Futhorc
Þorn is the thorn alone, with no giant behind it. The English poem calls it exceedingly sharp, evil to grasp, and immeasurably cruel to whoever rests among them. It is a hedge: a defence that injures on contact and asks nothing else of you. Today, let a boundary do its work without explanation. You do not need to argue for the hedge. Anyone who takes hold of it will learn what it is for.