At the very least, Arthur certainly isn't carrying himself like he's injured. He's already relaxing distinctly in the marked temperature difference of the warm cabin, letting him sit upright without issue, but with the blanket slack around his shoulders he's not making any effort to hide his chest: through his shredded shirt it's easy to see that his torso is a mess of scar tissue, though nothing besides his stained clothes seems to indicate any remaining open wounds. Nothing open on his head either, and there's a sharpness of clarity to his gaze - locked on the Doctor, except for the brief moment where he goes to accept his mug with another relieved smile - that doesn't suggest a concussion.

Everything about his appearance suggests a man who'd take a concussion as a challenge.

"I... I did, yes." He hadn't thought he'd dreamt it - far too much experience with that side of things - but it was another thing entirely, after so long with a voice literally in his head, to have that independently verified. "I-I didn't realise everyone heard it, that..."

It can't be Kayne. It can't, but- fuck, it could be some other version of him, some other god fucking with this reality, oblivious to the carnage his other self was causing elsewhere. "Has anyone seen him in person? D-does he even have a physical presence, or- or has he only been interacting with people in dreams, through influence rather than direct contact?"