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Thorin wasn't lost. He could retrace the exact route he'd taken to get where he was, right back to his last camp site in the hills west of the Shire, so it wasn't that he didn't know where he was. The problem was that the place he was looking for wasn't where the wizard had said it would be. Or perhaps it was, and he just couldn't tell because all of these hobbit holes looked the same. Round doors, round windows, grass on top and flowers in front. No sign of Gandalf's rune mark anywhere.
Night had fallen as he'd been searching. Through the round windows he could see hobbits having their supper, one or two of them looking up in surprise when they heard the sound of hooves outside. Such domestic scenes, and so sheltered. What would they do if an army rode by, or if a bunch of orcs on wargs came scratching at their doors? Probably hide in their pantries and pretend nothing was amiss. And Gandalf thought one of these halflings should be the burglar? The one to enter the dragon's lair in Erebor first of all? Ha!
Thorin spurred his pony into a canter, riding across the green fields towards another bunch of hobbit dwellings further south. Fireflies swirled up around him, dancing in the warm, fragrant air, and a myriad of stars twinkled overhead. A sudden wave of melancholy overcame him, and Thorin let his mare slow down, and then stop completely at the top of a hill. She took the opportunity to graze a bit, while he gazed at the moonlit landscape around them.
This land. This quiet, unassuming land, where no one had known the terrors of battle, and dragons where nought but stories. Where good food, a garden, and a warm hearth was treasured more than gold or glory. Thorin was born a prince, and had grown up a warrior, and the bitterness of losing Erebor was great in his heart – but was his fate truly written in stone? He had made a vow to reclaim his home, and his throne, but the vow had been made to none but himself, so who was to stop him from breaking it?
He had spent most of his life on the road, moving from town to town, working as a blacksmith or a coal miner for humans who knew nothing of his royal heritage, and wouldn't have cared if they had known. He had fought in countless battles, great and small, where the defeats had been as crushing as the victories had been hollow. All that was left to him was the Lonely Mountain, in the claws of a fire-drake that hadn't been seen for 60 years.
If Smaug was dead he could just walk right in, shovel out the carcass and the filth, and be the king of a tomb lined with gold. If Smaug was still alive he'd have a battle on his hands, the greatest battle of his lifetime. If he slew the dragon he'd be a worthy king, ruling upon a throne made from Smaug's skull – but how many of his company would survive the ordeal, when all the dwarves of Erebor at its height couldn't stop the dragon's invasion? Those twelve dwarves meant more to him than anything else in the world; if any one of them was slain he'd always doubt if the victory had been worth it, even if he knew they'd followed him willingly, and he didn't know if his heart could contain any more darkness without succumbing to it.
But this land, the Shire... What if he never turned up at Bag End, the home of this Bilbo Baggins? What if he turned his back on his heritage; shaved off his beard, tied back his hair, and laid aside his steel-capped boots in favour of going barefoot? He could have his own little forge, making horse shoes and sickle blades and whatever else it was hobbits needed. Simple things for simple lives. There would always be an emptiness within him, but he sometimes felt as if nothing in the world could ever fill that void, so perhaps he could just just get used to it? He didn't have a home, but he could make one for himself, here in the Shire, where no one knew who he was.
Thorin hung his head, breathing deeply, his eyes closed. It wasn't doubt that he felt, it was longing. A deep, endless longing, from the very bottom of his heart. A longing for a simple life, where songs and laughter were more common that battle cries, and where his only worry was for how hard he'd have to bargain for a load of iron ingots. He had never had a life like that. He had never gotten to choose what kind of life he wanted, and it had never occurred to him that he might be able to deviate from his given path. But he could do it now.
His company would be confused, of course, and perhaps hurt, and possibly angry, but some of them might still understand his choice. Balin would, he knew. Balin was loyal through and through: he would have followed Thorin through the very gates of Angband, into the jaws of Ancalagon the Black himself, and Thorin would never have been able to dissuade him. But he was also the only one who had questioned the wisdom of his plan to reclaim Erebor, the only one to ask if it could – or should – be attempted at all. It could be that he'd enjoy a quiet life too, here in the Shire.
Dwalin would be utterly disappointed, as would Oín, Gloín, Nori, Bofur, Bombur, and possibly Bifur (although he was never quite sure of what Bifur thought about anything, not since he got that axe stuck in his head). They were all warriors, finding little joy in a life away from battle, and if they weren't going to Erebor they'd no doubt find some other warlord to follow.
Dori would probably be all right with not going to the Lonely Mountain. If Thorin knew him right he had already found just the right spot to start his own little vineyard up in the Blue Mountains, or even here, in the more agreeable climate of the Shire. Thorin smiled to himself. It could be a joint venture: Grapestomper & Oakenshield, Vineyard and Smithy. Or Grapestomper, Oakenshield & Bookish, if Ori came along and started that library he'd always dreamed of.
As for Fíli and Kíli... Erebor was theirs as much as it was his, but Dís would find him and kill him if he let her sons continue the quest on their own. Not that he would, he'd had enough doubts about bringing them along in the first place. They needed guidance, and perhaps it would be better if it came from someone less ensconced in bitterness than their uncle. Fíli was a merry lad, showing great talent with his two swords, and with the right tutelage he could be a winsome warrior, a golden king of the Erebor dwarves, wherever they made their home.
Kíli, on the other hand, was a bit of a hotspur, a bit too enthusiastic about the prospect of great battles and clashing armies. He needed to experience a few proper battlefields first hand, to see and smell the blood and guts that never got mentioned in any songs, and thereby have the romance lifted from his eyes. He needed to mature, but he could do that without the threat of a fire-drake looming over him. There was no need for him to go to war just yet.
A fox shrieked in the distance, a cry so similar to those of pain and sorrow he had heard so many times, and Thorin sighed. Staying in the Shire... It was a silly dream, an impossible dream. He could no more leave his path than he could change the colour of the sky. If he didn't have the Lonely Mountain, if he wasn't the king of the Erebor dwarves and the heir of Durin, what was he? Nothing and no one. His spirit had been forged in blood and dragonfire, and it longed for vengeance more than anything else. The simple life of a Shireling was not for him: he had to defeat Smaug, or perish in the attempt.
And he had wasted enough time being uselessly wistful. Thorin spurred his mare into movement, and was almost thrown off when she reared and set off in a different direction than he'd had in mind. He regained his balance quickly, and the anger that had flared up in him abated just as quickly when he spotted a group of ponies tethered under an enormous tree next to a pond. Even from a distance he could tell that they were of Blue Mountain stock; hardy, sure-footed, shaggy – and just the right size for dwarves. He patted his mare as she trotted down the hill to her friends, glad that she had kept her senses working while he'd been busy mooning about what could never be.
Thorin tethered his mare next to the other ponies, then made his way up the hill next to the great tree. This place matched Gandalf's description, and sure enough, as he approached the hobbit dwelling under the hill he could hear the unmistakeable sound of singing dwarves. He stopped and listened; they were singing the easily adaptable song usually reserved for making fun of dotardly old dwarves who had grown too fond of unimportant domestic things like cutlery and furniture. So this hobbit, their proposed burglar, was an old fusspot, then? Most likely someone who had never been far removed from the green hills of the Shire, and never encountered anything more dangerous than a hot stove. But Gandalf must've had a reason to name Mister Baggins the fourteenth member of the Company, so perhaps it was unwise to judge him prematurely.
Thorin waited outside until he heard the song end in raucous laughter, then he knocked.