The God that Ceased to Be (freewrite)

They wandered together through the keyhole that led into another world and they were not at all surprised when they found themselves standing in the middle of the flea market. Not a flea market, the flea market, the one they all gathered in and whistled, where the crows came pecking from the dark and sunk their teeth into the soft skin of children.
As they stood hand in hand, brother and sister, child and child, they were not afraid, not of the crows or of the grown-ups that may wish them harm. This is the way of things that would be, they said to each other and went on.
They passed the green owls and the stands filled with rotten berries and they knelt before the great altar of the God that Ceased to Be. He was waiting here, the man who had called them. The children had been playing in the forest behind their house, where their imaginary parents lived and breathed their way through their perfectly ordinary worlds. The children, however, did not wish to belong inside their parents' monstrously boring lies, so when the call came for them to attend the flea market, they knew they must go. They raced through the clearing and jumped at once over the fallen logs and now, they were here. It is remarkably easy to get to the flea market if one really wants to. However, most people don't really want to.

The man came, baring his blade and already seeing blood, to the altar of the God that Ceased to be. He knelt behind the children.
'I will tell you a story if you sit still and listen and don't move until it's over,' he murmured and the children sat perfectly still. Because this was where they were supposed to be.
That and because it was too late to run now. And the man told them a story of violence, of weeping, of lost friends and enemies who would not fall. He told them of the many sacrifices along the way and how one should fight and power through, regardless of what one was facing and the children took to heart everything the man said, for he would not say it again, at least not to them.
'How do we know if we're worthy?' the boy asked, putting out his hand towards his sister, who grabbed it eagerly but made no sound.
'It is not a question of worth, little one,' the man said, 'you must rise to the challenge. That's all.'

What if we can't?
The question was on the children's minds, but they didn't dare open their mouths, for this much was clear – if they couldn't, then that would be the end, for there is no going back, once you're inside the flea market.
The girl felt it first, the cold steel of the man's blade enter her back. Just an inch, just enough to mark her as his own. He was a skilled drawer and an even more skilled knife man, so the blade moved swiftly across her soft skin. She did not know what he wrote on her, but it was not hers to know. She would find out when the time was right.
Then the man drew his mark and his words on the boy's frail back. Neither of them flinched for this was the way things were meant to be, but somewhere between cuts, they gripped each other's fingers tighter.
I'm here.
When the man was done, he stood up and began walking away from the children and the altar. And the children stood up after him, brother and sister, child and child, and they followed the God that Ceased to Be.