Samandriel took a steadying breath, gaze averted so that he didn't have to look at the man he'd just betrayed his Master with. He felt filthy. It made sense to him that he look filthy as well, but he knew better than to even think of crossing Carrick. He took the kerchief first, and managed to at least dry his eyes before the blood was offered. The Spartan was old enough that it would really take only that little bit to manage the wounds in his neck and possibly the bruises on his wrists that would likely come otherwise as well.
He took the small bit he was offered with whispered thanks and set about meekly putting himself together the rest of the way, sitting up as properly as he could with as defeated as he felt. He held the handkerchief in his hands loosely, awaiting further orders.