Amalia Dillin is an author of mythic fantasy and fantasy romance inspired by the Norse gods, including the Fate of the Gods trilogy and the Postcards from Asgard duology. As Amalia Carosella, she writes historical fiction and mythic retellings set in the Viking and Aegean Bronze Age, including Daughter of a Thousand Years, a dual narrative exploring the life of Erik the Red's daughter Freydis, and a modern-day Norse pagan, Emma. Learn more about her and her work at www.amaliadillin.com.
Amalia Dillin is an author of mythic fantasy and fantasy romance inspired by the Norse gods, including the Fate of the Gods trilogy and the Postcards from Asgard duology. As Amalia Carosella, she writes historical fiction and mythic retellings set in the Viking and Aegean Bronze Age, including Daughter of a Thousand Years, a dual narrative exploring the life of Erik the Red's daughter Freydis, and a modern-day Norse pagan, Emma. Learn more about her and her work at www.amaliadillin.com.
Amalia Dillin is an author of mythic fantasy and fantasy romance inspired by the Norse gods, including the Fate of the Gods trilogy and the Postcards from Asgard duology. As Amalia Carosella, she writes historical fiction and mythic retellings set in the Viking and Aegean Bronze Age, including Daughter of a Thousand Years, a dual narrative exploring the life of Erik the Red's daughter Freydis, and a modern-day Norse pagan, Emma. Learn more about her and her work at www.amaliadillin.com.
Samantha Connelly has no idea what she's doing with her life.
That feeling leads her into the woods, where she pours a libation to a different god—a god of thunder—praying just once for a response. There's no lightning or ominous rumbles, but she does meet a man with a bow strapped to his back and an easy smile. A man named Ullr, who isn't really a man at all.
Unfortunately, he's brought ill-tidings. If Sam thought her life was a mess before, it's nothing to what's coming. Loss and pain and sorrow hang like a dark cloud over her fate, and now that she's called to the Norse gods, Ullr is determined to see her through it.
Maybe it's foolish, but Sam agrees to let him. After all, with all signs pointing to ruin, how could accepting some help from the gods make things worse?
When I knew I was going to curate this bundle the very first name I thought of, the very first, was Amalia Dillin. I don't know anyone for whom this subject is more real or personal than it is for Amalia, and I believe that shines through in her stories. – Rhonda Parrish
"[…] Poignantly relatable […] From Asgard, With Love is also fun and imaginative. Dillin built some heavy thematic ideas into the fabric of this story, but she tempers the weight of those ideas with light humor and delightful characterizations of the Norse Gods."
– Erin of Historical Fiction Reader"Dillin uses her trademark sensitivity and lush prose to explore the bridges between one faith and another, gods and mortals, love and grief, with remarkable deftness. […] a tale that speaks like a love story and feels like an epic."
– Abigail Kelly of the Kingdom of Thirst Podcast, Author of The New Protectorate series"This book is a pure delight—mystical, charming, heartwarming, sometimes hilarious and full of unexpected surprises. Readers who love mythological retellings won't want to miss FROM ASGARD, WITH LOVE—nor will Pagan readers who've found representation lacking in the fiction realm. You'll be hooked on Amalia Dillin's voice and world from the first page."
– Olivia Hawker, bestselling author of One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow"Bringing the depth and power of an epic saga to the modern day, […] Amalia Dillin masterfully portrays the simmering passion between a mortal and a god, each powerful in their own right. With their complex pasts, Sam and Ullr's journey of healing and self-sacrifice give their love an enduring strength to last through the ages. Through lush prose that often reads like poetry, Amalia Dillin has created another achingly beautiful triumph."
– Diana Paz, Author of TimespellWalter worked steadily, never seeming to tire. The even sounds of scraping were so regular, even Old Faithful would have been put to shame. Watching him work was hypnotizing, and at least twice during the course of the day, I found myself staring, the scraper in my hand silent as I lost track of my own responsibilities. He did three times the scraping I did, even hanging precariously from the ladder, no motion wasted or superfluous, every action deliberate and purposeful.
"So what do you do for a living?" I asked him, sometime before dinner. He'd already refused my grandmother's invitation to stay, and I hadn't re-offered it in my own name to force the issue.
He glanced at me sidelong, his lips curving just slightly. "I am an archer when I am not skiing."
"Gold medalist?" It explained the shoulders and the thighs, and the generally outstanding condition of the rest of his body, along with the bow he didn't seem to leave home without.
"My father is better with a bow," he admitted. "But even Skadi must work to rival me on the skis."
I laughed. "That's quite a boast. Comparing yourself to a goddess of skiiing. Be careful she doesn't come down from Asgard to smite you."
"Is that what you believe?" he asked. "I wonder that anyone would bother to worship so petty a goddess."
"Well, I'm not sure she gets all that much attention anymore." I refocused on the scraping, wishing it hadn't come up at all.
Gods and goddesses were all impossible to understand, as far as I was concerned. And it isn't like my offerings to Thor had resulted in anything beyond a few red oak leaves. He could have just not blown the garbage cans into the ditch to begin with, being a storm god and all. The leaves had to have just been a fluke. Maybe someone up the road had some kind of weird variety of tree, and they raked the leaves into the gutter upstream. That's all it would take, really. It didn't have to have anything to do with some divine power, even with the wine…
Not that I could explain the wine part at all. But it wasn't like it had been helpful even if it was some kind of divine—something.
"It is true, the gods do not receive the attention they deserve, but I am certain they still work in the world. One need only ask."
"How can you be so sure?"
He leapt off the ladder, landing lightly on the ground. "I'm here, now."
I leaned back against the house, taking the opportunity to rest my arm. Keeping up with him was impossible, but I'd tried, and I'd have blisters to show for it. "What did you ask for, if being here is the answer to it?"
He smiled. "I didn't."
I rolled my eyes. "You make less and less sense the more I talk to you, Walter."
"Wuldor," he said, and suddenly he was much closer to me than he had been.
I would have stepped back, but the house didn't allow it, and how had I never realized he was so tall? He stretched out one arm beside my head, leaning over me, and it was all I could do to breathe, the way he looked down at me. His gray eyes held mine, and the heat of his body, the strength of him so near, made me swallow a moan.
"My name is Wuldor, and my stepfather sent me, though I have never been half so pleased to do as he asked. He said you had need of us, and I was to give you whatever help you might ask for. I am your answer, Samantha." He stroked my cheek, so lightly it might have been nothing more than a breath against my skin. "You called and we answered."
"I don't understand," I murmured. When he looked at me that way, with all that warmth so close, so expectant, I couldn't even think. "I don't know your stepfather."
He chuckled softly. "Who can truly say they know any god but for the gods themselves?"
And then it clicked. Everything he'd said sinking in at last, and my mouth went dry. It wasn't just the leaves. "Thor. You're telling me your stepfather is Thor? That you're some kind of god?"
He straightened and lifted his chin, withdrawing his arm and stepping back. Every line of his body showed strength and nobility and perfection, and for a moment I could have sworn he shone. "I am Ullr, son of Sif, known as Wuldor to the Britains and the Germans, one of the twelve Aesir. A lesser god, to be sure, but a god by birthright still."
And looking at him then—tall and proud and glorious in the sunlight—maybe it was absolutely insane, but I believed it.
