Resurrection

The Art of war

Summary: Klaus resurrects Bonnie Bennett.

A/N: This story is in an alternate universe and I've definitely taken liberties with canon Klaus and Bonnie.

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Historically, when a King plans to invade and reclaim his empire from a usurper, he seeks counsel.

Rallying around the crown would be: wartime generals, strategizing their takeover; ordained priests, blessing their invasion; and loyalists, men who would die in the name of their king.

Klaus has none of these.

Which is why he is asking for directions to Mama T's house from an uninterested teen-aged boy on his bike, back-dropped by the leftover wreckage of the lower ninth ward.

"What you want with Mama T?" the dark-skinned teen asks; distrusting the pale-skinned vampire in his neighborhood.

Klaus brandishes a wide smile and softens his usual approach, "She happens to be a very old friend of my family, mate, and at one time, I could find my way to her residence without trouble, but with the new names on the street signs, I find myself lost," he states with ease, and it was all true, even though the time period he spoke of was before the tract homes and the squared off lawns existed; it was when the sprawling acreage was covered with sugar-cane and working plantations.

Gesturing his hand toward the end of the street they are currently on, the young man tells Klaus to make a left at the stop sign, and when Klaus asks for a description of the house, he tells him he will know it's hers because it's the only house still standing on that street.

With his brow drenched in sweat from the August sun, the teenager preps one Nike shoe on the metal pedal of his bike and warns, "You know she's a witch, right?"

"I know, mate," Klaus says with a smile and a slight nod, continuing his stroll down the neighborhood's crumbling sidewalk; igniting the curiosity of the residents who happen to notice the rugged blonde pass by their home.

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"You don't know me, but I knew your mother," Klaus says, hands clasped behind his back, tipping his weight back and forth on his heels, making small talk with the elderly copper-skinned woman who is ogling him while standing at the threshold of her dimly lit and much cluttered living room.

"You the vampire?"

"Was, I'm now a hybrid." He responds, giving her living room a once over, concentrating on the dusty pictures of the replica Renaissance painting of the Last Supper and a portrait of the late human, Dr. Martin Luther King hanging askew on the wall behind her.

The 102-year old witch turns away from him like that's all she needed to hear and takes up residence on the tattered lay-z-boy, "Come sit down over here," She says, pointing to the faded velveteen couch, "Hurts my legs to stand for a long time, come sit cher' and we can talk."

On his way to the couch, maneuvering around the huge furniture: the over-sized love seat and coffee table, he spots a greying picture in a silver-plated frame, and picks it up from the others on the grimy surface, "You resemble her," He states, brow furrowed, examining the familiar contours in the face of the woman in the photo, "Her proud demeanor and noble chin," He finishes, transported to a bygone era, and before any memories produce, he puts the picture back into the jumble of frames.

"She told me stories 'bout you, "She smiled, her hand landing lightly on her knee, "Well, what was proper to tell a daughter about a former beau."

He offers a weak smile and catches a glimpse of his self in her thick smudged glasses, "She was a dear friend of mine, and also a helpful one," He adds, curtailing this house call to the reason why he was there.