stepped in front of him. slowly walked down the line of easels, as her magic flipped cloths one by one.
"Ah," she said. "And here we have the exact moment of the Tribute War when I apparently kicked a hole through the griffon general's abdomen. With surprising detail on the intestines, which for some unknown reason seems to be universal in such themes. Followed by -- no, permit me the chance to guess, this would have to be -- oh, yes. The Sirens. Now, whether it is anatomically possible to actually accomplish that with one of their tails... Which brings us to this next one --" the cloth flipped "-- which is..."
She stared, and even Blank Canvas recognized it as a stare of confusion.
He generally didn't try to explain Art. Anypony who didn't understand Art wasn't worth explaining it to. But this was a special case.
"That," he helpfully said, "is your approaching a pony during their sleep and ripping their soul from their body."
"...oh."
"And as nopony's ever seen a soul," he continued, "it naturally had to be rather abstract."
"Oh."
And with more generosity than was strictly deserved, "But I'm certain you recognize the act of your eating it."
The stars within the twisting mane flared as the dark blue began to turn --
-- only to find a white body had just appeared in the space between the somewhat smaller of the mares and Blank Canvas, and done so in a flash of light. A very large, rather interceding body.
"Sister!"
"Princess Luna," the white one said (with what felt like just a hint of desperate hiss), "give me a moment. Please."
"A moment," the blocked-off dark blue spat back. "And a rather small measure for the variable!"
The white looked at him. "You said you did research," the too-calm voice stated. "And made notes about your sources. I don't suppose you have them with you?"
He did: he'd believed there was a chance for the question to arise, especially when it came to the originality of his vision, and so had brought the papers with him. A wavering bubble of power floated them over, and purple eyes quickly scanned the poorly-rendered words.
"Oh," the white one quietly said. "Lurid Pony Tales Of Doom. And... yes, it's always a good idea to have more than one source, so you then turned to Lurid Tales Of Pony Doom. I understand it's possible to distinguish them, if only by the pointless copyright lawsuits they keep filing against each other. Mr. Canvas... even now, there are very few books which have been written about Princess Luna, and the majority contain nothing more than rumors and guesses which attempt to disguise themselves as fact. But you didn't even reach the books."
Books contained words. Words weren't Art. Of course he hadn't read them. He'd been exceptionally desperate just to think about books in the first place, and had nearly exited the store after three painful minutes. But then he'd found --
"-- you did, however," she went on, "locate the graphic novels. And the serial chapbooks produced by those creators who can't afford to self-publish an entire story in one go. The -- how should I put this -- imaginative works."
Imagination which had needed some reinterpretation and refinement through his own vision, although he'd seen the potential in both the medium and a few of the compositions...
"You are," the white mare said with an odd (and forced) peace, "creating images of events which, for the most part, never took place. Or for the ones which did occur, have been distorted or carefully misunderstood. And even if I somehow wished for the public to believe them... I would be asking those children to collect these images. They're not suitable, Mr. Canvas. They're also not true. Art can interpret, but there should be truth in it. I asked you to learn about my sister. I wanted you to learn the truth of her. Would you please speak with her? Spend some time in conversation --" a quick glance backwards "-- a few days from now, after heartbeats have finally slowed? Come to know her as a pony?"
He stared up at the white mare. And then he felt his head shaking, almost on its own.
"Because?" she softly asked.
"...conversations are..." he said, and could say no more.
She sighed.
"Yes," she quietly told him. "Art is easy for you. And the rest is... harder."
The dark blue slowly trotted around the white mare. Looked at him, as the corona around her horn lost its spikes, dimmed and winked out.
"I am still willing to speak," that one said, with her tone oddly gentle. "About some things, at least. Even though I now recognize that you would never ask about the rest. But I understand, Mister Canvas, about the feelings which arise when one confronts a subject they cannot speak of. And so I offer you... one more chance. I will open certain sections of the Canterlot Archives to you. Ancient paintings, a select few of our oldest documents. I will also ask that some of the palace's own talents create sequential art versions of certain helpful facts. And if you feel that you can speak with me... send word, and I shall come when I am able. But if you cannot... then use what I have offered. One more chance. Because even for those who have given offense, there should be one more chance."
He stared at her. The hues. The ways the stars in that mane moved. The deepness of her eyes.
"Two weeks?" she quietly asked.
Two weeks passed.
And then two more.
An additional fortnight went by...
He stood outside the Moonrise Gate, again at sunset, just off to the side, so that the opening doors would not reveal any aspect of his presence or masterpiece. (He hadn't been more than twelve body lengths away from it for nearly two moons.) And watched, as two of his assistants entered ahead of him.
"He has a special request," one of them said. "It's... important. When we bring this in, after the cloth comes off -- stare straight ahead at it. Don't move your heads or eyes at all. Please."
"That is," he heard the dark blue state, "a rather odd thing to desire. What is the reason?"
"It's a surprise," the other told them. "That's all he said to us. That, and..." Awkwardly, "...please."
Silence.
"Very well," the dark blue finally agreed.
"I'm willing," the white said. "But -- can you tell us what's been going on? Nopony's been able to get into the studio for --"
"-- just wait," the first replied. "We'll bring it in now."
They exited, joined the team, harnessed themselves up again. And then they hauled.
He listened for their first reaction, and was not disappointed.
"So..." the white one slowly began, "...how tall would you say that is?"
"About half again your height, sister," the dark blue replied. "And naturally, as it is a circle, exactly that wide. Although... actually, now that I observe the draping more closely, scale that down somewhat: the fall of the cloth suggests it is within a circular frame, while having eight ponies to move it states metal."
He continued to listen, which was something he hardly ever did to begin with. It took some extra effort to get past the squeals of wheels on marble.
"I will be curious to see the eventual effect on our economy," the dark blue decided. "I suspect we will be looking at an increased trend towards savings, if only because ponies will be terrified to spend their money. The risk of both receiving and transporting any change will simply be too great. We may also expect an increase in construction as banks create new vaults, although that would create the question of how such will be paid for..."
"Nopony," the white firmly said, "is stupid enough to create currency that large."
"Sister?"
"What?"
Calmly, "Do you happen to recall a certain pack of Diamond Dogs? The ones which called themselves the Yap?"
"...okay," the white conceded. "Nopony is that stupid."
"Of course," the dark blue concluded, "there is a chance we are misinterpreting this."
"What do you mean?"
"He may have simply decided to depict your hindquarters." A deliberate pause. "Only in their proper scale."
Centuries of sibling rivalry briefly washed into the hallway.
"It's got to be a scaled-up coin," the white one continued, because that was easier than openly admitting to the temporary defeat. "To let us see the details. And that's part of why he's been in the studio for so long. That, and he's been working directly with metal..."
"Yes," Blank Canvas softly stated, finally entering the room.
They stared at him. He liked that. All attention was on him, with none of it granted to the ponies who had already unhitched themselves and were now trotting out. It was just the white, the dark blue, and his masterpiece. The creation of his life, the miracle which everypony in Equestria would soon possess.
"Mr. Canvas," the white quickly said from her standing place on the marble floor, "this presentation is suspended. I don't want you doing anything until after the Royal Physicians examine you, and there may be some time in a hospital bed. You haven't eaten, you haven't slept, you are thinner than anypony should ever be --"
"-- Art," he interrupted. "I... gave of myself. For Art."
His focus moved to the dark blue, who was back upon her throne. And for the first time in his life, a new emotion found its way into his voice.
"For you."
Their shock at the devotion provided the chance, and he spoke.
"So many stories..." he weakly said. "I... didn't know. It was something from beyond dream, and... no form of art was enough to capture it all. A front and back, that was all I had. It wasn't enough. Not to capture you. Not what the stories made me believe to be your essence. Not as you deserve to be seen, in all your dark beauty."
The greatest muse of his life was looking directly at him.
"The physicians," she said. "Immediately."
"Please..." And another new thing: he had just heard himself beg. "Please, a few minutes more, please. Just -- look. And -- straight ahead. Not up, not down. Just -- straight. Because the only way to do it -- was to create something new."
His horn weakly ignited, and some of what little strength he had remaining tugged at the cloth. It fell away.
And they stared. Straight ahead, as instructed. Without moving their eyes. Without blinking. Not that they could.
"It," the dark blue softly stated, "is magnificent."
And of course he agreed. It was magnificent. It could be nothing else, for he had created it. But it was so much more than she knew...
"I have been painted many times," the dark blue quietly told him. "But you have painted me in metal, and... this is the best of them. There are so many from centuries past whom I would wish to meet you. To see a collaboration. To see you take your well-earned place among their ranks. A full-body portrait, in that pose, with a degree of dimensionality granted through relief sculpture, and more from perspective. An image which will still work when brought down to the size of a coin. Myself, my very being -- in metal."
He basked in her words as he waited. Wondered if either would see.
"You are your generation's greatest artist, Blank Canvas," the dark blue finished. "Let there be no doubts."
And he smiled.
The white one was still looking directly ahead.
"The frame," that one softly said, "is to keep it from moving. I see the clamps at the top and bottom. But... you have a pivot point there, don't you? I see the jointing. So you can release the clamps and flip it, letting us see the back?"
"Not before you finish seeing the front," he gently smiled. "For my coin has three sides."
They both blinked. (Fortunately, the level of their gazes never changed.)
"Three?" the white naturally questioned. Her eyes widened -- and then she saw.
"A new kind of art," he softly told them. "It... will be difficult to reproduce, at first. It will require new devices and machines for the mint: there is no other way to make the detail so fine. There will be a cost. But it will be worth the price..."
"Grooves," the white said. "I see grooves. Hundreds of incredibly thin ones, running horizontally across the metal. No more than a few tail strands apart."
He nodded. A simple motion, and one far too small to express the pride in his masterpiece.
"I call it lenticular art," he peacefully stated, standing proud and secure not upon marble, but atop his place in history. "Because Moon does not present a single aspect to the world, and nor does she who embodies it." So many words, but he was talking about his work... "It changes. In every cycle, it changes, and so I had to create art which could change. Tilt the coin, even a little, and a new image will appear. That is my masterpiece. The creation of my life. A new form of art, granted to all of Equestria."
He looked at the clamps, and found the strength to ignite his horn once more.
"Behold."
The metal released and with the last of his power, he tilted the giant coin, just enough. And the soft gasp from the white one told him he'd done it. The new technique had worked. The second representation was just as perfect as the first.
He was immortal.
"Behold," he repeated. "The face of Nightmare."
The dark blue stood up.
Slowly, oh so very slowly, she trotted down the ramp from her throne. With mane, tail, and wings completely still, eyes focused on nothing which was not the path ahead, she trotted towards the Moonset Gate, which opened under the pressure from her gaze. And then she was gone.
He smiled.
"That," he said, "is the highest of compliments."
"...oh?" the white one eventually managed.
"Yes. There have been times when ponies are so struck by Art, they must take to privacy and think about the emotions it has evoked within them. I am honored to trigger that on this newest of nights."
There was a sound. It seemed to be very close by, and it was also rather loud.
It took some time for weakened legs to recover from the unexpected jump. "What was that?"
"Emotions," the white one wearily said. "Evoked within, immediately followed by a sort of triggering." Looked at his confusion, and softly sighed. "An... unscheduled lightning strike."
"It was supposed to be a clear night," he observed. (He often paid some small attention to the sky, for natural light was important.)
"Yes," she replied. "It was."
Two more bursts of thunder went off.
"Pegasi children playing around," he huffed. "How very annoying. I will need to speak to your best engravers immediately so that we can begin to create designs for the new devices."
Another six.
"Mr. Canvas," the white said, and had to do so for the third time because it took a while for hearing to come back, "how long did it take you to get here from Trottingham?"
"Five days."
Fifteen sonic explosions, followed by the crash of sundered wood hitting the ground.
"Yes. Let me see if I can get you back a little faster..."
After he'd reoriented from the abrupt teleport and she'd taken him from the empty room in that particular Town Hall to his true studio, there had been a talk. About how it might be too expensive to make such money, how potentially spending two hundred bits for each five-bit coin just didn't work. But he was also assured that employees from the mint would eventually be sent to speak with him and in the meantime, he could always consult with his mother. She felt it would be good for him, to talk with his family about it. To have a home-cooked meal. Several. And after that, they could discuss the next commission, for the true minting.
She had carried him all the way to his own studio, and so there was just enough left in him for words.
"But that... that was my masterpiece!"
"I know," she gently said as she tucked him into the bed. "And the new technique will spread. But when it comes to the images themselves... some Art is simply too refined for this simple world..."
And her wisdom accompanied him into the best dreams of his life.