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Sam was holding his wings tight against himself, the lowest edge touching behind his knees. For so long, he had only this pair of wings left to him. The secondary, lower pair that had not in themselves enough strength or breadth of wing-sail for him to be able to fly.
The Army had made a prosthetic pair of wings for him, fitted them to him, let him fly... only to take those wings from him.
Unauthorised, he was taking back his wings.
Hastily, but thoroughly, he examined them, checking each of the jointed struts and the folded sails. Not a metal that could rust, but the surfaces were slightly dulled by neglect, and without touching he could see that the claws needed sharpening.
Putting his stolen wings on very nearly hurt. The connection points at his shoulders and upper back had partially closed over. But actual pain would have been worth it, let alone this stretch and discomfort, to have these wings once more.
Sam spread his restored wings wide, the edge of his vision catching the flecks of light reflecting off the metal. As he moved his lower pair of wings to match, he was ready finally to fly.