Can you maybe write a continuation of your post where Fingon is going to storm the gates to the Halls of Mandos?
A continuation of this. NB, it’s an AU in which Maedhros died at the Nirnaeth, which has pretty significant implications for…a lot of things.
“We have no intention of ‘keeping him from you’,” said the Maia, a shadow of a frown upon its shadow of face. “This is not the Iron Hells.”
Fingon, bow in hand and armoured head to toe, gave it a filthy look. “Then bring him out.”
“He does not wish to leave.”
“Then bring me to his side.”
“You can’t save him,” said the Maia, but did as it was bid.
It took a thousand miles and a hundred years and no time or space at all to find the hall where what was left of his beloved dwelt. Fingon knew him instantly, though could not say afterwards how he did - the shade was not tall or comely, not copper-topped or one-handed, or even much like an elf at all. Still, it was Maedhros. That was entirely obvious.
“So,” said Fingon, setting his bow down against a handy pillar that had not been there until he needed it. “No darkness everlasting, love?”
“The dead hold no illusions,” said the shade of Maedhros testily. “Did you come all the way here to say ‘I told you so’?”
“Yes. Also to slay your demons and see you safely home, but mostly it was spite. We lost the battle - I imagine you assumed that much, or so I assumed from the knife in your throat - but the war we won.”
“Vairë showed me,” Maedhros said. Only he could radiate that queasy blend of love and pride and awful, gnawing guilt. “She showed me much.”
“Ah. Your brothers?”
“Had you lived, you could not have stopped them.”
“Stopped them?” the shade hissed. It did not recoil, but only because it was not the sort of thing that could. “Fingon, I would have led them. To ruin, and for nothing.”
Fingon had known Maedhros too long and loved him too well not to have suspected that. Not to have made an uneasy peace with it in the long years since his death. “You know better now, I hope. And sulking here won’t help anything.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is.” Fingon raised his hand to touch the memory of Maedhros’ hair, remembered redness blooming and then fading in his fingers’ wake. “The dead hold no illusions, or so I’ve heard it said. You shall do no evil here but no good either, and just think of the smile you could put on old Olwë’s face by letting him punch yours.”
The dead did not grin but then Maedhros rarely had in life and Fingon had always known when to fill in the blanks then. “My mother will kill me all over again,” he said.
“And I’ll come fetch you back. Come, Maedhros. Whatever they may say of you-”
“-They do not say I am a coward. As you will, then.”
“As you will. The Maia said I could not save you, and I won’t.”
Maedhros did not nod and did not take Fingon in his arms. He also failed to kiss him with the passion he deserved, but Fingon supposed all that could wait until they’d found him a body. He did say ‘thank you,’ and ‘I love you,’ and if there were no demons slain, there were also no pieces left behind and Fingon found he was quite content with that.